Reviews

Starboard of My Wife – Yotsumoto Yasuhiro

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The stuff of life, no matter how quotidian—indeed, precisely because it is quotidian—becomes the raw material for invention, like a long marriage.

At the Edge of the Woods – Kathryn Bromwich

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“Santa, strega, saint, witch.” Names matter, and Laura wonders which is true of her. Is she a woman made holy by an ascetic control over her impulses, or is she a witch marked as dangerous for conceding to her impulses?

The Forbidden Territory of a Terrifying Woman – Molly Lynch

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It’s unclear what happened to the mothers; it’s unclear what they did in their tranced, “fugue state” bodies, where their minds went, what controlled them, and what compelled them to leave in the first place.

By the Rivers of Babylon – António Lobo Antunes

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A leisurely drift through the circadian rhythms of night and day, while past and present elements mingle in a hospital room, as a projection of the protagonist’s consciousness.

Fieldwork: A Forager’s Memoir – Iliana Regan

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There are richer, more precise, even languorous ways to go about describing one’s fascination with the earth.

The House Inside the House of Gregor Schneider – Gary J. Shipley

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That something lets itself be replicated, ad infinitum . . . brings forth the idea that the truth may be singular but its expressions are many.

Rereading Silence: From the Diaries of Those Years – Yevsey Tseytlin

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Rereading Silence is a diary and a confession, a portrait of an incredibly cruel epoch and of the narrator’s soul.

All-Night Pharmacy – Ruth Madievsky

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Despite the sedating effects of the opioids the narrator consumes, Madievsky’s prose is clear and insightful, rivaling William S. Burroughs’s dizzying classic, Naked Lunch.

The Rendering – Anthony Cody

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There is something about the wreckage that won’t settle on a beginning, or a single subject, the way a collision might also make one part of the rubble indistinct from another.

Return to Latvia – Marina Jarre

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What it might have cost Jarre emotionally to face this awful truth, one can only imagine. But we readers are the grateful, if tearful, recipients of this revelatory largesse.