Invisible Man - Ralph Ellison

Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is yet another classic that I managed to avoid for many years, but no longer.

I was not prepared for the ride I was taken on —no one warned of all the twists and turns, and the utter ridiculous events that would occur in the very first few chapters, including a battle royal, a tale of incest, a trip to psychiatric institution slash bar for Black veterans, and the list of experiences goes on.

I often struggle with satire —I find it painful to read, and difficult to suspend that hurt in the service of the punchline, which subtlely builds up over hundreds of pages and never seems worth it to me by the end. This, however, is different. And I suppose it means something to be reading this, a tale about a young Black man who has been abandoned and abused by the system and its racism in the South and in the North (Harlem), during the resurgence of BLM protests, this time taking place across the world.

Indelicacy - Amina Cain

What a perfect little book Amina Cain’s Indelicacy is. Cain gets it all right, with no blunders, perfect pacing, and a truly dynamic character who is utterly strange and inconceivably loveable.

What I love most about Vittoria, a museum janitor who dreams of a life of leisure and writing, is that she gets what she wants, makes all kinds of blunders along the way, and genuinely learns from them and changes. It goes without saying, but it means something to see someone change, and the ability to evolve, even if only on a page. More than the mutability of Vittoria, I love her utter disdain for men, and her adoration for the women around her, even the one who can’t stand her. An example to us all.

Severance - Ling Ma

Let’s keep this one short.

Severance by Ling Ma is wonderful. I turned to this book because of the present moment, wherein I have revealed myself to be some kind of masochist, a glutton for punishment and dystopia. I got a lot of joy from reading the words “N95 Mask” and “corporate pandemic response.” If anything, it made me feel better about COVID-19. What I know for sure is that we are not hurtling towards an apocalypse, at least not yet. This was like a thriller, but also a novel about New York City a la The Hills’ spin off The City, but also like I am Legend. I enjoyed this very much.

Freshwater - Akwaeke Emezi

I started reading Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi about a year ago, got through the first chapter and decided, then and there, it wasn’t for me. The writing seemed stunted. Boring. I had so little time and capacity for reading that I didn’t want to waste my time.

Fast forward to today-ish. I am on a reading spree. I’m also in awe of the magic of audiobooks. I, on a whim, searched for Freshwater in my library’s audiobook database. It was there. But who was it narrated by? The author! I added my name to the waitlist and patiently awaited its delivery.

The day came. I already knew what Emezi sounded like, I listened to their interviews with the New York Public Library (RIP to that podcast) when the book first launched, and Emezi did not disappoint. Even their little breaks to catch a breath or swallow are left in and are wonderful.

I can honestly, hand to heart say that I have never read anything like this. It is a marvel to witness the twists and turns Emezi choreographs in an ambitious attempt to weave Igbo spirituality and psychopathology into this semi-fictional bildungsroman. A marvellous achievement that has broken me open.

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous - Ocean Vuong

Who doesn’t have On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong on their TBR list? I’ve been reluctant, though I’m not sure why, and lost count of the amount of times I scrolled past it in my “save for later” list, adding newer publications to my cart and quickly checking out. In any case, I’ve been tearing through audiobooks these past few months (ever since getting a library card) and this OEWBG became available at just the right moment, as I wrapped up a Akwaeke Emezi’s Freshwater was in the perfect mood to continue the semi-autobiographical trend.

Vuong’s voice was softer, shakier than I had expected. I quickly adjusted, and by the 30 minute mark I realized that reading it any other way would be an injustice. I couldn’t help but think of Toni Morrison throughout the reading, not just in the language but also the lilt of voice. I would confidently, mentally make a note of the Morrison influences throughout, and was eventually rewarded with a direct reference to Sula, which I had only just read a few weeks ago —read by the author herself as well.

What this novel doesn’t have is Morrison’s restraint, every sentence, it seems, is an opportunity to create a simile. But just as I would grow tired of this device, one would make the most beautiful sense, and bring the prose to life. And then I would wonder, what’s so different between this and what Homer does? Perhaps this is an oral poem transcribed to the page, and now recited once again.

I didn’t realize how lauded Vuong was (a MacArthur genius!) but I totally get it now. This novel captures something rare, and is truly gorgeous.