BOOK REVIEW: LUCKENBOOTH by JENNI FAGAN


Luckenbooth was not a perfect book, but it was a very humane one–and for that I loved it.

To start, I think Luckenbooth is a novel that is, at its heart, about how fucked up the world can be. Not in a trite or hackneyed way, but in a way that simply calls attention to that reality. The story is split into three parts, each with three point-of-view characters, all of which are inevitably tied in one way or another to the titular, larger-than-life tenement that is No. 10 Luckenbooth. Beyond that one common thread, though, the characters that Fagan gives us here are distinct and varied: we have male and female characters, old and young characters, queer characters; there are demon girls and mediums and gangsters and poets. And despite their diverse backgrounds and experiences, what Fagan is really interested in is exploring the particular ways in which they are marginalized: by their class, or gender, or sexuality, or mental illness. To put it simply, then, Luckenbooth is a novel about power and how it manifests in the lives of those who fall outside it.

“There is the Edinburgh that is presented to tourists. Then the other one, which is considered to be the real Edinburgh, to the people who live here. There are the fancy hotels and shops and motorcars and trams and places of work, then are the slums, starvation, disease, addiction, prostitution, crime, little or no infrastructure, no plumbing, no clean water, no rights . . . if the council want to go and take their homes down, they do. This is all on streets just ten minutes’ walk from the fancy city center. When will these things change? Everywhere? When? All fur coat and nae knickers. That’s a phrase the postman told me. It embodies this city.

This is not to say, though, that Luckenbooth is a completely bleak or nihilistic novel, because it’s decidedly not. I said I loved this book because it’s humane, and what I mean by that is that it refuses to let its characters’ marginalization overtake their humanity. Each and every point-of-view character in this novel is drawn so tenderly, and despite getting a relatively limited amount of time with them, you really get a feel for who these characters are–their thoughts, their feelings, their relationships, their heartbreaks. For me, this was one of the things that made this novel stand out: Fagan’s ability to so deftly give each of her characters a distinct and authentic narrative voice. Every point of view in this book evokes its corresponding character, and that is no easy feat considering how many characters (nine) we meet over the course of this novel. That being said, there were definitely POVs that I enjoyed more than others: I think Part I was easily the strongest one of the three–I especially loved Jessie and Flora’s chapters–and there were a few POVs that for me didn’t quite fit in with the others, namely William’s and Queen Bee’s; the former I found too rambly, the latter out of place with the novel’s larger narrative.

Characters aside, I’d also be remiss not to mention the role that Edinburgh as a city plays in this novel. Cliche as it is to say that “[insert city name here] is a character in the novel,” it’s trueEdinburgh really is one of the main characters of this story, and many of Luckenbooth‘s chapters conjure it up for us in vivid detail: the streets, the people, the atmosphere, the corruption.

“I have this feeling, Edinburgh will dispose of each of us once she has had her use – drank all the energy and talent and money and vitality and then she spits out the bones. Hungry city!
Subsists on human souls.”

So far, so good, but there are also some things that I didn’t love about Luckenbooth. I think the point-of-view chapters got weaker after Part I, which was so well done that it inadvertently set a high standard for the novel’s subsequent parts–a standard which, in my opinion, they just didn’t live up to (though they certainly weren’t bad). Another issue I had, which is more technical, was with the dialogue. Fagan includes very little speech tags (“he said,” “she said”) in her writing, which means that you have to really pay attention to the dialogue to keep track of who said what. The way Fagan sets up her dialogue on the page, though, made this really difficult to do. She tries to address this issue by making the characters constantly refer to each other in their speech: so, for example, Ivy and Morag will be talking and the dialogue will just be like “what are you doing, Ivy?” and then Ivy responds “Nothing, Morag,” and then a few lines later we’ll get “Ivy, why are you doing that?” and “No reason, Morag,” etc. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, but it’s one of my pet peeves when characters do this, and it becomes very glaring once you notice it. People don’t usually refer to each other by name like this during conversations, so it oftentimes made the dialogue feel stilted and jolted me out of the characters’ conversations.

The issues I had were minor, though, and certainly didn’t overtake my enjoyment of the novel. Luckenbooth is a compelling novel in its structure, characters, and themes, but more than that, it’s a really sympathetic novel, one with a lot of heart. I will definitely be watching out for whatever Jenni Fagan releases next.

Thanks so much for Simon & Schuster for providing me with an e-ARC of this via Edelweiss!


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BOOK REVIEW: THE ART OF LOSING by ALICE ZENITER (tr. Frank Wynne)


The Art of Losing by Alice Zeniter

“How is a country born? And who brings it into the world?

In certain parts of Kabylia, there is a folk tradition some call ‘the sleeping child.’ It explains how a woman can give birth even though her husband has been gone for years: according to tradition, having been fathered by the husband, the child then dozes off in the womb and does not emerge until much later.

Algeria is like that sleeping child: it was conceived long ago, so long ago that no one can agree on a date, and for years it slept, until the spring of 1962.”

The Art of Losing is a multigenerational family saga done right.

What is immediately apparent about Zeniter’s novel is just how extraordinarily well-written it is. Its writing is not flowery or ornate, but it is so refreshingly and psychologically perceptive. More than anything, I think it really speaks to the level of insight that Zeniter has when it comes to her characters and the way they view their respective worlds. That is to say, Zeniter’s writing is striking because she is able to recognize and home in on what it is that’s striking about her characters and their milieux: the ways in which these milieux inform each other, refracted and reflected over the generations. Beyond this, Zeniter just has a remarkable facility with figurative language; her language is economic yet poetic, direct yet evocative.

“This is the reason why – to Naïma and to me – this part of the story seems like a series of quaint photographs (the oil press, the donkey, the mountain ridge, the burnouses, the olive groves, the floodwaters, the white houses clinging like ticks to steep slopes dotted with rocks and cedar trees) punctuated by proverbs; like picture postcards of Algeria that the old man might have slipped, here and there, into his infrequent accounts, which his children then retold, changing a few words here and there, and which his grandchildren’s imaginations later embroidered, extrapolated and redrew, so they could create a country and a history for their family.”

More than the writing, I think the biggest strength of The Art of Losing is not just the way it presents three complex and interesting characters representing three different generations of a family, but also the way that it is able to interweave insights and experiences from those generations throughout the novel. We get three different sections in this novel, pertaining to these three different generations: there is Ali, who is the patriarch of his family in Algeria; then Hamid, who is Ali’s eldest son, and who comes of age in France after spending his childhood in Algeria; and then Naïma, who is Hamid’s daughter, and who was born and raised in France. Each of these characters is nuanced and compelling in their own right, and each presents different issues pertaining to their own particular social and political environments.

As a patriarch who bears responsibility for his immediate and extended family, Ali is under immense pressure, and this means that he has to make some very difficult decisions to protect his family during the Algerian war for independence. In his perspective, we learn about his relationship to and feelings towards the French colonialists in Algeria, as well as the ways in which his sense of self becomes threatened when his position as a patriarch becomes destabilized and ultimately undermined. At the forefront of this section is a portrayal of French colonialism in Algeria, of the violence of war, and of the difficulty of “picking a side” when neither side can ever guarantee you safety or prosperity or, indeed, anything at all.

“For his part, Ali believes History has already been written, and, as it advances, is simply unfurled and revealed. All the actions her performs are not opportunities for change, but for revelation. Mektoub: ‘it is written.’ He does not know quite where: in the clouds, perhaps, in the lines on his hand, in miniscule characters inside his body, perhaps in the eye of God.”

Then we get Hamid’s perspective, which I personally found the most interesting. Having been traumatized from his childhood experiences during the Algerian war, Hamid arrives in France with no knowledge of how to speak, read, or write the French language. Through him, we explore what it’s like to bear two (seemingly contradictory) cultural identities–to be both Algerian and French–and to try to navigate these identities in his familial, social, academic, and romantic lives. We also become increasingly aware of the rift that grows between him and his family, the amount of pressure he is under as the eldest son for whom the family has sacrificed a lot, and from whom a lot is expected.

Finally, we have Naïma, a character who, though she “has roots” in Algeria, struggles to understand what that exactly means to her. Naïma wants to understand her heritage, but she is constantly shut out from it; it is not something her father, Hamid, wants to discuss. And so in her perspective we delve into how she comes to terms with this: how she must do her own research to learn more about Algeria, how she tries to reconcile fragmented and scattered accounts of her family with the history she is able to gather through various secondary sources. We also get a lot about how Naïma ‘s Algerian heritage relates to her identity, how the way her identity is perceived and the way she herself perceives it both force her to continually interrogate her place in French society.

“From this point there will be no more vignettes, no more brightly colored images that have faded over time to the sepia of nostalgia. From here on, they have been replaced by the twisted shards that have resurfaced in Hamid’s memory, refashioned by years of silence and turbulent dreams, by snippets of information Ali has let slip only to contradict, when asked, what he has said, by snatches of stories that no one can have witnessed and which sound like images from war movies. And between these slivers – like caulk, like plaster oozing between the cracks, like the silver coins melted in the mountains to create settings for coral trinkets, some as large as a palm – there is Naïma’s research, begun more than sixty years after they have left Algeria, which attempts to give some shape, some structure to something that has none, that perhaps never had.”

Zeniter is so precise in the way that she unravels all these characters’ experiences for us, and so what we get in the end is a novel that feels so richly populated by its characters’ inner lives. It’s a novel about the generations of a family, and it really feels like what Zeniter has portrayed here is a family, one whose members are interconnected in many ways yet broken apart in others; one with a history that feels substantial and real, with all the gaps and fragments and myths that constitute any family’s cumulative and growing history. It’s a very self-aware novel in this way: it calls attention to gaps in the story, to dramatic ironies, to knowledge that the characters are not privy to but that the narrator nevertheless knows and weaves into the story.

That being said, I think the reason why this novel didn’t get a higher rating from me is that its writing relies more on narration and less on letting us see events unfold as they’re happening. It wasn’t so much a matter of telling rather than showing, but moreso that because we spend a lot of time learning about what happened through these characters’ retrospective accounts, we don’t get as many scenes that just feature characters talking to each other and, by extension, highlighting the dynamics they have with other characters.

Regardless, The Art of Losing was just an excellent novel. To me, it did what The Parisian failed to do: it combined the personal and the historical such that neither one undermined the other, and it did so in a way that really resonated with me. (If you enjoyed this novel, I also highly recommend Négar Djavadi’s Disoriental , another novel that’s very similar to this one except that it focuses on Iran instead of Algeria.) I honestly haven’t heard many people talk about this book, so if you love multigenerational family sagas, I can’t recommend this one enough.


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MY 2021 READING STATS


Hello hello!! It’s time for the last end-of-2021 post, which is my 2021 reading stats post! I love making these posts because they give me a chance to do some reflection on my reading habits and tendencies, which aren’t always obvious to me as I’m doing my reading throughout the year.


To begin, I read 146 books in 2021.

I wanted to get to 150, and I could’ve read some graphic novels or novellas to get to that number, but I was just too lazy and couldn’t really be bothered lol. Anyway, 146 is definitely not a number to be ashamed of, so I’m more than happy with it.

I also DNFd 58 books at anywhere between like 20 pages to 200 pages.

Im not sure how that number compares to my DNFs from last year, especially because my DNFs range so much in terms of the pages I read before DNFing, but my feeling is that overall I DNFd a lot less in 2021. In general I feel like I was much better at choosing the kinds of books that I’d like in 2021, which meant that I ended up enjoying a lot of the books I read (more on that below).


Here’s a breakdown of the books I read by genre, and to me, there are no surprises here. In my mind, my top genres are literary fiction, romance, historical fiction, fantasy, and nonfiction–what usually varies is how those genres tend to rank compared to each other. Literary fiction is my bread and butter as always, with 41 books. Then we have romance at 33 books (I binged a lot of romance books this year because they’re the only books I can read when I feel shitty lol), historical fiction at 23 books, nonfiction at 20 books, and fantasy at 19 books. I wouldn’t really change these stats, except that I hope I’m able to find more fantasy books that I like this year.


Onto my rating breakdown, which I’m really happy with! Most of my ratings are 4 stars, which is really great, and there are very few 2.5-star-and-below ratings, which I’m also really happy with. Overall my average rating is 3.55 stars, which is very high for me, so it’s a good sign that I was at least liking most of the books I picked up. A big part of that is because I just DNFd books that I knew were going to get 2.5 stars or less, and also because I feel like I was able to find more books that really appealed to me, and that I knew were going to be to my taste. Also EIGHT whole 5-star ratings!!! Last year I gave so few novels 5 stars, so I’m happy that I found so many ones in 2021.


My reading format stats are absolutely no surprise to me, and they’re also pretty much the same as my ones from 2020. Almost all the reading I do these days is either through ebooks (80 books) or audiobooks (59 books), and that’s what the stats show. Also lol I can’t believe I read exactly 7 physical books this year; every time I pick up a physical book these days I’m like ???? how do I turn up the brightness on this thing??? what do you mean I can’t just select a word to look up its definition?? hello tech support I think this machine is broken??

That being said, I think my audiobook stats would’ve been higher if I hadn’t stopped listening to audiobooks in the second half of the year (for various reasons, but mainly because the main thing I did while listening to audiobooks–colouring–got to be very bad for my neck/posture so I had stop lol). But as it stands, 58 audiobooks is definitely not a bad number. I’m going to try to find another way to incorporate audiobooks into my routines this year, because I really miss listening to them, and there are so many new ones that I’d love to listen to.


More stats that are also not a surprise to me: most of the books I read were published very recently, either in 2022 (13 books), 2021 (83 books), or 2020 (26 books). There are still quite a few backlist books farther back, though, so there’s a little variety at least. 🤷‍♀️


Now this is a stat I’m very interested in, especially since in 2021 I started to become much more aware of which publishers were releasing which books, and which publishers released the kinds of books that I typically tended to enjoy. Most of the books I read fell under 4 of the big 5 publishers, with Penguin at the top as always (38 books), then Macmillan (22 books), then HarperCollins (21 books), then Hachette (8 books). After that we have various indie publishers, with Grove Atlantic at the top with 8 books–which I’m so happy to see, to be honest. I absolutely love Grove Atlantic’s books (I have a whole post coming up about them 👀), and I will continue to read the books they put out every year because I just consistently enjoy them.


In terms of the countries the books I read were set in, we have US at the lead with 59 books, then the UK at 39 books, then Ireland at 12 books, and finally South Korea with 7 books. The US, UK, and Ireland are pretty much always my top countries, but I’m glad to see South Korea also at the forefront, especially since I’ve really gotten into translated Korean literature this year. I’m hoping that number gets higher this year as I pick up more Korean books (and there are already so many interesting 2022 ones that I have my eye on!).


And finally, my blog stats! I wrote 51 posts this year, which averages out to about a post a week, which I honestly can’t believe I did lol. Writing blog posts takes SO MUCH time, so I’m glad I was able to at least have some consistency throughout the year. (Honestly a lot of those posts came because I was VERY bored during class and thought I might as well make some recommendation posts for the blog to pass the time lol. So shoutout to my boring classes for helping my blog grow.)

My blog has continued to grow since I started blogging in earnest in 2020, and I’m hoping I can continue doing that this year!



I also just want to say thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to read and/or like and/or comment on my posts!! I appreciate it so much, and it honestly makes me so happy to see that people actually trust my reviews and read the books I love because they trust my opinions 🥺🥺🥺🥺 so thank you so much, and here’s to hoping 2022 is a good reading year for all of us!!


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