Reviews Archives - Page 2 of 84 - The Millions
December 28, 2016
by Emily Wells
Whenever Ferrante is forced to communicate about her work, her communication is laced with an intense self-surveillance. The book is restrained and self-protective, and I find myself protective of her as well.
November 21, 2016
by Kaila Philo
Aimee’s presence in Swing Time serves as an allegory for the power of whiteness; it comes, it takes, it leaves, and no one can stop it.
November 17, 2016
So which art is the good art? Who are the real artists? Who cares? Lawson’s stories seem to ask, rather gleefully. You paint and you play to distract yourself from pain. You are whatever you say you are.
November 10, 2016
by Aaron Calvin
What grows within you after you experience a deeply felt loss robs you of your ability to address it; the loss of the self that accompanies grieving serves only to create distance between you and those closest to you. Death not only silences the body of those it takes, but often leaves the witnesses mute as well.
November 10, 2016
Along with everything else she accomplishes with this powerful work, Haderlaps deserves praise for breaking the silence to bring the stories of Slovenian-speaking Austrians to a much broader audience.
November 3, 2016
Oblivion allows some lives to be forgotten while others proceed in pleasant calm. It allows oppression to go on.
October 31, 2016
But The Art of Waiting isn’t memoir. It lacks the interrogation and consideration of what it truly means to mother beyond the heteronormative definitions of vaginal birth and sharing your offspring’s DNA.
October 28, 2016
Gleick’s hybrid of history, literary criticism, theoretical physics, and philosophical meditation is itself a time-jumping, head-tripping odyssey.
October 27, 2016
Correa writes to remind us of the deadly consequences of closed borders, neglected refugees, and maligned and forgotten immigrants.
October 25, 2016
by J.C. Hallman
If you never read a book that was written by someone you know, then you never come truly face to face with the sad inadequacy of real life, which is the reason books exist in the first place.