Find Me: Time, Love, and New Beginnings

Find Me is an unexpected sequel that deals with taking a chance—or even a second chance—to ask, "What if?"

As someone who loved Andre Aciman’s Call Me By Your Name and its movie adaption, I greatly anticipated Find Me’s release in October. Even before I read Find Me, the general opinion was that the book was disappointing, but like any good reader I refused to form my opinion until I had experienced the novel in its entirety. (My devotion to CMBYN was also a contributing factor.) When I cracked open Find Me for the first time, I was a bit confused. Who is this person talking? What year is it? What does any of this have to do with Call Me By Your Name? For readers coming back to the continuation of their beloved story, they might be surprised by the new voice that greets them.

Find Me’s predecessor, 2007's Call Me By Your Name, is a romance set in Italy during the summer of 1983. Over the summer, 17-year-old Elio Perlman falls in love with Oliver, a doctoral student from the US finishing his dissertation with the guidance of Elio's father Samuel, a classics professor. For the six weeks that they are together, the young men keep their romance a secret, in intimate moments calling each other by the other’s name as if to erase the line where one of them begins and the other ends. At the end of their time together, as Oliver leaves to return to the US, he reveals that he is engaged, and the pair is forced to build their lives without one another, destined never to be together again.

Or so we thought.

Enter Find Me, and cue the spoiler alert.

Whereas CMBYN was narrated by 17-year-old Elio, Find Me begins with a different voice that we learn is Elio’s father, Samuel Perlman. Wow, wasn’t expecting that. CMBYN was an intimate story that contained explicit details of the acts of love between the story’s youth. Suddenly we’re hearing the voice of the father of the teenager who spent the last book making love to another man. The expectation was to hear from a young voice with something to learn, but we’re met with a seasoned voice who in reality is still learning from life. Don’t get too disappointed; we still get to hear from a young voice. The book is split between three perspectives, Samuel, Elio, AND Oliver.

Find Me starts ten years after the events of the first novel with Samuel, now divorced, on a train to Rome to visit Elio, who has become a classical pianist. En route, he meets Miranda, a twentysomething woman, and the two connect through their similar experiences of being unable to love their past partners deeply. Samuel can’t hide his attraction to Miranda, an attraction that is not unrequited. The pair throw out their plans and spontaneously decide to spend the day in Rome together, and later to spend a night together in bed. The two seem to be on a euphoric high that actually works out for them in the end. They traipse about the city, throwing around the ideas of getting tattoos and having a baby, never wanting their bodies to be the same, with Miranda saying, “I can’t go back to my life. And I don’t want you to go back to yours, Sami.”

Flash forward five years. We’re back to Elio’s perspective: he is now living in Paris as a concert pianist. He finds himself falling in love with another older man, Michel, and they spend a few weeks together. But being with Michel brings up memories of Oliver and feelings that never quite went away. He knows he can never love anyone the same, saying, “Some shadows never go away.”

In another five years the perspective switches to Oliver, who is finishing his tenure at the university job that took him away from Elio. Drunk at his going away party, he looks at all the people there to wish him farewell and feels alone. Then someone starts playing the piano and Oliver’s thoughts fly to Elio, whom he never forgot, as if he is in the music asking Oliver to find him.

Samuel Perlman’s monologue at the end of CMBYN was one of the most beautifully written conversations and one of the most revered parts of the book’s movie adaptation. And it might be why Samuel opens the show for us in Find Me. Because CMBYN focused almost solely on Elio and Oliver, readers did not get to know the classics professor in depth; we learn more about Samuel in his monologue than in the entire book. Find Me gives us some insight on how he became so wise. In 1983, Samuel said, “We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of 30 and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing as to not feel anything? What a waste!” Samuel lost hope for himself but was trying to give some to his son. In Find Me there is the feeling that Samuel gets to live out his life as if he were talking to himself from decades past.

The perfect ending to the 1983 love story we wanted was a mirage that we got a glimpse of at the end of the book. After waiting 246 pages until Elio and Oliver are reunited, we are left wanting more. We could be angry, or we could listen to what Aciman writes: “Fate doesn’t respect what we believe is the end . . . Which is why I think all lives are condemned to remain unfinished.” Aciman’s painting-like prose leaves one dazed as if waking from a daydream, and I mean that in the best way possible. There are parts where characters feel distant and parts when their dialogue is so frank that it punches you in the face. Miranda is blunt and expressive because she knows what she wants. Oliver is far away, because he is not the same Oliver that we knew. The novel has no chapters, so the act of reading feels addictive. The best parts of Aciman’s work are the monologue-type speeches that pop up in characters’ conversations. These idealistic patterns of speech that have seemed to die out in the 21st century.

There are some parts of the story that I’m not sure I can buy into. After the night they meet, Samuel tells Miranda that “my entire life . . . was leading up to you.” My question for him is: How can you discredit your entire life for a girl you met over one weekend? But a quote from earlier in the novel explains the plotline perfectly: “So you could say that we’ve overwritten and lived each other’s memories.” Though it’s an unexpected journey, it is a journey nonetheless and an ideal end that came from a wayward plotline.

The back cover of the book poses a question to its readers: Does love ever die? Of course it does. Just look at the relationship between Samuel and Elio’s mother, or Samuel’s past lover. But I guess that’s a question only the characters can answer. Samuel found someone new to love, and Elio and Oliver were reunited, so there’s a good chance they’d disagree with me.

I was not disappointed by Find Me because we, as people, don’t get to decide how someone else lives their life. Not everyone gets the chance to live out a romantic "what if?" This is a story about love, which is sometimes sparked through spontaneity and sometimes reaches through decades to find people once more.

About the Author

Mady Wilson is a second year Literature and Professional Writing double major and Social Justice Studies minor. She hopes to someday work in the editing department of a publishing house working directly with literature, or be an advocate for diverse forms of writing from minority writers. At Miami University she is involved in Alpha Kappa Delta, the International Honor Society of Sociology, and is a Writing Consultant at Howe Writing Center. In her free time she loves to paint, draw, and practice calligraphy.

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Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship: The Wisdom of the Quotidian

You might not think a 220-year-old novel wherein seemingly "nothing remarkable happens" could be relevant to a modern college-aged readership. You'd be wrong.  ♦ 

Have you ever awoken from a deep sleep, as though you were coming into existence from a state of non-being? You do not know where you are—maybe in your childhood home or in a cabin at camp—perhaps you do not even know who you are for the moment.

This state of affairs—the perplexity of being confronted with existence itself while being equipped only with bewilderment—corresponds to a great degree with the confusion that many young people, especially students in college or young adults, encounter with respect to their futures. Many of us stare into the abyss of questions: what am I doing, where am I going, and why?

And yet this abyss of questions, daunting though it may be, contains within it the potential for an interpretation of reality: the potential for meaning. Just as an author weaves an overarching narrative from seemingly disconnected events, developments, and characters, so too can we realize a narrative in our own lives, which at times may be blissfully light, catatonically onerous, or maybe just plain boring. This task of realizing the significance of each passing moment is fraught with difficulty: it requires also registering each moment in relation to the whole of everything else that has been experienced.

In the bildungsroman, we see reflected this endeavor to understand and to interpret what we experience in its most quintessential form. We observe the development of a youthful protagonist into maturity, during which he ascribes certain meanings to his experience and seeks to understand his place in the world. It is an essentially universal quest, a process in which we all participate, and the stronghold from which we sally forward to ascribe meaning to other phenomena.

No doubt, this process continues throughout the course of life, even after young adulthood. But it’s in that transition between childhood and maturity that the burden of this seeking carries the most gravitas. The bildungsroman therefore takes the weighty task of representing this hesitating, hopeful leap into experience and maturity.

Despite grappling with the evidently important subjects of individual maturation and development, the start of the genre of the bildungsroman, Goethe’s masterpiece, might not fit so well with contemporary notions of what is important or entertaining.

In fact, Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship might appear, after a perfunctory reading, not obviously engaged with salient existential questions, but instead, rambling, bumbling, and—worst of all—trivial. However, a more thorough, assiduous reading might contrarily confer a sense of wonder at its seemingly boundless wisdom and relevance.

Wilhelm, the protagonist, is bombarded with an endless succession of quotidian experiences; he converses, traverses, rehearses, splurges, curses, utters poetic verses, and, as is characteristic of youth, his friend group disperses. Just as we encounter countless banal experiences in day-to-day life, so does Wilhelm. Throughout hundreds of pages, the reader of Goethe’s masterpiece is asked to settle for occurrences that are deceptively commonplace and seemingly meaningless; one moment Wilhelm is dithering about in an idyll town by a serenely flowing river, splurging away his wealth capriciously and getting drunk in high-spirits, the next he is traveling with a troupe engaging in petty banter, and later he makes the acquaintanceship of nobility, regaling his noble and idealistic ideas in high-flown discourse.

Wilhelm is the prototype of the youth who enters the wide-world naïve and idealistic, meeting the vicissitudes of reality with a grandiosity of vision. He is met with disappointment and disillusionment, but he journeys doggedly and courageously forward through chaos.

Much as is the case in our lives, Wilhelm must balance his passions and inclinations with the pressures of his family. For Wilhelm, his desire to be an actor is countervailed by the influence of a highly practical father who wants him to become a businessman. The supposedly pointless experiences Wilhelm undergoes along with his desires and inner constitution conspire fatefully. While the end may not be in view to Wilhelm, it is certainly there—its realization however requires Wilhelm’s conscientious, active, and faithful participation.

Perhaps the best parts of Goethe’s work are the jewels of wisdom scattered about the quotidian rough. Consider Goethe’s reflection on the interaction between poetic, idealistic Wilhelm and his close friend, the ever-pragmatic Werner: “ . . . one could have said that their desire to discover each other through their conversations was only increased by the impossibility of making themselves mutually understood . . . [They were] never able to understand why the one could not reduce the other to his way of thinking.”

Or consider Goethe’s poetic rendering of Wilhelm’s sorry state after his being reminded of his alienation from the comforts of women: “He could not perceive clearly that there was an irresistible yearning which nature had imposed on him as a law of his being, and that this was being stimulated, but only half satisfied, and ultimately frustrated by circumstance.”

Or—my personal favorite—consider Wilhelm’s reflection after a night of carousing (something that many college-aged people can relate to) and reading literature (perhaps not so relatable): “Next morning he opened his eyes and gloomily surveyed the mess and destruction of the previous evening, he felt thoroughly depressed at the sad results which a stimulating, spirited, and well-intentioned work of literature had produced.”

The very act of reading Wilhelm’s development, and his continuous struggle to resolve the meaning of the concatenation of experiences he undergoes, is edifying: it is a call for reflection on the course of one’s own development. This reflection may be tiresome and laborious to the modern reader, but the end result is realization as profound as that of waking up from seeming nothingness. An attentive reading of Goethe’s magnum opus is rewarding in the same way that the conscientious engagement with life that it conveys is, but one must keep in mind that both are only rewarding by virtue of their arduousness.

And especially for readers that are on the verge of an unknown future, particularly young adults, Goethe will reward with the wisdom of the poet: he will show, through the particular story of one youth first published in 1795, a universal experience that is relevant to all those who are developing as individuals and seek to understand their purpose. Nevertheless, the reader is left with the task that only he or she can do sufficiently: namely, the task of reflecting on and interpreting his or her own story.

As Goethe says, “The rude man is content if he sees but something going on; the man of more refinement must be made to feel; the man entirely refined, desires to reflect.”

About the Author

Elijah Donohue is a junior with majors in Philosophy and Professional Writing at Miami University. During his free time, he likes to read literature and philosophy. He particularly enjoys reading German Idealism, especially Schopenhauer, as well as Eastern philosophy. He’s a befuddled and sometimes melancholy figure who can be found bedraggled and brooding or blathering aimlessly.

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The Dark Side of the Sunshine State: Florida by Lauren Groff

A sharp, quirky eye turned toward Lauren Groff's new collection Florida, by a native of the Sunshine State.  ♦

"Feral cats dart underfoot, bird-of-paradise flowers poke out of the shadows, smells are exhaled into the air: oak dust, slime mold, camphor.” This is the Florida that the tourists never see: dark and damp, reeking of danger. This is the Florida that Lauren Groff, best-selling author of Fates and Furies, describes in her forthcoming story collection, aptly (and simply) titled Florida. Her collection of eleven stories transcends a single character, time, or place. The unifying thread, however, is in the air the characters breathe, the heat of the state pulsating in every sentence, and Groff’s dynamic storytelling abilities. Her voice is at times soothing, yet startling. It’s a portrait of the Florida Groff has called home for the past twelve years and the Florida I have loved forever.

As someone who was born and raised in Florida, these stories and their characters strike a familiar chord. Florida is typically host to transients and transplants, but my family has lived in Fort Lauderdale for the past seventy years. My grandmother has watched dirt roads become major highways and cities constructed seemingly overnight. When the narrator of the sixth story quips that “Sarasota barely qualified” as part of Florida, I knew exactly what she meant and laughed silently to myself, having made the same joke before.

Mold, humidity, and alligator swamps are elements every Floridian must come to terms with. A fourteen-foot gator once wandered into my friend’s backyard, a regular occurrence when you build housing developments in the Everglades. In “At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners,” a lonely boy, Jude, grows up at the edge of a swamp that “boiled with unnamed species of reptiles,” at a time when “air conditioning was for the rich.” His father, a herpetologist, keeps snakes in jars and alligators in the bathtub. At some point, each of his pets wander down into the swamp only to be swallowed whole, a consequence too real to imagine.

Florida is often prone to hurricanes; many have ravaged her shores and flattened her land. Rising water temperatures will fuel stronger hurricanes, experts suggest. Just last year, my mom packed up photo albums and family heirlooms, my cat and our two dogs, and headed north as Hurricane Irma barreled toward our home, predicted to be a Category 4. I sat in my dorm room, thousands of miles away, trying to imagine what kind of devastation I would return to. The storm switched tracks at the eleventh hour and lost steam after making landfall in the Caribbean.

In the fifth story of the collection, a woman forgoes evacuation and instead rides out the storm, watching as a branch “the size of a locomotive [...] falling languorously down, the wet moss floating outstretched like useless dark wings.” The woman feels the power go out, a feeling any Floridian that has been through a hurricane can vividly remember, a feeling Groff captures so poetically: “Time erased itself from the appliances and the lights winked shut.” Until Irma, the most destructive storm to ever hit Florida was Hurricane Andrew in 1992. Sixty-one people died and thousands were left homeless. The damage from the storm was estimated in the billions. Residents who did not evacuate are still haunted by the memories.

In “Dogs Goes Wolf,” two sisters find themselves alone on a fishing island with nothing to eat or drink, their only company being a mean, fluffy white dog and buzzing mosquitoes. The older sister tells stories to distract the younger one. Florida becomes a frontier and survival a necessity through which, Groff illuminates the bonds of sisterhood. In “Ghosts and Empties” and “Midnight Zone” motherhood is explored through a recurring female narrator, a mother and wife, conflicted as she tries to answer questions bigger and burlier than the animals that lurk outside her door.

The seventh story in the collection, “Salvador,” is the only story that does not take place in Florida, but in a place equally as hot and filled with temptation: Brazil. A woman named Helena is staying in Salvador, having the “funds to spend her time wherever she wanted.” Helena is “in that vicious pool of years in her late thirties,” and unmarried. Her character looks after her mother, “too perennially ill to live alone.” The imagery is similar to the other stories in the collection: “a storm smacked loudly at her, as if raging that she was still dry and safe when all the rest of the world was vulnerable.” Groff invokes a similar sentiment as with many of her stories in the collection. It is one of self-exploration and understanding, and learning to let go of familial and societal expectations.

Florida is an exquisite achievement by Groff. She tells each story with startling precision and accuracy not only in describing my beloved state, but also in illustrating the complexity of the human condition. Her lyricism stays with you long after you have finished the last page. The book is due to hit shelves this June.

About the Author

Alexis Metz is a sophomore English Literature and Creative Writing double major at Miami University. In 2015, she attended the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio at the University of Iowa, where she spent two glorious weeks in Iowa City learning from accomplished writers and graduates of the prestigious Iowa Writers’ Workshop. In her free time, Alexis enjoys eating Mexican food and Facetiming her cat, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

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Why We Need LGBTQ+ Children’s Books

In a call for more inclusive literature, we revisit two trailblazing queer children’s books that helped define the genre.  ♦ 

An unfortunate norm for those growing up within the LGBTQ+ community is a significant lack of queer characters in children’s books. While queer subtexts can be found in many famous children’s stories with some digging (Pippi Longstocking, for example), too much of children's lit still lacks any positively confirmed queer subject matter. Only recently have the subjects of sexual and gender identity become more visible in the children’s book genre and begun to change what the purpose of a children's book may be, though many parents might be tentative to approach the topic altogether, for fear of their child’s (supposedly) limited capacity to understand these concepts. But these fears are unfounded; contemporary LGBTQ+ children’s books can offer an introduction to alternative sexualities and various representations of the familial unit in a sensitive, empathetic, and easy-to-understand manner.

Lesléa Newman’s Heather Has Two Mommies and Linda de Haan and Stern Nijland’s King & King are two fantastic examples of classic queer narratives for children to understand and enjoy. The two texts have caused controversy in their publication and become trailblazers in the genre of LGBTQ+ children’s books since their conception. Heather Has Two Mommies was listed 11th of the most challenged books by the American Library Association (ALA). Similarly, King & King has spurred lawsuits across the US. Both have been in fierce conversations on censorship and been forerunners in paving the way for future queer narratives, as they've been banned by schools or book-sellers at some point after their publication. According to the ALA, the complaints on these challenged books include a request that a book be removed from the shelf, or placed in a special section (usually available only to adults).

Heather Has Two Mommies (1989) has been called the first lesbian-themed children’s book and provides the prospective of a young girl entering school for the first time with a family different from her peers'. Interestingly, the narrative is centered around Heather, not necessarily her two mothers; the lesbian parents are introduced as “Mama Jane and Mama Kate” after a few short descriptions of Heather’s interests. The book is unabashed in pointing out the concept of pairs or objects in twos as it states that “Heather’s favorite number is two…she has two arms, two legs, two ears, two hands” concluded by “Heather has two mommies.” This introduction is almost poetic in its tie-in and accentuates the nature of this particular family unit as containing two mothers. Heather is confronted with the fact that her family is unlike the other children’s, in that she has no father, when discussing her family to her class. It is here that the narrative even takes on the concept of "coming out," as she is faced with concern over how her family seems to deviate from the norm. Having a children’s book that includes a character like Heather dealing with such an issue is really quite incredible, as it effortlessly and sweetly introduces a common social challenge that children of gay parents face. Coming out as queer is never completely finished. It is something that people in the LGBTQ+ community must face and do often as they choose to present their genuine selves in public spaces (like schools, for example). Ultimately, Heather draws the picture of her family, and it is placed on an equal plane alongside the other children's. This book does a great job at comparing the differences of a queer family unit while simultaneously pointing to the similarities that this family has with every other family in Mama Kate and Mama Jane’s love-filled raising of Heather. The story brings that together as it concludes with an “every family is special” sentimentality.

King & King (2000) does similar work to normalize queer people but with the focus on a gay main character. This book utilizes the fairy-tale archetype to introduce a whimsical and fun Prince Bertie, searching for a partner at his mother’s command. As the prince is courted by multiple princesses, he is shown to enjoy their company and performances but has no interest in them as a wife. Until the final princess, Princess Madeleine, and her brother, Prince Lee, come to speak to Prince Bertie. Our protagonist sees Prince Lee and they both exclaim, “What a wonderful prince” as a trail of red and pink hearts connects the two princes. The very next page is the scene of their wedding, as it is said that the queen sheds a happy tear as the princes are married (and share a kiss on the final page). Such open displays of same-sex affection is made easier to consume by the colorful and fairy-tale style of art as it shows Prince Bertie falling in love with a man. To this revelation, the queen shows only support and joy at their marriage. As this event could have been shamed or treated negatively by the characters, it is an important distinction to be made to young readers that the protagonist makes an active choice to be himself and marry the one he loves with positive reinforcement behind him. The shared kiss at the conclusion is especially taboo as it is a clear image of homosexual affection, but it's also important for children to see and understand without biases.

This depiction of homosexuality is slightly different than that in Heather Has Two Mommies; unlike in Heather's experience, there is no suggested challenge to perceived social norms that Prince Bertie has to face. The subject is simply accepted by the narrative. In contrast, Heather expresses her own hesitation and awareness to her family’s difference by comparison to her peers. While both expressions are normalized and effectively serve the same goal, Newman’s story carries a more realistic depiction of queer life which is constructive to slowly understanding the ways LGBTQ+ families may face adversity.

Both works seek to playfully introduce homosexuality in a way that is sensitive and authentic. They normalize queer relationships and families by casting them with their heterosexual alternatives. Reading books like these to young children approaches the subject of queerness in a natural and digestible manner. Children learn many skills and gain understanding just from content that they are presented with. Reading these to a queer child can help their understanding of their own identity later in life or, for the heterosexual youth, build empathy and inclusion as they face the inevitable diversity of the modern world.

About the Author

Patrick Schneider is currently a junior at Miami University studying English Literature and Japanese. He enjoys singing, reading, analyzing films, and laughing with friends. Patrick hopes to practice law in a city he loves after teaching English in Japan for a year.

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Standing Room Only: A Review of David Sedaris' Semi-Nonfiction Collection

A quick, quirky look at the comedian's 2013 collection of non-fiction (and fiction) escapades. ♦ 

Most people wonder where the title Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls comes from but with a quick google search, you can discover that David Sedaris (author of said book) came up with the title during a book signing, during which he signed a fan’s book with the words ‘let’s explore diabetes with owls.’ He thought it was so funny that he decided, then and there, that it would be the title of the next book. This did not surprise me. When I asked him to sign my copy of the new collection, he thought for a moment before writing—

“To Ali: it’s standing room only at the abortion clinic you like.”

This kind of devilish humor is to be expected of David Sedaris, also author of several other popular novels such as Me Talk Pretty One Day, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, and, most recently, Theft by Finding, which is a collection of edited and published diary entries. Owls, however, is his most recent collection of non-fiction essays, many of which center around the topic of familial bonds and how they bring us together, push us apart, twist and distort with time. In a time where social media seems to reign supreme, we find ourselves constantly drawn to the lives of others— in literature and online. In Owls, what Sedaris succeeds in making readers feel like they intimately know the characters appearing in his essays. When I read along, I think to myself oh, this is the sister who killed herself, or this must have been before his mother’s fatal bout with alcoholism. The more Sedaris you read, the more impactful the stories become; the characters become more and more lifelike with each new collection. He provides minute yet telling details about all of them that often times, it’s difficult to remember that readers don’t actually personally know his family.

What set this new essay collection apart is Sedaris’ choice to include several fictitious essays. Sedaris explains in his author’s note that these essays were created to be performed in Forensics competitions. Forensics competitions are for high school students— and are basically monologue competitions performed in front of a panel of judges. All of these works of fictions use exaggeration as their main form of humor, blowing the stupidity of stereotypical Americans out of the water. In the various essays, he takes on the personas of an entitled woman who has just stolen her sister’s husband; a man who goes off his rocker when he hears gay marriage has been legalized; and an über religious man who discusses what he would do should he be put in charge of ruling the world. Though not introduced at their start as fiction, these pieces are instantly recognizable as Not-David-Sedaris-and-his-family. Sedaris’ nonfiction whose voice is so distinct that readers can recognize the tone within the span of one sentence.

Sedaris' humor quietly reflected by "Essays, etc."

All of Sedaris’s non-fiction stories employ a braided technique of writing, meaning that they start with one anecdote, veer suddenly down a different narrative path, veer again, and return to the original story in the most surprising way. Sometimes it’s easy to forget about the first story thread by the time Sedaris circles back to it, but he does so in a way that imbues the piece with multiple levels of meaning. This allows him to use his present life as a lens with which to examine his past— a past filled with devious sarcasm and humorous tales of being a perennial outcast. A story that nearly totally encapsulates all of Sedaris’s classic elements is “Loggerheads,” in which his friendship with another unpopular boy— a boy who also has complex familial issues— illuminates how Sedaris considers so much of his identity to be that of a brother, son, and family member. Other essays in this collection reveal similar themes: “Laugh, Kookaburra” highlights the goofy Sedaris family dynamic that David himself considers to be completely normal. “A Man Walks Into a Bar Car” discusses the failure of love, and his own failure to be brave enough to take a chance on it. The piece “Understanding Understanding Owls” shows the rarity of being recognized as your true self by strangers, the self that isn’t perfect and put together, but darker, more self-deprecating, the kind of person “who’d actually love a [the skeleton] Pygmy, and could easily get over the fact that he’d been murdered for sport, thinking, breezily, Well, it was a long time ago.”

This is the magic of the essay collection: through his stories, Sedaris reveals something human to readers about both him and ourselves that we aren’t always readily able to admit. Not the good things, but the bad, the small evils inside our heads, the cynical, twisted bits. This darkness is often contrasted by a laugh-out-loud lightheartedness, both somehow severe and balanced at the same time. He mixes self-reflective personal honesty with peculiar and yet accurate details; throughout the course of the book, David characterizes himself as looking “like a penis with an old person’s face drawn on it,” calls Australia “Canada in a thong,” and calls Costco a place so large that it “has its own weather.”

He likens the sound of blissful farting post colonoscopy as “creating gods own horn section.” Perhaps the strangest and most accurate is the anecdote about hearing a foreign language “so unmelodious and dire-sounding [he] could not imagine it having the words for birthday cake.” This is the man who allows priority book signing to men under 5 foot 6, and when asked “what about us?” [by] the pregnant and the lame” responds “because it was my show, I told them to wait their fucking turns.” The charm of the novel is its upfront narcissism, the sweet devotion to family, the sharp wit with which Sedaris writes. No matter who you are or where you come from, you will be able to see part of yourself reflected in Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls.

About the Author

Ali Royals is a sophomore Creative Writing major and Marketing Minor at Miami University. She enjoys pestering her friends via email and is probably in line at Starbucks whenever you need her.

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A Review of the Red Rising Trilogy by Pierce Brown

Shocking, violent, as heated as the current political climate, Pierce Brown's Red Rising trilogy will keep you burning through its pages.  ♦ 

I’d never heard of the Red Rising trilogy until a friend mentioned it to me. She and I were on the subject of what we’d been reading lately, and she said she’d re-read the first book in this series six times. I thought if something was that good, it must be worth a shot, and I was intrigued by her description of the book, which she said was along the lines of The Hunger Games, with a dystopian vibe due to a controlling government and plenty of rampant bloodshed.
   I read the first book in the series, Red Rising, in two days. (I would have finished it sooner, but it was so good that I wanted to make it last.) I then got the second book, Golden Son, and finished that in about the same time. After that book crushed my heart like the beautiful, infuriating little masterpiece it is, I borrowed the third book. Morning Star, from my friend. This one squashed a bit of my soul when I realized I'd finished one of the greatest book series I’d ever read. All in all, I had ripped through the series in little over a week, and I already wanted more.
   Luckily, the incredible author of the books, Pierce Brown, seems more like a writing machine than an actual human. Next year, Brown will be releasing a follow-up trilogy further expanding the world he has already created. Additionally, he is working on a prequel to the original series in graphic novel form and penning a screenplay of Red Rising for Universal. Someone may be slipping some Red Bull into his drinks, or maybe he injects it through an IV. Either way, his many fans are happy with the rapid and prolific production, as shown in the quick ascent of his books on bestseller lists. His first novel debuted at No. 20 on the New York Times Best Seller list, the second hit No. 6, and the final book shot straight to No. 1.
  The plot of the trilogy, which is set several hundred years in humanity’s future, centers on a young man named Darrow. one of the brightest talents in his mining colony of Lykos, located on Mars. His day job is that of a “Helldiver,” one who operates the gargantuan drills made for the mining of precious Helium-3, an element necessary for terraforming new planets; humanity has spread across the solar system, finding homes on most of the planets and their larger moons.
  In this futuristic society, people are not separated by religion, ethnicity, or nationality, but rather by Color. The Gold class is the ruling elite and held in esteem above all others; Greys are the police, Silvers are the financiers, and Whites are the clergy, to name a few. You can only be born to your Color, which is not just a title but also refers to physiological and anatomical differences such as height, bone density, and vision capabilities. The Color differences in this societal hierarchy demonstrate how societal divisions (i.e. racism, sexism, gender, etc.) have morphed over the centuries in this fictional landscape.
   Personally, I found this to be one of the best parts of the books. Though prejudice still exists, the only barrier the people in this world face are the Color-caste they are born into; such prejudices as those against women, sexual orientations, or racism based on ethnicity or nationality are no longer considerations. There are never any assumptions that a woman is lesser than a man, or any notions that being gay or trans would in any way effect your social standing. So, who rules this planet-spanning civilization? A woman. The most feared and capable warrior of all the planets? A woman. The wealthiest person in the entire solar system? A gay man.
   This is the trilogy’s greatest message: no matter the barriers that society inflicts upon you, or those you are born to, you can always rise above them.
   Taking a closer look at Darrow, he and his people (the Reds) are in the lowest caste of society, basically slaves for the Golds and other Colors. After he suffers a great tragedy, Darrow is taken in by the Sons of Ares, a rebel group fighting the tyranny of the society. However, he isn’t certain about them until they reveal the truth—that Mars has already been terraformed, rendering his class’ work pointless.
  Shocked at the lies he’s been fed his whole life, Darrow joins the Sons and accepts their mission for him— to infiltrate the Gold class. After being transformed into one of the rulers of society, Darrow is sent to the Institute, a proving ground for the best of the Golds.
   Darrow’s adventures at the Institute are the focus of the first novel and resemble novels like Hunger Games or the film Battle Royale, in which the youth must battle it out, largely to the death, to establish their dominance and earn victory. The young Golden elite do this in a fight for supremacy, forming and breaking alliances. to come out on top and secure their futures, and the blood quickly starts to flow. Brown certainly is not averse to gore and violence, so if that is not to your taste, you may want to stay away.
   Despite the hardships he faces, Darrow is able to navigate his way through the Institute while learning about leadership and warfare. However, in everyday Golden society it is more important to know how to talk your way out of a problem, as Darrow discovers in the second novel. He soon adapts and pits enemy against enemy to create a destructive civil war. All the while, he and the reader are questioning what kind of person he is, if he can so easily turn his back on the Golds he befriended in the Institute. Not to mention, he worries about how they will react when they find out what he really is.
   Even though the basic plot may mirror other works, the manner in which Brown approaches it is not only refreshing but shocking. He doesn’t wrap anything up nicely in a bow but rather presents the story much like life is: complicated, messy. He is similar to George R.R. Martin in his tendency to kill off beloved characters, and throughout the series, the devastation of war is never held back, as the trilogy is written in the first-person, present perspective. The reader experiences everything first-hand with the characters, which, along with the blistering pace, leads to a very intense read.
  The violent nature of the books is juxtaposed with beautiful writing that creates startling imagery and incredibly well-formed characters who break all molds that came before them. Darrow is a good example, as he’s not the typical uber-masculine hero. For example, in the second novel, he admits to his love interest that he probably cries more than she does. And she is no damsel in distress but a warrior and strategist in her own right, exemplifying the kind of strong female characters the series is rife with.
   The Red Rising trilogy is filled with shocking violence and mayhem, yet it always manages to retain its heart. Darrow is the classic underdog, coming from the literal pits of slavery to overcoming the strongest empire in human history. If that’s not empowering, I don’t know what is. It’s a story of disenfranchisement and power, and how political machinations link the two. With this series, Brown serves up a contemplative and original piece that will always keep the reader waiting anxiously for what’s around the corner.
Read Megan Mooney's "An Interview with Pierce Brown" here.

About the Author

Megan Mooney is currently a junior at Miami University majoring in Creative Writing. She loves reading books and drinking coffee. She also loves hanging out with friends who are steaming hot and wrapped in a portable to-go cup. No, wait, that’s just more coffee. She doesn’t have a problem.

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Perfect Timing: Ashley Elston’s This Is Our Story

Why the pub date of Elston's captivating mystery-thriller about politics, power, and privilege couldn't have been more spot-on.  ♦ 

“A ten-point buck and a dead body make the same sound when they hit the forest floor.”
   With this chilling opening line, Ashley Elston's This Is Our Story hooks its readers and starts reeling them in. The novel tells the story of high school senior Kate Marino, who is desperately trying to solve the mystery of who killed Grant Perkins, the fifth of the so-called River Point Boys, a group of high school boys who are all upper-class, privileged, good-looking, and, most importantly, white. In a drug-induced haze early one morning, the five boys went hunting, but only four came back. One of the boys killed Grant, but because all of the boys’ fingerprints are on the rifle that fired the fatal bullet, none of them will confess. Since Kate has an internship at the district attorney’s office, she feels compelled to use the resources available to her to figure out the killer before all of the boys escape punishment. Of course, nothing comes easy in cases like these—the government officials surrounding Kate want nothing more than to quietly sweep the whole matter under the rug, and she has a sneaking suspicion that there’s something more going on, given the power and political connections of the boys' families. Her fight to bring Grant’s killer to justice is further complicated by her surprising connection to him and, in turn, her connection to all of the River Point Boys.
  As a protagonist, Kate will be sure to evoke nostalgia in fans of Nancy Drew—her independence, intelligence, and unwillingness to back down make her a modern version of the classic teen detective. Throw in a subplot involving a circulating photo of girls being sexually exploited at an out-of-control party, a perfectly timed plot twist that will almost certainly catch you off guard (even if you pride yourself in detecting those curveballs from miles away), and intermittent sections narrated by Grant’s chillingly cold killer, and you’ve got yourself a novel that will stick with you long after your eyes pass over the final words. However, beyond all of this, the reason this novel still haunts me has to do with its eerie connection to today’s political and cultural climate.
    Back when she was drafting this novel, Elston could not have known it would be released exactly a week after the 2016 Presidential Election, and even when she knew the release date, she couldn't have realized how relevant the themes in her novel would be. Though the themes of white privilege, upper-class privilege, and government corruption are not new to novels or to the general public, they are certainly more prevalent in the public consciousness right now. Unfortunately, to make clear all of the connections between the novel and the current news cycle would require giving away spoilers, but I can speak to them on a surface level: Everyone knows that one of the River Point Boys killed Grant. The kids at their school know. The police officers know. The district attorney knows. Yet, so many of these people are willing to let all of the boys go free, to forget about bringing the killer to justice, and the reason why is glaringly obvious: the River Point Boys are white and they’re wealthy—or, rather, their parents are. Those working in the government know how much influence the parents have over their positions, and they are not willing to compromise their jobs for anything.
    It's made quite clear throughout the novel that if the boys’ parents were not so wealthy and well-connected, the case would have been handled differently, and while the connection between the boys’ race and how they are treated within the justice system does not explicitly come up in the book, it's easy to make the connection between race and privilege given recent instances of racial profiling and police shootings directed at minorities. And, as the themes of wealth, privilege, and corruption intersect, it's also hard not to see obvious connections between Elston’s novel and President Donald Trump’s cabinet, where positions are filled by the same rich, white, privileged class on the basis of campaign contributions, political power, and cronyism—Betsy DeVos, anyone?—rather than on any merit besides how money talks (or, convinces us to keep quiet). And while I don't want to spoil the ending of the novel, I will say that, by the end, Elston makes a clear point on additional privilege as a result of someone’s class or race that stuck with me just as much as This Is Our Story’s conclusion did.
   As a reader, I spent the entire novel—literally down to the final pages—trying to figure out who killed Grant. Every time I settled on a name, I changed my mind, and the aforementioned plot twist left me constantly second-guessing myself. Writing a mystery-thriller such as this is an art—the author has to reveal some clues to keep the readers intrigued, but not enough to let them solve the mystery too early (or even at all)—and Elston has perfected this art, telling Kate’s story in a way that captivates the reader.
   This Is Our Story will leave you breathless, turning back pages to try and find the clue you might’ve missed. It will leave you hurting for those who were affected by Grant’s death. It will leave you feeling proud of Kate for stepping up and doing what’s right. But, most importantly, it will leave you thinking about how the story would play out in today’s world. This novel’s connection to what is going on around us is what makes it so important—and Elston’s ability to eloquently make that connection is what makes it so wonderful.

About the Author

Haley Hopkins is a junior English Literature and Creative Writing double major at Miami University. She works as a consultant at the Howe Center for Writing Excellence and is a recipient of the Daniel and Margaret Bookwalter Award in Creative Writing. When she isn't reading or writing, you can probably find her watching Netflix, eating guacamole, or looking at pictures of huskies on the internet.

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Life and Death: Reviewing Twilight's Gender Swap

Stephanie Meyer answers criticisms of Twilight's gender stereotyping with a retelling where the roles are reversed. ♦ 

Stephanie Meyer has always faced a lot of criticism for her novels, especially the Twilight series. One of the biggest issues readers seem to have with the series is with Meyer's portrayal of the character Isabella “Bella” Swan, and with Bella’s damsel-in-distress-type role, it’s easy to see why. Our culture today thrives on challenging societal norms. People want to see strong, independent women protagonists, not someone who constantly needs to be saved.
    It’s true that Bella Swan needs Edward Cullen, the leading male, and he does save her life on several occasions in the first book, so one can see why people critique this aspect the most. However, Stephanie Meyer has disputed this characterization of the dynamic between the two by saying that Bella is not a damsel in distress at all but, rather, a “human in distress, a normal human being surrounded on all sides by people who are basically superheroes and supervillains,” and that it would not matter if that human were female or male.
    To make her point, Meyer wrote a book celebrating the 10th anniversary of her Twilight series entitled Life and Death: Twilight Reimagined. In this novel, she did a complete gender swap of everyone in the story—with the exception of Bella’s (now Beaufort’s) parents—for the sake of believability with the custody situation (she thought it was extremely unlikely that a father would be given sole custody without the mother having access, and also did not want to unnecessarily tarnish a character). The story’s main goal is to show how similar every character would have been to her original portrayal, even if they were of the opposite sex.
  The original Twilight book follows a girl, Bella Swan, through a plethora of supernatural situations beginning when she moves to the rainy town of Forks, Washington. There she meets Edward Cullen and his “foster siblings" and is immediately struck by their beauty, but she's completely consumed by the boy with the bronze hair (Edward). She is not sure why he distracts her so much; he treats her like she smells bad and is constantly rude to her. One day she is almost killed when a car slides on ice and spirals directly towards her. Edward appears next to her and stops the car. After this incident, Bella dives into research about these people with pale, ice cold skin and incredible speed and strength. What she comes up with, of course, is vampire. The real fun begins when she confronts him and is proven right, and soon thereafter they begin a blissfully romantic love life. But Bella is soon put in peril when she draws the attention of James, the leader of a group of red-eyed vampires, who, unlike Edward's group, are known for eating humans, and it thus falls to the Cullens to try to protect her.
     Life and Death follows the same basic storyline, but is different enough that even if one had read the original novel not long ago, it wouldn’t feel like a reread. Obviously the writing is a little less romantic, and Beaufort’s reactions and thoughts are different because of the gender flip (Meyer also took the opportunity to add in some things she wished she had thought of in the old story). For example, Beau is very into cars, something that Bella was not interested in, though he does keep a layer of indifference to things his gender typically likes, such as not being into sports or the typical trashy talk about girls, just as Bella was not into makeup and dresses. Beau is also a bit more energetic, even though the typical reader may not notice that change. Beau is very prone to ignoring the fact that even though Edythe (Edwards’s female counterpart) is a girl, she is about fifty times stronger than he is. He is constantly at war with himself, struggling with gender stereotypes that are broken because of Edythe’s superiority, leaving him feeling a little insecure. He wants to protect her, when she needs to be the one doing the saving. He even tries to fight against Joss (the female James) who is capable of tossing him like a rag doll with one hand, whereas Bella resists James but ultimately understands she cannot do anything.
   Seeing how the beloved characters are expanded upon with the gender swap is extremely entertaining, especially for fans of the novel. Even with all of the changes the readers notice, they will no doubt see Meyer’s point: Beau struggles much in the way that Bella did—even the females are a thousand times stronger and faster than he is—and he becomes, in essence, the “male-in-distress,” which makes for an interesting book. It is definitely not a commonly explored trope in literature. I was a bit concerned that there would not be the same level believability in this new book, but Meyer did a fantastic job.
    The novel was a great read. If the buyer is new to the series, they can flip the book over, and the Twilight novel is on the reverse side, which is helpful for comparisons or a refresher on the plot. At around $15, it is well worth the price and the reading time.
    I personally loved seeing this remix of the series.

About the Author

Kayla Love is a fiction writer who has been published in such platforms as 321 Lit Mag, Great Reads Magazine, and the Gateway to Imagination anthology. She studies Journalism and Creative Writing at Miami University and is on staff with Diversity University Magazine and The Crucible. She is currently opening up a literary magazine for women artists called Doll House Writer.

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Richer and Cleverer than Everyone Else: Scott Lynch’s Gentleman Bastards

“There’s no freedom quite like the freedom of being constantly underestimated.” – Scott Lynch, The Lies of Locke Lamora  ♦ 

I first became aware of Scott Lynch’s Gentleman Bastards fantasy series after The Republic of Thieves, the third book (of a projected seven), was published in 2013. I’d read praise for the book from the great George R.R. Martin, who called Lynch “a bright new voice in the fantasy genre,” and I couldn’t agree more. When The Lies of Locke Lamora first hit the shelves a decade ago, the relatively unknown Lynch was lauded as the next big thing in the genre, and when Red Seas Under Red Skies was published a year later, he proved he wasn’t just a one-trick pony. Then, after a grueling six-year wait for fans of the series, The Republic of Thieves was finally published, and Lynch carved his name among other greats in the genre such as Brandon Sanderson, Terry Pratchett, Patrick Rothfuss, and George R. R. Martin himself.
    The Gentleman Bastards series centers on Locke Lamora and Jean Tannen—the best of friends, brothers in all but blood, and, most importantly, thieves. Lynch’s story follows the duo as they steal from the rich and royal, those who take from the common man. We see Locke and Jean take on city rulers, pirates, and sorcerers, all with a smile on their faces and knives up their sleeves. We see them topple governments, cheat casinos, and rig elections. We see them through love found and love lost, through rich and poor, thick and thin. But I digress.
    Locke Lamora is the garrista (leader) of the Gentleman Bastards and priest of the Crooked Warden, the Benefactor, the Nameless Thirteen. The Bastards are but one of many gangs found in the fictional city of Camorr, which is not unlike Venice during the Renaissance. Their small gang is comprised of orphans—the twins Calo and Galdo Sanza—the mysterious Sabetha Belacoros, and Jean Tannen, who discovers he has a knack for dealing death. They are thick as thieves and serve as the family each other never had. Raised by Father Chains, a con man posing as a blind priest, they are molded for his own little scheme. The underworld of Camorr is controlled by the Secret Peace, an unspoken treaty between Capa Barsavi, the coldblooded overlord whom all of the gangs of Camorr pay homage, and the city’s Duke with his Spider. The Spider makes doubly sure the thieves don’t get too ambitious and turn their greedy machinations towards those whose blood runs blue.
    In The Lies of Locke Lamora, we see Locke and company try and tease out as much coin as they can from a young don and his wife, but along the way they run into their fair share of trouble, including such colorful (and deadly) antagonists as the mysterious Gray King, the shadowy Spider, and the fearsome Bondsmagi of Karthain. As the story progresses, Lynch gives the readers glimpses of how the Gentleman Bastards came to be, including how Locke and Jean first came to learn their skills and grow as friends. The best part of these flashbacks is that they are often related to what is going on in the present and will give a glimpse as to how the Bastards will conquer a present challenge. These flashbacks continue throughout the books and are extremely well done, giving historical insight into the Bastards and context to the situations the Bastards face.
    Lies is fast-paced, lending itself to a quick read, but is thick enough to attract readers of epic fantasy. It might seem like a long, heavy read at first glance, but it is far from that. The book reads easily, it doesn’t demand too much from the reader. It is smooth and seamless, especially in its action sequences. Lynch has peculiar ability to put actions into words; I never had a problem discerning who was doing what to whom, and the scenes are so seamless that they really showcase Scott Lynch’s prowess as writer. A first-time reader of the series will have trouble putting down Lies—I know I did.
    The city of Camorr is another standout point for this novel; it functions not just as a backdrop for the Bastards but as a character in its own right. From the Floating Grave to the Shifting Market all the way to the lofty Five Towers, Lynch has built a city that lives and breathes as much as the flesh and blood people who inhabit it, a world for that reflects the credo of the Bastards—richer and cleverer than everyone else.
    However, there are moments in the first book where Lynch’s inexperience as an author stands out, whether it’s an ill-chosen word here or an awkward plot device there, but those are easily outshined by the beauty of the world he has built and the strong characters he has provided. The biggest knock I have for Lies is that there are times where the cruel, vicious, and often extremely bloody occurrences strike an odd discord with the humor and playfulness of the novel’s dialogue— when someone is being force-fed to a hungry and enraged shark, for example, one would think that sarcastic comments would be in the very back of one’s head, not on the tip of your tongue. But these are relatively small complaints; The Lies of Locke Lamora is an exceptional first novel, and it absolutely serves as a welcome introduction to the series.

--

Red Seas Under Red Skies, the second book in the series, takes place two years after the events of Lies and places Locke and Jean in the city of Tal Verrar, and in the hands of the Archon, Maxilan Stragos. Stragos wants Locke and Jean to travel the open seas causing trouble and rousing the pirates of the Ghostwinds to action, all to secure his position as Archon. The only catch? Locke and Jean have never sailed on a ship as anything other than passengers . . . oh, and Stragos has poisoned Locke and Jean with something only he has the cure to, to force them to comply. (Meanwhile, the duo is also employed in a long con that’s coming to fruition at the Sinspire, Tal Verrar’s center for any and all kind of debauchery.)
    The second installment of the series does fall short of the majesty of the first, but that should not deter anyone wishing to continue the series. If you love the characters of Locke and Jean, then the book will not disappoint. In fact, Red Seas excels in areas where the previous book was lacking—the overall plot is smoother sailing (no pun) than the previous book, there aren’t as many emotional sucker-punches delivered, and the dialogue is vastly more appropriate for the tone of the novel. Red Seas is not without its faults, though . . . there seems to be two different stories fighting for supremacy, the piracy arc and the Sinspire arc. Between these two, there’s almost too much plot happening, which forces everything else in the novel (such as character) to the backseat. Lynch crafts an elaborate structure but with very little to support it, which results in a book that feels a little shaky, as well as being a little too long by perhaps a hundred or so pages.

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 The third book in the series, The Republic of Thieves, takes place immediately after the events of the previous. Locke and Jean need to deal with that pesky poison Stragos kindly dosed them with, but to do so they need help from the infamous Bondsmagi of Karthain, who agree to help, but with a price: Locke and Jean must rig an election in favor of the political party the group of Bondsmagi support. Sounds like an easy enough task for the duo, until they hear who they are going up against: Sabetha Belacoros, Locke’s lost love and former Gentleman Bastard who is his match in everything when it comes to thievery. This is the first time readers get to meet Sabetha, other than a causal mention in previous books, and she does not disappoint. Sabetha pushes Locke and Jean to their absolute limits, resulting in the best versions of Locke and Jean for the readers in the series so far. The story’s plot is much simpler than its predecessor, which allows for the characters and their actions to really shine. This book also gives some possible answers to some of the bigger questions presented by series, including those surrounding Locke’s past, the mysterious Eldren, and the monuments they left behind. As nothing is perfect, there are some issues here, pacing being one of the book’s biggest faults. While there’s plenty of action going on in the story, it just takes forever to happen. Also, there were times where Locke’s obsession with Sabetha was comically overdone. He turns into absolute mush whenever she is around and is completely blind when it comes to her. There were also a couple of deus ex machina moments, where Lynch had no way to save the Locke and Jean other than some sort of divine intervention.
    All in all, though, the series is extremely interesting and allows the reader to dive in and lose him- or herself in the world of Locke Lamora. The series is a great blend of fun, style, and action, almost as if the Ocean’s 11 movie series had a baby with a fantasy author. With a fourth book titled The Thorn of Emberlain scheduled for release later this year, I am excited to see Locke and Jean take on the world once again.

About the Author

Jake Grace is in his third year at Miami University, seeking a degree in Creative Writing. An avid reader, he hopes to pursue a career in literature. When you don’t find him reading a book, you can find him looking for one.

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Reviewing the Valhalla Trilogy by Ari Bach

Violent, risk-taking, and rule-breaking, Ari Bach's Valhalla trilogy isn't your usual sci-fi series.  ♦ 

When I first discovered the Valhalla trilogy by Ari Bach, I didn’t pay much attention to it. I’d followed a blog on Tumblr called Facts I Just Made Up because I’d thought it was entertaining, but I hadn’t expected to see promotional posts for the blogrunner’s book, Valhalla. I briefly checked it out and wasn’t terribly interested. Sci-fi/Horror? It wasn’t really a genre I read often. It looked interesting, sure, but did I really want to spend the money and time reading it?

Then the second book, Ragnarök, came out, and there started to be even more posts about the series, including one that talked about how the protagonist was a lesbian. My interest skyrocketed; an LGBTQ protagonist made all the difference, and I later discovered that there was a nonbinary trans character as well. Suddenly it wasn’t just any old sci-fi book anymore, nor did it seem to be the kind of LGBTQ story that makes up much of the genre—that is, the “coming out and acceptance” story. It’s LGBTQ genre fiction, which there is not enough of. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money to get the books right away, which worked out fine; I waited to get the books until the third and final of the series, Gudsriki, came out in October, 2015, so I could binge-read the entire trilogy all at once.

The Valhalla trilogy is unlike any other book series I’ve ever read, and certainly none of the science fiction I’ve read really matches up to it. These are without a doubt the most violent and graphic books I’ve ever read, and on some level, the kind of story you might expect to have a straight male protagonist who then goes on to beat all the odds and get the girl in the end and live happily ever after. Except, it’s not. It’s really not. In fact, it’s pretty much the exact opposite. Instead, Valhalla is a story that follows a young woman named Violet McRae, who is considered too violent for society in the year 2230. In the first fifteen pages of the book Violet sees her parents murdered and then kills the three men responsible, and the violence only escalates from there; Violet is recruited by an organization called Valhalla, a kind of secret paramilitary group made up of outcasts (like her) who are considered throwbacks to an earlier, more barbaric time in human history, and in whose service Violet gets to kill people for a living with a specialized insect-knife that’s made out of her sternum and lives in her chest. (NOTE: From this point on, my review will contain a number of minor and major spoilers, so proceed at your own risk.)      

To put it bluntly, Valhalla is a fucked up series about fucked up people, and things just get more fucked up as you go. However, that’s not always a bad thing. The characters are not just assholes, or just x or just y; they’re multifaceted and incredibly interesting. There was one character who, at the beginning of the first book, I loved and adored, thought he was hilarious and great, but by the end of the series I resented him and thought his death (I said there would be spoilers) completely deserved. Something I noticed, especially as I was reading the second book, is that you sometimes forget that the characters are terrible people. Their job as part of Valhalla is to keep the world safe from a variety of threats, but just because they have a worthy goal doesn’t mean they’re good people, and the books do a really good job of walking (and sometimes blurring) the fine line between moral behavior and what is considered unacceptable.

The background world that the Valhalla trilogy takes places in is fascinating, set in a future where the world is no longer run by governments as we know them today but is instead divided between two corporations, GAUNE and UNEGA. GAUNE owns the Americas and UKI (United Kingdom Incorporated) while UNEGA owns essentially everything else, save the oceans, which belong to by a group of modified fish-people called Cetaceans. This future is not considered dystopian in the way that The Hunger Games or The Giver are dystopian, but there are certainly aspects of the story that have an element of dystopia. Religion has been banned due to religious wars, and the violent militarization of religion—specifically a pretty clear Christian/Muslim divide that’s all the more unsettling for the reader considering what’s going on in our world right now—is a recurring theme throughout the trilogy, especially in the third book. The government also owns all the gangs, so even crime is in part orchestrated by these “corporate governments.” It’s creepy when you break it down, but the disasters that occur in the book are not brought about by trying to overthrow these corporations. As dystopian as the setting may seem, Valhalla is not “dystopian fiction.” It borrows from the genre in order to look at our own world and, even more, to examine the darker parts of human nature.

Some of the most traumatic moments of violence depicted in the books—which might keep some readers away from the series—are two instances of an attempted sexual assault. The first one is more mentioned than shown, which is probably the more tactful way to go about it, and in this instance the would-be attackers, all men, are murdered for the attempt, but the other instance is something you see happen on the page, though it doesn’t go overly far. (There is also reference made to sexual assault that happened to a character as a child.) While it is made clear that rape is a crime for which the death sentence is the best option, I was nevertheless left wondering, Why include those scenes of sexual violence in the first place? The scenes are for the most part handled well, or at least as well as they could be, and the final verdict will be up to the individual reader, but the subject matter is nevertheless difficult to get through, and something a reader ought to know about going in.

So, given everything I’ve just said about the level of graphic violence in the trilogy, you might now be asking yourself: Why on earth would I want to read something so messed up?

To which I would answer: There’s much more to Valhalla than mindless violence.

For one, Valhalla is, in spots, a very funny series. Even in the darkest of storylines, I would sometimes find myself startled into a laugh by the excellently witty prose and surprising humor, which are both so well-placed and well-paced that they don’t detract from the darkness of the story, though they help keep the graphic content from being overwhelming.

Just as surprising are the complex characterizations throughout; as I said before, this seems like the kind of story where the hero gets the girl and lives happily ever after, like we’ve seen a million times before, but instead of following the usual clichés, Bach gives us characters who feel as complicated and unpredictable as real people. Violet’s love interest in the trilogy is her teammate Vibeke, and their relationship isn’t exactly classic romance. For example, Violet and Vibeke don’t last (there’s one more spoiler), and the relationship between the two is neither the beginning nor end of Vibeke’s love life; she has a romantic history, like all of us (before Violet, Vibeke is with a woman named Mishka) and even after Violet there’s a woman named Nel. Not all of these are good, healthy, relationships or even real relationships—one of them is faked as part of a mission—because, again, every person in the series is incredibly fucked up; Violet herself is not exactly a good person, and she’s the protagonist of the first two books. But this is a strength of the books: the characters feel real, not like proscribed types.

Though this brings me to my last point, and one of my biggest reservations in the series: all four lesbian characters die (the one nonbinary trans character, however, doesn’t) and, as a result, the big question that’s been plaguing me ever since I finished the series was whether this falls directly into the “bury your gays” trope. If you aren’t familiar with the trope, it’s essentially the clichéd notion, overused in fiction, that a gay couple cannot be happy and, as a result, one or both with meet an unfortunate end (i.e., die). Admittedly, in Valhalla, anyone can die (and most everyone does), which could lead you to say that this isn’t the “bury your gays” trope being employed … but it’s nevertheless a very fine line. The end of Gudsriki, the final book of the trilogy, has the Earth flooding, and everyone but the fish people perish. However, Nel and Vibeke die because of other circumstances, and as much as it may sound strange, their death, for them, is a sort of happy ending. It feels earned in an interesting way, and doesn’t feel like the too-easy “bury your gays” trope, both because ninety percent of the world’s population dies and, in the end, the lesbian couple is together, a weird sort of bittersweet happy ending.

In the final analysis, I’m not going to argue that you should run to Amazon or Barnes & Noble to buy these books; I’m certainly aware that this series is not for everyone, and I included the warnings I did for a reason. But if the criteria of LGBTQ genre fiction, graphic violence, and witty writing are something you might be interested in, take a shot at it.

About the Author

Thomas Gurinskas is a Creative and Professional Writing double major at Miami University. He’s not sure when he’s going to graduate, but it’s not going to be on time. He likes to live-snap the books he’s reading for his friends on Snapchat to see. Sometimes, if he deems the comments witty enough, he posts the snaps to his blog. Follow his reviews online here.

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Reading of a series of comic books - Death Note by Tsugumi Ohba

“People love to see death. It reminds them that however mean, however low, however horrible their lives become… at least they have one.” --Joe Abercrombie, Before They Are Hanged  ♦  

Death Note is a comic book series that was originally published in 2003 by Tsugumi Ohba and adapted to film in 2006. When I was a teenager, this movie version was quite popular among those my age. Even though I didn’t know the story well, I knew that the protagonist could kill anyone whose face he knew by writing that person’s name. It was a common expression among my friends to say, “I will write your name on Death Note” just for fun. This was the reason that I rented Death Note from the book rental shop. I first opened the book with a simple curiosity about the story, but as I delved deeper into the text, I found Death Note to be more thought-provoking and meaningful than I’d expected.
     The story begins as Light Yagami is disappointed with the corrupted social justice system. As day Light further observes the depraved society, he gets a notebook called Death Note from a shinigami (Grim Reaper in Japanese) named Ryuk. No normal notebook, Death Note gives its user the power to kill someone by writing that person’s name in the notebook. After testing the rules of the book, Light decides to clean the corrupted world as a god named Kira. This alter ego allows Light to remain anonymous. The government regards Kira as a criminal who destroys the social order by murdering people. To capture Kira, a genius detective named L cooperates with the International Police Organization. Soon, with his outstanding instinct, L suspects that Light is Kira. However, to hide his secret identity, Light helps L to track down Kira. From this point, the story progresses with fights between Kira and the police, as well as hidden fights between Light and those who might expose Kira’s identity.
     Light is an impressive character because he is such a contradictory character. He has a perfect god-like aspect with his control over death, yet, in some ways, he is a typical human. As Kira, Light has great power in deciding whether criminals live or die. However, Light can do little without Death Note because he is only a smart human who borrows supernatural power from the note. Light is again contradictory in that he always acts dispassionately when dealing with other people’s lives, but later, shows very human behavior in his personal life.
     One reason that I still remember this series of comic books is that, within the narrative, it is hard to define who is a hero and who is a villain. Generally, a hero tries to save the world and wants to uphold justice. On the contrary, a villain is someone likely to kill innocent people and attempt to destroy the existing world. Based on these descriptions, Light could be classified as a hero in that he is a passionate person who wants to save the corrupted world by ensuring that social justice is done. However, Light, in the role of Kira, originally says he only kills wicked people, but later expands his meaning of wicked people to people against him. In this aspect, he could be seen as a villain. Supernatural power doesn’t give one the authority to freely take lives away. In doing this he also destroys the existing social order. Like his name: Light (月means light), Yagami (夜神 means a god of night), he has both aspects. With this, one might consider whether those trying to capture Kira should be considered heroes or not. This is a difficult consideration because the world these people want to save is already corrupted. However, it is important to say that they are not definite villains either because they try to stop Kira from taking lives away unnecessarily. Overall the ambiguity of justice and evil in Death Note makes me rethink the beliefs that I consider to be right.
     Because Death Note is a comic book, it can be enjoyable to read for entertainment without deep thought about death and justice. The story includes fantastical elements such as shinigami and supernatural powers that are able to catch a reader’s attention. There are also many different characters to entertain readers. For example, the shinigamis are extremely grotesque in appearance, recalling skeletons or corpses. This depiction makes these figures very believable in the grim reaper-like role they play. Also, L and Near, who are geniuses chasing Kira, have their own unique habits--L eats awfully sweet things, and Near always plays with toys. The characters’ unique appearances and characteristics add to the enjoyment of reading this series.
     As a reader, I usually pick up comic books for entertainment. However, Death Note allows me not only to enjoy the comic books and be entertained, but also to rethink death and the meaning of true justice. Death, the main subject of the storyline, is a sensitive subject in the real world. From the characters’ reactions as they deal with death, I have found that there is no right or wrong definition of justice. Justice always carries ambiguity because there is more than one side to see it from. Even today, I like to re-read Death Note not only for fun, but also for thinking about the meaning of true justice.

About the Author

Boyoung Choi is currently a Creative Writing major and a Chinese minor at Miami University. She likes animals, coffee, fun stories and sleeping all day.

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