A few years ago I read an entire book before realizing I had already read it. I looked back at my Goodreads read list and realized I had no memory of about half of the books on there. So I built a new habit – (almost) every time I finish a book, I word-vomit my thoughts and emotions into a note on my phone. Sometimes they’re brief, sometimes they’re long-longwinded, sometimes they just ramble…and now I’m putting them here. Please enjoy the madness.
I didn’t love this book but I can see why it’s wonderful. I think it’s a powerful subject matter and I think it’s beautifully written, it just didn’t speak to me the way other books have. It’s possible this just wasn’t the moment for me to read it – this was a book club pick and maybe if I return to it in my own time when I am in the mood for something so heavy, it will resonate more. I also procrastinated and didn’t get to take my time with it – I barely even finished – and when I am forced to read that quickly (rather than being pulled to devour something), not a lot sticks with me.
It was undeniably beautiful. This book was poetry. And the perspective on life as an immigrant in America was deeply affecting – the dichotomy it creates, the push and pull of it. This book really brings a lot of raw emotion right to the surface. And the questions of family and love and sexuality. What choices do you have to try to fit in where you are without forsaking where you come from? How do you keep your identity bound to your family while creating an identity outside of the place that built them? What do these labels we put on ourselves and on others even mean?
Full disclosure – this was a book club pick.
I like to read book reviews after I’ve read a book to help me understand it better and think about the ideas and questions other people got out of it. Here is one from the New Yorker that goes much more in depth than I did: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/06/10/ocean-vuongs-life-sentences