Exploration and Exploitation: A Short, Strange Trip by John O'Connor

 A Short, Strange Trip: An Untold Story of Magic Mushrooms, Madness, and a Search for the Meaning of Life in the Amazon by John O'Connor

Short Strange Trip book cover

Author John O'Connor

Many thanks to Sourcebooks and NetGalley for the advanced copy of John O’Connor’s fascinating exploratory book about the life of psychonaut Terrence McKenna, A Short Strange Trip: An Untold Story of Magic Mushrooms, Madness, and a Search for the Meaning of Life in the Amazon. This was a fascinating book that is hard to categorize as it covers travel and adventure writing, which are O’Connor’s specialty, but it also includes elements of biography, memoir, and critical analysis of areas like mental health care, pharmacology, history, indigenous rights, and equity. In fact, I was surprised at the scope of the book’s various topics, but it does somewhat mirror the life and wandering (or maybe wondering) focus of Terrence McKenna, a man who was neither a scientist nor a philosopher, but seemed to have an impact on mycology, psychedelics, and even rave culture in the 90s before his untimely death at age 53 in 2000. I first learned about McKenna from Michael Pollan’s book How to Change Your Mind, where the esteemed food writer explores the history and influence of psychedelics, especially mushrooms. I remember the surprise that I hadn’t heard of McKenna before since he was an advocate for magic mushrooms who proselytized their use for finding deeper spiritual and philosophical meaning in life. McKenna had a fascinating life which included a trip to the Amazon in the early 70s chasing psychedelic plant medicine indigenous people have used for some time, but without much understanding of the history, reasons or cultural aspects of the uses. O’Connor’s book paints a detailed portrait of McKenna’s complications, raising questions of cultural appropriation, questioning whether McKenna’s intentions were genuine or whether he was just looking to continue exploring psychedelics. Interspersed within McKenna’s story and pursuit of higher consciousness is O’Connor’s own exploration of psychedelic therapy for his father, a retired, ivy-league educated lawyer whose struggle with alcoholism has distanced him from his family. As a kind of last resort to help his father, O’Connor convinces his father to try some forms of psychedelic therapy, highlighting the ways in which psychedelics like LSD, magic mushrooms, and ketamine have been used to treat addictions and other mental health issues like PTSD. It’s one of the more heart-felt and humorous parts of the book, with a strangely funny anecdote about his father’s heroic, McKenna-sized dose of mushrooms that has explosive results. Nevertheless, what O’Connor’s research into McKenna’s life reveals is that McKenna’s advocacy for mushrooms may have been empty, despite maintaining a public façade of support. After a bad trip sometime in the late 80s, he did not use mushrooms for about 10 years, according to interviews with McKenna’s ex-wife and brother, Dennis. These interviews, along with others who knew McKenna like anthropologist Wade Davis present a picture of a talented and enthusiastic psychonaut who lived much of his life underground, prior to the larger-scale interest and emerging industries in psychedelics, yet was never accepted by the intellectual or academic communities where psychedelic studies were building a foundation in collaboration with areas like medicine, pharmacology, psychology, philosophy, and religion. McKenna was kind of a like a man out of time, preceding many popular trends yet maintaining a small, but dedicated following in a field that has been growing in prominence and popularity.

There’s a lot to like about this book, especially if you enjoy books about travelling and exploring the jungle, history, and psychedelics. I remember seeking out Burroughs’ The Yage Letters for some time to learn more about his quest to locate ayahuasca, and similarly enjoying the more recent book about exploring the psychedelic tourist scene in Ernesto Londoño’s book Trippy. O’Connor’s book focuses primarily on McKenna’s journey to locate a rare plant oo-koo-he, mentioned by another ethnobotanist, in La Chorrera, an area in the Colombian Amazon. Instead, McKenna, his brother, and some friends ended up discovering psilocybe cubensis, a mushroom that led them to conduct a psychedelic experiment. I give credit to O’Connor for trying to make some sense of McKenna’s experiment since it’s not really an experiment, but actually a trip that led to some strange insights. It’s unclear what initiated Terrence’s belief that they might be able to transcend his consciousness into another dimension, seeing the mushroom as a kind of vehicle capable of this transportation. I found it somewhat humorous. Although Dennis seemed to suffer a bout of psychosis as a result of the heroic dose of mushrooms, this experience launched Terrence’s career as a psychedelic explorer and cultivator of mushrooms. Interestingly, Dennis went on to earn a PhD in botanical sciences, and with Terrence, authored a book on their experiences cultivating psychedelic mushrooms at home, bringing this species into the US counterculture. I found this part of the book fascinating as O’Connor recreates the journey through his own experiences traveling the same areas around the Colombian Amazon. O’Connor not only creates a compelling travelogue and story of exploration for a region rarely traveled by many Americans. However, he also raises a critical perspective, noting the region’s infamy as a site of exploitation by rubber companies in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. Frequently referencing the Belgian exploitation of the Congo and Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, O’Connor details some of the worst violence and butchery that the indigenous people of these areas faced from company bosses. O’Connor tells the story of John Brown, an American who ended up in this region working for a rubber company, who Terrence encounters. O’Connor’s research raises critiques about Terrence’s dismissal of indigenous ways while also ignoring or discounting the kinds of atrocities these companies perpetrated. It’s what leads to the more complicated portrait of Terrence, who despite being a countercultural liberal, nevertheless remained blinded by some of his own biases and ethnocentrism.

I really enjoyed reading O’Connor’s details of both his and McKenna’s journeys, separated by nearly 50 years. He paints a detailed picture of the jungle terrain, as well as many of the difficult obstacles and challenges that Westerners might experience trying to traverse this terrain for the first time. However, I also found myself struck by the kinds of observations and arguments about ethnocentrism and exploitation that O’Connor raises. Much like Londoño’s book, O’Connor also notes how the idea of psychedelic tourism has reshaped the region and created a new economy that most likely neglects or redefines the kind of plant medicinal work that may have been a staple for the region for at least a century. I also found it interesting that O’Connor posits that ayahuasca use may have been the result of some of the terror and trauma that indigenous people experienced, seeing it as a medicine to deal with the generational trauma that was inflicted by the exploitation of the land. It’s something that Terrence didn’t seem to consider, imposing his own ideas about shamanism and medicinal plants on the Amazon region, which eventually led to his “stoned ape” theory about the development of consciousness. Although it’s widely dismissed, O’Connor manages to speak to some anthropologists and researchers who acknowledge there might be some truth to the use of psychedelic plants and medicines by our ancient ancestors.

The last section of the book features a kind of psychedelic conference where Rick Perry, of all people, ends up speaking. It’s a completely surreal scene that O’Connor manages to detail with both humor and horror, raising questions about the inclusion of minorities in plant medicine and sharing their own perspectives about skepticism regarding institutionalized medicine. He seems to be saying that the rise of these kinds of alternative medical spaces, where psychedelics have been spilling over into institutionalized medicine, have failed to be inclusive and continue to exploit those who not only originated the practices (appropriation), but also are moving to a kind of commodification of these spiritual and cultural practices as a means to address our current malaises. It’s something that I need to consider more, but I found this section of the book to raise some of the most pointed and important questions that I’ve never considered about psychedelics. Furthermore, with the recent focus on Ibogaine as a drug of importance for therapeutic purposes, it is clear that psychedelics and plant medicine are moving more into the mainstream as both a vehicle for personal exploration and a means of healing past trauma. O’Connor’s book explores not only the complicated nature of psychedelics in America since McKenna’s experiment in 1971, but also the fraught history of exploitation and cultural appropriate of plant medicine for recreational and personal use, as opposed to more communal, spiritual activities. This book is hard to classify, but it appeals to many different genres, including memoir, biography, history, and social criticism. I enjoyed many parts of the book, and found myself amused by O’Connor’s frequent allusions, which seem to sometimes manifest out of nowhere. Nevertheless, he makes these trips both entertaining and emotional. I really want to check out his book on bigfoot (The Secret History of Bigfoot), which also sounds like it has its own unique journey and exploration. However, I recommend this book, especially if you are a fan of reading about plant medicine, psychedelics, and learning more about the fascinating life of psychonaut Terrence McKenna.  

The Eyes are the Best Part

 The Eyes are the Best Part by Monika Kim

The Eyes are the Best Part book cover

Author Monika Kim

Thank you to Net Galley and Erewhon Books for allowing me the opportunity to preview Monika Kim’s exciting and disturbing thriller The Eyes are the Best Part. I was instantly drawn to the title and cover art for this book, and reading the description as feminist horror further piqued my interest. Although this isn’t necessarily the kind of traditional horror, it is a psychological horror story told through the experiences (or eyes) of Ji-won, a first year college student. Kim creates a relatable yet complex character through Ji-won. I found her to be someone with whom I could empathize and sympathize, as she goes through the trauma of her father abandoning the family while also experiencing micro-aggressions and stereotyping. As a first-generation Korean American college student, Ji-Won must not only navigate the challenges of adapting to college, but also in emotionally supporting her mother and sister through this difficult time. Ji-won experiences further challenges when her mother meets George, a middle-aged white man, who eventually reveals himself as someone who objectifies Asian women. Kim’s characterization of him was creative and detailed, as told through Ji-won’s observations about George’s choice of restaurants or his ogling of waitresses. To further emphasize his lack of cultural competency, George resorts to creating nicknames for Ji-won and Ji-hyun, Ji-won’s sister, since he cannot accurately pronounce their names. Beyond taking their mother away, George also introduces his blue eyes, which begin to haunt Ji-won and tear at her sense of reality. We experience Ji-won’s nightmares as they happen, unsure if she is dreaming or not. Kim’s descriptions are both unnerving and creative, and I found these parts disturbing, but in a meaningful way. George’s intrusion into the family and imposing his beliefs and ideals on the family has further disrupted Ji-won and Ji-hyun. While sharing a seafood meal with the family, Ji-won is reminded that her mother always said eating the eyes brings good luck—hence, the eyes are the best part. This eventually sends Ji-won on a quest for the blue eyes that haunt her in sleep and eventually in wakefulness. She grows her plans to take George’s eyes further and further, watching him as he sleeps and imagining how they might taste. As her fascination with eating blue eyes grows, Ji-won is also dealing with some friends from her classes and trying to obtain better grades to get off probation. The family stress greatly affected her during her first semester, and she struggled to successfully complete her first semester. We also learn that she lost some of her high school friends due to some self-sabotage. This part made me question Ji-won’s motivations, since she was angry or jealous of her friends for getting into Berkeley. It seemed like she resented them for their status and advantage, and she did things to sabotage them. This incident and the later meeting with these former friends during winter break provides us with a different side of Ji-won, one who seems slightly vindictive, but also someone who is somewhat powerless and seeks to go behind the backs of others to make herself feel better. I wasn’t sure if this part provided more motivation for Ji-won’s later actions, seeking out blue eyes, and that she is somewhat self-destructive. However, I also think it helped to emphasize the fact that Ji-won was someone who was also somewhat bound to expectations and stereotypes and that taking action secretively against her friends showed how she sought to empower herself, but that she couldn’t necessarily do it in the light. It was a little surprising, but it also added to Ji-won’s complexity. As Ji-won’s mother falls more in love with George and Ji-won deals with Geoffrey, a boy from class whose ingratiating personality wore thin and eventually becomes obsessed with Ji-won. It’s interesting that both white men in the novel have similar names and kind of represent opposite ends of the kinds of aggressions that Asian women face. However, Ji-won gradually abandons Geoffrey, tiring of his incessant messages and his micro-aggressions, like giving her chopsticks for a present. I found both Geoffrey and George to be really annoying but done so in an over-the-top manner that also kept me reading to see what Ji-won would eventually do to them. While she eventually gets revenge on Geoffrey, it’s the games that she begins to play on George that are vindictive and entertaining. Ji-won eventually begins to experiment with eye-eating, finding victims around the college. Kim’s descriptions of eating the eyeballs are some of the best writing in the book. Pretty graphic and gross, but also incredibly detailed and appealing to different senses (tasting like iron, popping, gelatinous). Ji-won’s eye eating also transforms her, and I found this part of the book to be somewhat like Crime and Punishment, where we experience the paranoia of someone who knows they did wrong, but still feels justified in their actions. Ji-won’s crimes gradually empower her and give her more confidence to take action against George, with the hope of driving him away from their mother. Kim’s writing is propulsive and the short chapters kept me reading to find out what would happen next. I also really loved the use of chopsticks to mark the chapter breaks. Very creative and unique. Although the book was exciting and disturbing, the ending happens a little suddenly and was a slight let-down. In some ways, this book reminded me of some other books about racial identity and transformations—both Natural Beauty by Ling Ling Huang and White Ivy by Susie Yang. Both characters in these books experienced a kind of lack of acceptance by the dominant culture and felt the need to change their identities, to become more white and change their ideals and values as well. They pay the costs, yet Ji-won is somewhat different. While it seems like family and racial trauma eventually pressure her into destructive behavior, she is able to plan out a way to escape and place blame on those who have wronged her. I think this also kind of positions Ji-won as a powerful character and an empowered character who is eventually able to use the stereotypes and expectations against those who try to pin her down. Although I couldn’t put this book down, I think that some people might struggle with the racism, objectification, and graphic violence in the book. It’s not gratuitous; Kim does show how the daily racism and aggressions can take their toll, but she also creates a character who seeks to subvert that trauma and pain and use it to right the wrongs she faced. Highly recommended and important book to read.

Feminine Revenge in Monika Kim's Molka

 Molka by Monika Kim

Molka book cover

Author Monika Kim

Big thanks to Kensington Publishing, Erewhon Books, and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Monika Kim’s wild and violent revenge novel Molka. I previously read The Eyes are the Best Part, and thoroughly enjoyed the unexpected violence and gore that Ji-won eventually revels in as a means of reclaiming her power from the racism and sexism she experiences, as this was a powerful feminist story that highlights the horrors that Asian American women experience. I enjoyed Molka even more, devouring the last half of the book in one day like Ji-won’s mom with fish eyes. I just couldn’t put this book down because of Kim’s propulsive narratives that tell the story of degenerate young men who delight in using molka, a Korean portmanteau of molrae-kamera, which translates to a sneaky camera. As Kim elucidates in the intro, she noted scandals of privileged Korean men whose use of molka were not really punished legally and experienced far less punishment than the women who were victimized by these men. She notes the double standard in that the women often experience shame, ostracization, and even worse outcomes while the men rarely see any kind of significant punishment for this kind of invasion of privacy and violation of consent. As a result, Kim’s book achieves the rare feat of being both a compelling horror-revenge thriller while also addressing social inequalities and raising consciousness about the kind of sexism and misogyny that women experience on a regular basis.

Kim’s novel takes place in Seoul, where the lives of Dahye and Junyoung intersect at their work in an office. Dahye is an office worker and recent college graduate who still harbors guilt for the drowning death of her sister years earlier. Nevertheless, she has recently met Hyukjoon, a rich playboy whose family owns a chaebol, or a family controlled company like Samsung. Although Dahye is from a modest background, she loves the attention and opportunities from Hyukjoon, visiting fancy restaurants, hotels, and shops with him. Junyoung is an IT worker in the same office as Dahye. Although Junyoung has established a reputation within the office for being a problem solver with technology problems, he also uses his technology skills for his own personal pleasure, installing molka in the women’s bathroom so that he can spy on the female employees, which is where he eventually discovers Dahye. Kim’s story intertwines these three narratives- Dahye, Hyukjoon, and Junyoung—as their experiences with molka all converge towards a wild, violent ending that I didn’t really see coming.

While there’s a lot to like about this book, Kim also creates some of the most despicable and unlikeable characters in Hyukjoon and Junyoung, among some other men. While both guys have a relationship with Dahye, one personal, the other professional, they both look to take advantage of her in different ways. Furthermore, we don’t really get into the mind of Hyukjoon but learn that his relationship with Dahye is not what it seems. After a night at an exclusive restaurant and hotel, Dahye awakens to the news that Hyukjoon has to leave for NY as he is implicated in a molka scandal. What Dahye eventually learns is that she was the other person involved in the scandal. Dahye gradually realizes that her situation with Hyukjoon was not what it seems, and he was using her. As she realizes the implications of her relationship with Hyukjoon, she begins to cut ties with her family and work and staying with her friend Bora. Prior to this incident, Dahye assented to a casual lunch with Junyoung, but when she misses work, Junyoung begins to wonder about her. Like the creepy stalker he is, Junyoung uses his IT access to look up Dahye’s address and find her while she is out. What ensues is a kind of series of pursuits where Dahye seeks out Hyukjoon to initially apologize for her role in the molka scandal while Junyoung follows Dahye around Seoul. Dahye eventually gains the support of her deceased sister, whose spirit serves as a kind of spiritual guide and protector for her. The narratives eventually converge on an explosive confrontation.

I loved this book, even though it has some pretty harsh scenes that were tough to read. Kim’s storytelling brings all the elements together and kept me turning pages to find out what would happen next. I found this especially true after the first half of the book, once we learn more about the true nature of Dahye’s relationship with Hyukjoon, and as Dahye’s sister, Euhhye, eventually reveals herself. I really liked the converging plotlines with Dahye and Junyoung, and Kim really makes Junyoung one of the most unlikeable characters since George and Geoffrey from The Eyes are the Best Part. Hyukjoon is also really unlikeable, but as a rich, entitled guy, that’s kind of expected. It’s not just Junyoung’s gross and invasive ways, but also his treatment of his mother and his lack of awareness of relationships that makes him so awful. Most of the men in this book are awful, though. Junyoung’s father, who left the family and excused Junyoung’s early peeping behavior, is someone who set Junyoung up with a poor role model for how men treat women. Similarly, the police are incapable of taking Dahye’s complaints seriously. Their own ineptitude in investigating Eunhye’s death also reveal the systemic inequalities in how women in Korea are treated. Maybe the only positive comes from Dahye and Eunhye’s father who tells them Korean folktales about trickster figures and animals that teach lessons. This was another aspect that I really enjoyed about the book. Kim incorporates Korean folktales in a symbolic way to emphasize not only the ways that people can outsmart those who are more powerful, but also to bring in the elements of ghost stories. These are some subtle yet powerful allusions in the book, and I really appreciated them.

I don’t want to give too much more of the story away because it’s an exciting and powerful story that not only kept me reading but also raises awareness about social and gender inequalities in Korean society. We see how men and especially powerful men are given more freedom and less accountability in the treatment of others, especially women. It’s not just entertaining as a horror-revenge thriller, but it also has an important message in raising awareness and recognizing the consequences of this kind of inequality. While I highly recommend this book, it also comes with trigger warnings since there are scenes of hidden cameras, invasions of privacy, sexual assault and violence, and suicide. Nevertheless, none of these are gratuitous and they all serve an important purpose in recognizing that women often face a much greater level of sexual harassment and violence in society, yet the perpetrators are not always punished. Kim’s writing makes a compelling case as an engaging story that also has an important message. Highly recommended! 

New Perspectives on Stephen King: Monsters in the Archive: My Year of Fear with Stephen King by Caroline Bicks

 Monsters in the Archive: My Year of Fear with Stephen King by Caroline Bicks

Monsters in the Archives book cover

Author, Shakespearean Scholar, and 

Stephen King Chair holder Caroline Bicks

Big thanks to Random House and NetGalley for the advanced copy of Monsters in the Archives: My Year of Fear with Stephen King by the inaugural Stephen E. King Chair in Literature at the University of Maine Caroline Bicks. I was so excited to find this book, and Bick’s close analysis of the early works of Stephen King does not disappoint. Like a lot of more recent literary case studies, the book blends memoir, biography, and close readings of King’s early works to further make the case that King deserves a place in the American literary cannon, if not his own unique shelf where he has reinvented the horror genre for several generations of readers (and movie viewers). While there are some books that address King’s importance in horror and make the case for his importance in literature, Bicks has the unique position of the endowed Stephen E. King Chair in Literature at King’s alma mater, the University of Maine, which also grants her access to King’s archives. For me, this was one of the best aspects of this book- Bick’s analysis of multiple drafts of King’s early works, and especially close readings of the diction and word choice that helps to further ratchet up the fear factor in King’s writing. While many people focus on either the terrifying plots and the iconically evil villains, Bicks takes a different approach and examines how authorial choices through revised drafts help King create an atmosphere of terror and horror that has struck and stuck with many readers for years.

Like Bicks, I also first encountered King in my adolescence, thanks to one of my all-time favorite teachers in 6^th grade, Mrs. Kane. I think that we read “The Boogeyman,” which Bicks spends some time reminiscing in fear about; and yet, she also has a great analysis of the story, examining not only the choice to make the boogeyman at the end more of a scarecrow-like figure who emerges from the closet of a psychiatrist’s office, but also connecting this use of the scarecrow imagery with her own experiences of The Wizard of Oz as a calming book that deals with the terrors of transitions and uncertainty, as well as identifying some other works from King’s oeuvre that apply this same imagery (most notably Pet Semetary). I’ve always noticed some similar thematic elements among King’s works, especially with kids experiencing uncertainty and danger. It’s probably one of the things that attracted me to his stories and books in early adolescence. However, Bicks’ analysis and close reads allow us to interrogate some of these authorial choices to gain new insights into King’s influences and ideas for impacting readers. Bicks is also a Shakespeare scholar by training, so much of her analyses tie in Shakespeare’s influence on King’s early works. Again, this was a fascinating element of the book, especially considering Bicks’ previous work on female adolescence and Shakespearean characters, including Juliet and Ophelia. She provides a brief summary of her work, which focused on the change of cognition that girls experience during adolescence, and how these adolescent characters demonstrate those new powers in reasoning. For this book, Bicks then connects Carrie White’s development of her psychic powers with the onset of her adolescence. What was most fascinating was the changes that occurred in drafts as King had Carrie undergoing a kind of physical transformation into more of a brain with horns housed in a membrane-like sack. There are some other surprising changes that emerged from the first draft that impact not only the story, but also the significance of Carrie’s impact on our collective consciousness. Bicks leaves readers to wonder how these changes might have affected the cultural resonance that Carrie elicited if they were not changed due to the suggestions of King’s editor. Although it’s the last book she focuses on, the chapter on Carrie has stuck with me because, as Bicks notes, its such a relevant story that all of us have experienced in one way or another—being dissatisfied with our bodies during adolescence, and yet also being intrigued by the changes; facing bullies and other cruel peers, and trying to navigate the confusing social dynamics of high school. Interestingly, Bicks notes where changes in drafts shifted from the kind of alien-like physical transformation that Carrie experiences to one that is more princess and storybook-like, which it seems had a greater resonance with the public.

Other chapters focused on other early King works and made additional, thoughtful analyses and connections with other Shakespearean works like how The Shining shares themes and imagery similar to Hamlet and Macbeth. I found these angles so interesting to consider since Shakespeare does include some supernatural and horror, especially murder (murder most foul). While The Shining can be considered a haunted house-type story, it’s also a story about murdered and murderous fathers, like Hamlet, and the struggles of the sons to cope with the sins or absences of the fathers. Similarly, it’s the woman in 217, whose witchy like appearance to both Danny and Jack Torrance pushed the action towards the climax in the novel. I also enjoyed learning that King developed The Shining as a kind of play in 5 acts, plotting out the scenes in the form of a 5 act Shakespearean tragedy. Additionally, I was surprised to see how Carrie White’s last thoughts resembled those of Macbeth’s famous last lines about the futility of life. This was another fascinating element of the book- to learn more about King’s writing and drafting process, and gain insight into how his work becomes even more frightening, but also even more resonant with the public and in some ways the cultural consciousness, and how he borrows from other great writers, but still finds a way to make the language and ideas his own. Throughout the book, Bicks notes these connections with Shakespeare’s timeless themes and characters and how King’s characters face similar challenges and themes, although often in a more supernatural and horrifying tableau.

Beyond the historical and literary, Bicks also connects these stories to King’s own life and experiences, often taking readers back to his early days as a recent college graduate, teaching at a high school while caring for 2 young children with his wife Tabitha, while writing and selling stories at night. Bicks also references the well-known backstory to Carrie where Tabitha King rescued an early draft from the trash and encouraged King to return to it. Similarly, we learn that some of the influence on Pet Semetary came from King’s experience with a rented house near a major highway where his young children would often play near. The chapter on Salem’s Lot, a vampire story where a writer returns to his home town to confront some of his earliest fears, has a connection to King’s own hometown. This chapter was also interesting to think about how Salem’s Lot is an novel about a small American town. Bicks presents a similar idea about Carrie, when she noted that the earlier drafts had Carrie happening around Boston. It was King’s editor who encouraged him to set the book in Maine.  

This was an awesome book! I loved that Bicks not only makes some really interesting literary hypotheses about some of these important, early King works, but that she also makes the case that King’s use of some of the deepest, darkest human emotions (“These violent delights have violent ends”) to connect with readers in much the same way that Shakespeare appealed to audiences through these plays that evoked such emotion. However, what really stands out in Bicks’ analysis is not just the focus on plot, but on the language that King uses (“Words, words, words.”), and how “he [Shakespeare] could capture an idea or an emotion by mobilizing he sounds, rhythms, and meaning of words, creating clusters and patterns that work their way into my mind.” Although she is referring to Shakespeare in the quote, she applies the same analysis to King’s work, especially in Pet Semetary, where she analyzes the draft changes to examine how King’s use onomatopoetic language helps to evoke more than sound imagery, but also gives us a tactile and kinetic feel for the scene, as if we are there with Louis Creed in the graveyard. This is truly a wonderful book, especially for Stephen King fans, but also for writers and artists. It’s a close look at an important American writer, and probably the most important horror author of the last 150 years. In her analysis, Bicks helps to elevate King into the literary cannon, something he’s not always included in. This is not only a great read, but it’s also educational—it’s like taking a course on King and revisiting some of these great novels and stories, but also reassessing and gaining new perspectives on these works. Bicks’ ideas, observations, and hypotheses have definitely opened my eyes up to looking at King (and Shakespeare) in new ways. Highly recommended!

Exploring and Overcoming Past Trauma in Japanese Gothic by Kylie Lee Baker

 Japanese Gothic: A Gothic, Dual-Time Novel of Ghosts, Hauntings, and Redemption by Kylie Lee Baker

Japanese Gothic book cover

Author Kylie Lee Baker

Many thanks to Harlequin Trade Publishing, Hanover Square Press, and NetGalley for the advanced copy of Kylie Lee Baker’s latest book Japanese Gothic. Gothic literature has been around since the 18^th century, and is largely characterized by a dark and dreary mood and environment, and often involves hauntings, tragedies, and horror. Furthermore, architecture and buildings, including the surrounding environments like nature, forests, beaches, and gardens can all play an important, if not sinister role in the plots of gothic literature. Kylie Lee Baker’s latest novel emphasizes the dark and dreary elements of gothic, with the occasional blood-soaked violence and gore that was a part of her last book, Bat Eater and Other Names for Cora Zeng. I was really impressed with Bat Eater, finding it surprisingly dark and gory, yet also offering a sense of hope and a way to deal with the anger and frustration of racism and discrimination. I thought that maybe Baker had traded the rambling noise and squalid urban decay of NYC for the quieter, if not more ominous trappings of the ghostly countryside of Japan. Although Japanese Gothic is tonally different from Bat Eater, there are still many similarities, including protagonists haunted and traumatized by their past losses, a connection with spirits, and Baker’s unrelenting pursuit of some of the goriest descriptions of violence (and I say this as a commendation). I was cringing at the blood-soaked ending of the book. Like Bat Eater, this book is also a wild ride, with many unexpected stops along the way; however, there are also more moments of quiet introspection, as the main character, Lee Turner, is kind of an introverted loner, whose dependence on medications keeps him in a perpetual state of haze and fog. Part of this dependency, we learn, is from his mother’s mysterious disappearance on a holiday in Cambodia when Lee was 12.

Lee struggles to make sense of his mother’s disappearance and his father’s muted response to this. Lee retains some strange memories from this trip, recalling a voice from a suitcase, which leads him to conclude that his mother was inside and possibly abducted by human traffickers. The police and Lee’s father come to a different conclusion, assuming that Lee’s mother drowned while out swimming. Neither option offers much solace to Lee, who internalizes the absence and tries to please his father by being an ideal son. Lee eventually ends up at NYU, while his father, a professor of Japanese, ends up living in Japan after dating a series of Japanese women. The story starts when Lee absconds to his father’s house, thinking he has fled the murder of his roommate James, but unsure of what he did with the body. Lee decides that fleeing to Japan to stay with his distant father and his girlfriend Hina will allow him to escape responsibility and try to make sense of his messy life.

Baker alternates chapters with the story of Sen Iwasaki, a daughter of a samurai who lived in the house Lee’s father now occupies, nearly 150 years before. Sen’s father was a prominent samurai for the Shimazu Clan, but by 1877, samurais have basically been eradicated, and Sen’s family struggles to find work and food to survive. We gradually learn about Sen’s struggles to connect with her father, whose battle against the empire led him to return a defeated and somewhat darker individual. Nevertheless, he continues to train Sen since his sons are too young and weak to train. He sees something in Sen, despite belittling her and sowing doubt about her instincts to kill. We also learn about the tragedy of the house, as this once proud family is reduced to eating porridge and hunting small animals while awaiting for reprisals from their enemies. It’s a stark life that both contrasts and mirrors Lee’s life in the present in some ways. Both characters deal with distant or lost parents for whom they grieve, and both Sen and Lee try to accommodate their living parents and connect with them in ways that seem futile. The book is divided into 4 sections, and each section ends with a short excerpt from a fairy tale about a fisherman who helps an injured turtle return to the see. The turtle turns out to be the daughter of the Emperor of the Sea, and as a result of the fisherman’s kindness, the fisherman is rewarded. It’s a little unclear why this story is at the end of each section, but the ending of the book ties these three stories together.

Both Lee and Sen are haunted by those they lost. In addition to her father returning as a shamed warrior, Sen has also lost a sister, and her spirit haunts Sen. Lee is also haunted by the loss of his mother, but his senses are also highly attuned to others. He can hear their heartbeats and know when others are lying due to their posture or movements. These kinds of perceptions make Lee keenly aware of others’ emotions but also seem to provide a kind of fixation that slowly drives him mad (almost like a Poe narrator). One night, Lee hears and feels a heartbeat while lying in bed. He gets up and listens to the room, eventually discovering a doorway in the closet. Likewise, Sen lies awake in her room, communicating with her dead sister, when she eventually is led to the doorway, allowing Lee and Sen to transcend time and meet through this portal.

At first skeptical and defensive against one another, the two must learn to make sense of their newfound connection, and we see how each of them faces challenges in their own worlds, trying to navigate the destruction of each of their own broken families. I was particularly interested in Sen’s challenges as a daughter in a patriarchal society that favors sons, and how she repeatedly receives messages that women cannot be samurais. Nevertheless, she continues to train, fight, and push against these ideas, proving to her father and others that women can be just as fierce warriors. Likewise, Lee must challenge his father’s perceptions about his lack of masculinity, while also challenging his dad’s fetishization of Japanese women. In their work together and trying to understand what brought them together, Lee and Sen form an unlikely bond of shared trauma and doubt. I appreciated how Lee uses technology like the internet to find out about Sen’s history and death, and while Sen thinks Lee might be a demon, he proves his knowledge by predicting a fire that will occur in the town on a specific date. Baker creates an interesting pair whose differences complement one another. However, I really appreciated how the characters and their dialogue all seemed so unique and different. While Lee doesn’t say a whole lot, readers witness his thinking move from the kind of addled-hazy thoughts of someone addicted to allergy medicine to the kind of paranoid and anxious thoughts of someone struggling with withdrawal and trauma. Sen, on the other hand, is much prone to fighting, and readers witness her training springing to action as she is pushed by doubts about Lee’s intentions and the modern world. Baker has created an interesting dynamic that stretches belief, but also keeps readers engaged and makes it work.

There’s a lot to like about this book, especially if you liked Bat Eater. It doesn’t have quite the kinetic energy of that book’s urban setting, yet the rural Japanese setting creates an equally ominous and unsettling mood, especially with the sword ferns in the garden that sway and scratch the house, threatening to poke and stab, as if wielded by some psychotic samurai. Similarly, Baker’s writing is more descriptive and poetic in this book. I kept highlighting these passages that either described Lee’s anxious inner thoughts or reflected them in the environment. For example, from the first chapter “But Lee hadn’t wanted to know the taste of James’s blood, hadn’t wanted to hold this awful feeling inside him, like the collapse of an entire star system inside his rib cage. Lee was full of dead stars and empty universes now.” Or later on in the book “He liked how small the ocean made him feel, like it could devour him and all his problems in a single gulp. Nothing mattered in the face of the endless churning sea. It was important, all-consuming, all-devouring. It might have been beautiful, but Lee had never been good at discerning beauty.” There is darkness in this story, but it’s also brilliantly projected onto the environment and setting, and Baker really captures the characters’ inner turmoil through these descriptions and metaphors.

While I enjoyed the atmospheric and moody nature of the book, and Baker’s ability to distill emotional turmoil either with great analogies or through the surrounding environment, the story is complicated and at times a little hard to follow. There are some loose ends that don’t get completely tied up until the ending, which I won’t reveal. Furthermore, I grew a little frustrated with Lee and his downtrodden nature, but I can see how Baker made him really depressed and traumatized by the loss of his mother, so he also becomes a sympathetic figure. The book also has a lot of incluing and indirect exposition, where we are left to draw conclusions about Lee’s background based on his spotty and naïve memory. And although the premise of this kind of secret portal that allows the characters to meet across time is somewhat unbelievable, I actually enjoyed this element of the story. It reminded me of another Japanese writer who often writes about loss and different dimensions- Haruki Murakami. Although this is like if Murakami was paired up with Stephen King and writing more of a gothic horror novel rather than more of a fantasy sci-fi story about identity. Japanese Gothic’s focus on the gothic elements along with some Japanese mythology and ghost stories creates a compelling atmosphere that engaged me and kept me turning pages, wanting to find out more. I also appreciated the dueling narratives where one chapter focused on Lee and another focused on Sen. It was interesting to see how their stories mirrored and converged. Although it’s not the same as Bat Eater, Japanese Gothic has a lot to offer, especially if you enjoy ghost stories, folk horror, and characters who are prone to hallucinations and fugue states. I’m really excited for Kylie Lee Baker’s next book, as she crafted another complex ghost story about the past that still addresses relevant and current issues in society. Her descriptions, especially the characters’ turbulent emotional states, stand out, but her descriptions of the gore and violence in the book are visceral and left me cringing at the end. Highly recommended!

Japanese Murder Mystery Guilt by Keigo Higashino

 Guilt: A Mystery by Keigo Higashino; 

translated by Giles Murray

Guilt book cover

Mystery Master Keigo Higashino

Many thanks to St. Martin’s Press, Minotaur Books, and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Keigo Higashino’s latest mystery novel, Guilt. I was excited to read this book because I’ve generally enjoyed Higashino’s books, and this is the first book that features Detective Godai, a police detective in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Higashino is well known for his other mysteries featuring “Detective” Galileo and Detective Kaga, two distinct characters who have their own logic and methods for solving murders. Detective Godai doesn’t have quite the same presence or investigative skills that Galileo or Kaga have, but this was a solid mystery story that left me wondering about the killer and their motivation.

Godai is called in to investigate the murder of Kensuke Shiraishi, a lawyer that everyone seems to agree was a good guy. While Godai and his partner Nakamachi initially think Shiraishi might have been killed by a disgruntled client, they can’t find any evidence of disgruntled clients. Shiraishi actually checked in on some of his clients to make sure everything was going ok for them prior to his death. Their investigation eventually leads them to Tatsuo Kuraki, an older widower who met with Shiraishi regarding questions about estate law and wills. After some investigation, Kuraki eventually confesses to the murder of Shiraishi as well as the 1984 murder of Shozo Haitani, a financial schemer who entangled Kuraki in paying for medical expenses and transportation after hitting Haitani while he was riding a bike. Although Kuraki was one of the individuals who discovered Haitani’s body, he had an alibi, which led the police to arrest Junji Fukuma, an innocent electronics store owner, whose false arrest eventually led to his suicide while in custody. Kuraki has lived with this guilt for years, and eventually befriended Fukuma’s wife and daughter, although they did not know his identity. He was planning to leave his inheritance to the Asabas (Fukuma’s widow and daughter), but under Japanese law, Kuraki’s son was legally entitled to at least half of the inheritance if he wished to contest the will. This is why Kuraki sought the advice of the lawyer Shiraishi. However, after Shiraishi learned more about the situation and the murder, he apparently encouraged Kuraki to confess to the 1984 murder, even though the statute of limitations had expired. Fearing for his freedom and feeling threatened, Kuraki met with Shiraishi, but killed him because of Shiraishi’s attempts to get him to confess. Although surprised at his confession, the police checked his story and were amazed at Kuraki’s knowledge of the specific details that were not released to the public. Furthermore, they were even more surprised to learn about the older murder. Although the motive seemed somewhat specious, they seemed happy to have a suspect under arrest and in custody.

Although the investigation seems wrapped up, others involved with both the victim and the accused were not satisfied. Shiraishi’s daughter Mirei questions Kuraki’s account, contesting that her father would not have pushed Kuraki to confess. Rather, she recognized that his work as a lawyer would have encouraged Kuraki to maintain his innocence. Likewise, Kuraki’s son, Kazuma, also questions his father’s involvement in both murders, noting that his father was not a killer and seemed incapable of murder, especially as an elderly widower. Will the specter of false accusations and arrests impact this investigation? Will the police and public’s desire for identifying the murderer drive Detectives Godai and Nakamachi to further investigate this strange case where murders were committed nearly 40 years apart? Or will they quickly accept Kuraki’s confession? I was surprised how involved I became with this case, especially after Kuraki confesses so early on in the book. However, it’s Mirei and Kazuma’s insistence that the police misread their fathers’ intentions and actions that kept me reading. In fact, I was also surprised that while this is billed as a Detective Godai mystery, it’s Mirei and Kazuma who do most of the investigation and its their work that leads to challenges to Kuraki’s narrative. The short chapters that focus on different characters give readers varied perspectives from which to observe these crimes and their implications for both victims and the families of the accused. In fact, it seems like that was an underlying message for this story, examining how society, in particular Japanese society, will often castigate the family of an accused murderer, and these families often suffer as much as the victims when they often have no involvement and are also grappling with the implications of the crime. Kazuma ends up having to take a leave from work because of the negative attention his father’s case might have on the firm. He wears a disguise out. Likewise, when Fukuma is accused and eventually dies in police custody, his case is never resolved, and despite no conviction, he is guilty in the court of public opinion, which limits opportunities for his widow and daughter, who not only have to grow up without a husband and father, but also have to grow and live under the shadow of being a murderer’s relative. Higashino seems to be raising questions about this kind of treatment and harsh speculation, looking at how murder implicates all, and often the accused’s families become victims as well.

The book was an interesting read, and since this was originally published in Japan, there are many significant cultural practices that might seem different or out of place in American society. The guilt of family members is one. I also at times found Kazuma, the accused’s son, to be frustrating at times. He is easily duped by a reporter, and possibly because of cultural practice, welcomes the reporter in, feeling bad that he might turn down his interview requests. Similarly, Kazuma feels bad about the negative attention his father’s case brings to his advertising firm, questioning whether he should quit or not. However, readers should keep in mind the context of the novel. Nevertheless, I was really surprised that Kazuma consented to the interview, especially with his concern about publicity for the case and how it would affect his boss and co-workers. Maybe he was trying to create some positive publicity, but it ended up backfiring. There are also some interesting arguments about the statute of limitations for crimes like murder as well as what constitutes guilt and restitution. Kuraki’s lawyer is always looking for angles with which he can show his client demonstrating a level of care or remorse about his crimes. There’s a close scrutiny of the crime scene and the behaviors of the accused, and I enjoyed this level of analysis on these details. Overall, this was an interesting and surprising mystery. If you’ve ever read Higashino’s other mysteries, this is among some of the best, however, the detectives don’t engage with the case in the same way that Detective Galileo or Kaga do. Additionally, the story is complex, involving 2 murders that are nearly 40 years apart, and there are many culturally relevant details that might not be familiar to American readers. However, Guilt is an enjoyable mystery which I gladly recommend. 

Revisiting the Past and Interrogating the Present: Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

Yesteryear book cover

Author Caro Claire Burke

Big thanks to Penguin Random House, Knopf, and NetGalley for the advanced copy of Caro Claire Burke’s timely and scathing debut Yesteryear. I was excited to read this book for a few reasons, including the fact that it focuses on the strange nostalgia of a tradwife and that the book has received some serious buzz lately. From reading the premise, I anticipated that this book might be something like Octavia Butler’s Kindred, where the heroine is magically transported back to a time when being a minority was a threat to one’s identity and existence. However, reading this book evoked so many competing emotions including anger, humor, sadness and empathy. As I was reading the book, I kept thinking of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, in which the unnamed protagonist struggles with his own identity, often allowing others to define who he is while also trying to navigate the ambiguity of his identity. It’s not until the narrator grasps his invisibility that he truly recognizes its power to live underground, and although he is finally able to define himself, he recognizes that this involves removing himself from a society that frequently sees him as stereotypes and tropes. Natalie, the narrator and proprietor of Yesteryear is somewhat similar to Ellison’s Underground Man in that she recognizes that her existence is largely defined by men and her relationship to them. However, Burke has created a character who readers can feel both enmity and sympathy for at the same time. I found the character of Natalie to be both frustrating and sympathetic in that she is someone who has seemed to embrace the tradwife lifestyle, but possibly for monetary and social mobility reasons. When the novel begins, we meet Natalie on her ranch, Yesteryear, amidst a whirlwind of activity, work, and children. She’s a kind of woman entrepreneur whose managed to build her brand on social media, yet she’s also done this both by using her family and in spite of her family, gradually fraying her relationship with her oldest daughter, Clementine (there are some interesting old-fashioned names, and so much of this book seems to be poking fun or at least winking at some of these trends).

Although Natalie appears to be in control, managing her family, her marriage and a successful business, she’s dealing with online haters, who she calls the Angry Women, and the recent resignation of her social media producer/assistant. As Natalie contemplates the potential fallout of this resignation from her team of women and what it might mean for her brand, her ranch, and her family, she awakens to find herself in Yesteryear, but it’s much darker, drab, and her family is completely different. Natalie keeps making reference to her family who isn’t her family. Her husband, Caleb, is now Old Caleb, who no longer resembles the younger, hunky scion of a political dynasty. Her daughters, Mary and Maeve, look like Natalie, but also don’t look like her daughters from the present- Clementine, Junebug, and Jessa. Similarly, her sons, Abel and Noah, look like her, but not like her other sons Samuel and Stetson. Something is off in this Yesteryear, and Natalie eventually realizes that she has awakened in 1805, not 2025.

I loved the way Burke alternates the chapters between Natalie’s past and the historical past. It’s this kind of alternating perspectives that I felt more sympathetic for Natalie, a smart and ambitious young woman who is also subject to rigid gender norms and expectations to women. Natalie grows up without her father with some ambiguity about whether he’s actually deceased or not. Natalie realizes that her father never really died, but her mother invented this story about his death to never really confront the reality of their failed marriage. Like many of these myths, Natalie both accepts and rejects it, never really acknowledging her father. The absence of a father makes her mother work harder, developing her own business while raising two daughters in Idaho. Natalie earns a spot at Harvard, where she meets Caleb Mills, the youngest son of a CA senator and presidential candidate. It’s at Harvard where Natalie’s rigidity in gender roles sets in; however, again Burke presents a kind of sympathetic situation where Natalie struggles to fit in with many of the other young women, and as a result rejects their ways and latches on to the traditional and conservative ways from her home. I think that there’s a lot to relate to in this situation, especially the challenges of finding an identity in college when there aren’t many opportunities to explore or navigate one’s identity. Natalie seems to have had her identity foreclosed at home, and when faced with threats and differences in behaviors at Harvard, she reaches out for what is familiar and comfortable to her. It’s also when she meets Caleb, and immediately recognizes that he’s either her soulmate or her ticket to a more lucrative and meaningful life as the wife of a senator’s son. It serves as the opposite of the life she imagines living as a poor, struggling career woman in a big city, forsaking the joys of marriage and motherhood to climb the corporate ladder of success. It’s this kind of binary thinking that makes Natalie reject the path she sees other young women, like her roommate Reena, pursue, and why Natalie ultimately chooses the life of tradwife over finishing her degree and seeking out her own career and identity. For Natalie, there’s no in-between or no negotiation in these life objectives, which seems to be part of her downfall. I recognize that women have these decisions to make about careers, motherhood, and marriage, but Natalie seems to hold the path of career woman in such scorn that she does not see this as a way forward for her.

Unfortunately for Natalie, Caleb’s not much of a worker either, and after getting married and pregnant, the book takes a more humorous turn as Natalie begins to have some buyer’s remorse about her husband, failing to recognize that he’s not very ambitious and not very smart. In fact, Caleb’s parents mention that he’d be a great politician some day since that’s a field where people don’t need to think too much. I found that after marriage, when Natalie finds out who Caleb really is, the book becomes much more satirical and scathing. There’s hints of it when we learn about Natalie’s hidden pesticides at the ranch or the secret trips to Target for her girls, but it’s Caleb’s complete lack of ambition and his susceptibility to online conspiracy theories that makes him such a hilarious and sadly true to life character. As Natalie plots out a life by negotiating money for the ranch from her father-in-law, Caleb seems to get dumber and dumber throughout the book, relying on chat boards and online communities to learn about how to be a farmer, and eventually causing the deaths of numerous cows and other farm animals. In fact, Natalie’s world is filled with other interesting characters, including her mother-in-law Amelia, who has resigned herself to a life of tranquilizers and pudding, and her father-in-law Doug, whose political campaigns eventually take a dark turn with the promise of a coming Civil War.
Meanwhile, as we learn more about how Natalie came to develop her own brand and massive online following as a tradwife, Burke intercuts these chapters with the current Natalie struggling as an actual wife and mother in 1805. Although much darker, Natalie’s challenges to adapt to this traditional life enables her to possibly question her decisions and choices in life, as well as her reasons for monetizing her family and lifestyle on social media. She realizes the challenges of baking, cooking, and rearing a family without the extended support of a team of nannies and producers. She attempts to escape, but her new family shares their limited knowledge about the savages and vast wilderness surrounding their land. In one attempt at escape, Natalie is caught in a beartrap, causing a nasty wound that her daughter needs to primitively stitch. In another attempt at confronting the absurdity of her situation, Old Caleb slaps Natalie, shocking her into the reality of submitting to patriarchy. Although Natalie struggles with these traditional roles, including the baking, housework, and chores, she attempts to make the lives of her children, especially Maeve, more enjoyable by naming the farm animals, spending time among the chickens, picking wildflowers, and creating sock puppets. It’s these moments that Natalie tried to manufacture and capture for her followers rather than taking the time to authentically enjoy them and bring joy to her children. Again, I think that these moments of play and joy amidst the drab drudgery of the early 1800s show how complex Natalie is, and that she is capable of reaching out to others, even if it is also because she herself is completely bored and desperate for escape.

I also loved how these alternating chapters build tension to learning more about how Natalie’s brand is built up, while her life on the 1805 Yesteryear ranch drags on, leaving readers wondering whether she will escape or even survive. This kind of alternating narrative kept me reading, wanting to learn more about Natalie’s life. We see how she eventually learns to develop a following, with a little help from some online influencer courses (which again are scathing in their satire), and how in many ways this social media life allows Natalie to construct the identity and family that she always wished for. We also learn how this constant push to always be online and making content impacts her family and her own sense of self, as a woman, as a wife, and as a mother. I’m not going to reveal the ending, but I’m curious to read more about reactions to the ending. I found it to be surprising, yet also revelatory and hilarious, while also maintaining the darkness of the book. Yesteryear is a timely and scathing book, sharp in its criticisms, but also with a sense of foreboding and sorrow. Caro Claire Burke has written a complex character who wrestles with her identity and sense of self amidst the culture wars that are currently raging online. While Natalie doesn’t really seem to learn or progress, readers have the opportunity to learn more about her and see how both society and social media end up limiting her opportunities and her identity. It’s a fascinating book that really challenged my thinking, but also made me laugh a lot, and in some ways fear for my daughter. Highly recommended!