There must be more than six degrees of separation between a boy who attends his oxen in rural Thailand and a contemporary social media influencer in the USA. But the farmer could be one steppingstone between them and the writer a link from the other end. The tour guide could be the bridge in the middle because they might need to shit in the woods. What am I on about? The answer is in these five mini reviews.
The Wild Laughter by Caoilinn HughesMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
Genius prose draws us into the world of a bankrupt farming family in post-boom Ireland, addressing sibling rivalry, Catholicism and assisted suicide. Sometimes the style swamped the story, especially at the beginning, so I wasn't always sure what was going on.
Writers & Lovers by Lily KingMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
A quiet novel about bereavement, looking for love, and sacrifice in the pursuit of art. Maybe because it's set at the end of the twentieth century and not at the start of the twenty-first or because the main character is in her early 30s rather than early 20s or simply because she has obvious things to be depressed about, I didn't find it irritating – unlike lots of recent reads about young women licking their wounds.
No One Is Talking About This by Patricia LockwoodMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
A woman lives on social media but somehow she also travels the world speaking about it. Then her life is taken over by a family tragedy. Interesting. At first I was irritated by the millennial obscurity, then impressed and amused by the evocation of the shallowness and moral outrage in the age of Trump, then moved by the family story. But what was it about as a whole? I had an uncomfortable suspicion the author thought I didn’t know there are more important things than the Internet.
How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art by Kathleen MeyerMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Although I doubt I'll ever make practical use of what I have learnt from this about potential solutions to the environmental problems of wilderness exploration in North America, my past travels in places where there are no clean toilets have given me an interest in the topic. So I was delighted when a blogging friend sent me a copy. Now I wish someone would write a companion book for the crisis of doggy defecation in both urban and rural areas.
Venom by Saneh SangsukMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
A boy stops to play after tending his oxen in the forests of Thailand. But he doesn't realise he's built his stage on the nest of a giant king cobra. When the snake attacks, wrapping itself around the boy's body, he manages to keep its fangs at a distance, but the two are locked in a struggle between life and death. As the boy looks for help, do the villagers flee because they no longer recognise him or because they fear this is a punishment from the world of spirits?
A lovely fable, albeit even shorter even than a novella, the book is translated from the Thai by Mui Poopoksakui and published by Peirene who provided my advance proof copy.
View all my reviews
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I’ve been sharing my thoughts on my reading here on Annecdotal and on Goodreads for nearly 10 years. I’ve enjoyed it immensely, although my reviews have got shorter as I juggle other demands on my energy and time. But I’m loath to give up, fearful of what I’ll lose in the process. When the latest flash fiction challenge called for 99-word stories about a lost book, I thought I’d delve into those fears. I was surprised where it took me.
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Bookending
I remember grains of sand between the pages and the seaweed tang of my fingers as I brushed them off. I remember your voice as you read that passage, diving from clarinet to bassoon. I remember folding over the corner so I could come back to it and try to understand. I remember the sting of my cheek where you slapped it and my mouth wide open in shock.
I lost the words when you cleared the bookshelves, the same day you emptied your wardrobe and the kitchen drawers. In taking the book, you took a part of me.
I remember grains of sand between the pages and the seaweed tang of my fingers as I brushed them off. I remember your voice as you read that passage, diving from clarinet to bassoon. I remember folding over the corner so I could come back to it and try to understand. I remember the sting of my cheek where you slapped it and my mouth wide open in shock.
I lost the words when you cleared the bookshelves, the same day you emptied your wardrobe and the kitchen drawers. In taking the book, you took a part of me.
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