Alibis: Impeccable Introspection

André Aciman’s Alibis is a collection of essays that digs into the ways in which his experiences throughout various countries have changed him, have shaped him. Each essay is centered on its own theme, yet when collected they all speak to human nature and the ways in which experiences are anticipated, lived, and remembered.

Cover and Title: The cover of this book is beautiful. Done in neutrals (Sepia? I’m no art expert.), it focuses on the many intersecting lines of its featured architecture. This reflects the actual content of the book, which is full of parallel and perpendicular ideas that continually push and pull human emotion and experience. Aciman speaks to temporizing, reflecting, traveling, remembering, and other activities that require people to encounter and revisit life experience that, much like these lines, are interconnected by ideas, people, and places.

Pace: As a collection of essays, Alibis is well-paced. The essays range in length, but none are so long that they seem to drag. Likewise, none are so short that they seems as though Aciman is glossing over details. In fact, the detail that he provides is what makes this collection so engaging, as he offers just enough to let readers into his mind without inundating them with too many ideas (which could be easy to fall into with a book of this nature).

Writing: Aciman’s prose is fresh without seeming forced; his writing is introspective without folding in on itself too completely. He begins the collection with the sentence, “Life begins somewhere with the scent of lavender,” which aptly sets the tone for the wonder yet practicality presented throughout the rest of the book.

Ideas: This is a book that I look forward to revisiting in a few years, as I am sure that it will impact me differently after I experience more that life has to offer. This isn’t to say that it didn’t bring great perspective to me now, though. On the contrary: this is a book that readers of all ages will appreciate. Aciman puts forth thought-provoking ideas on both living life and processing the experience of doing so. I was astonished and delighted to find that some of my own mental quirks (such as living a certain moment as if I am already looking back on it) were discussed. As such, this essay collection has done what any great literary work does–it allowed me to see myself more clearly.

I would highly recommend Alibis to anyone who is interested in essays or who simply enjoys thinking about identity and the quest to understand the experiences that life provides.

I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.

Mr. Fox: A Charming, Unnerving Love Story

Some books shove the reader outside of their comfort zone, demanding that they look at not only life and ideas from a new perspective but that they approach the narrative form itself from a different angle. In Mr. Fox, Helen Oyeyemi creates a love triangle that spans numerous independent stories, all spun by St. John Fox (a writer who continually kills women in his stories and is inspired by Bluebeard), Mary Foxe (the so-called “muse” that Mr. Fox has conjured–although she plays a much larger part than inspiration by creating her own stories and blurring the line between real and imaginary), and Daphne Fox (Mr. Fox’s wife). Each of the stories focuses on relationships and how difficult it is for people to connect in a meaningful way. At first, Mary starts interfering with Mr. Fox’s stories because she is outraged by his tendency to kill his female characters, but as the novel goes on these stories become increasingly complex and emotionally charged.

Cover and Formatting: First and foremost, I have to say that this is a beautiful book in terms of the cover and formatting. This is certainly a volume that I enjoy having on my shelf. Helen Yentus and Jason Booher, the jacket designers, did a wonderful job creating an interesting cover that is both understated and engaging–much like the novel itself.

Plot: This book challenged me in terms of following the plot. Oyeyemi has created a structure that requires readers to work in order to get the most out of it. I realized, in reading this book, that I may have become a bit lazy in my reading habits and am glad to have come up against an author who doesn’t underestimate the intelligence of her readers by spelling everything out for them (not that the other authors I’ve read recently have done so). By creating multiple stories within the novel, Oyeyemi is able to shed light on different aspects of love and loss. But because she tells most of these stories using the same characters, as if she is putting Mr. Fox, Mary, and Daphne into a room of mirrors that reflect at all angles, the reader has a sense of continuity. This, I believe, is why the more experimental structure works.

Characterization: Oyeyemi has created three characters that anchor the novel, but these characters take on varying roles throughout the stories that they present. As such, there is no real character development; the book focuses, instead, on the nature of relationships. Seeing these characters in different situations, leading different lives, allows readers to focus on their relationships instead of on who they are. In this way, a lack of characterization (or, rather, the establishment of multiple characters that call upon the same fundamental qualities as their original form yet differ in each story) lends to the success of the novel as a whole.

Writing Style: Oyeyemi’s writing is vibrant and jarring, yet at the same time subtle (as is the novel itself). She has a talent for presenting complex ideas in simple ways without taking away from their weight.

Ideas: This novel left me feeling bittersweet, as many of the stories show relationships that, no matter how hard the characters try, just do not work; however, as someone who enjoys poignant stories of this nature, I found this to be incredibly insightful. Love is, itself, a simple idea; the way in which love functions in the world can become complex. But the idea that I got out of the novel is that, no matter how broken people are, or how their story ends, the relationships that they build are worthwhile.

Mr. Fox is one of those books that will elicit various responses from readers depending upon their past and the ways in which they relate to the stories and characters that it presents–which is one of the reasons why I believe it is such a good novel. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in creative writing structures and diving deeper into the ways in which people connect with one another and, ultimately, love.

I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review. 

Breakfast with Socrates: Analyzing the Meaning of Daily Life

So by now I’m sure you all know that I’m a philosophy junkie. I love anything that makes my mind turn, and the thought of analyzing every aspect of the day, from waking up to going to sleep, was something that really intrigued me. Breakfast with Socrates by Robert Rowland Smith literally breaks down each element of daily life to reveal the significance behind some of our most routine activities. I knew I was going to love it when I picked it up off the shelf at the bookstore, but I didn’t anticipate it including three of my favorite things: philosophy, psychology, and literature.

Pace: Each chapter considers a different part of the day. For instance, some of the chapters include “Waking Up,” “Traveling to Work,” “Going to the Gym,” “Cooking and Eating Dinner,” and “Falling Asleep and Dreaming.” With this structure, Smith easily guides readers from one idea to the next while giving plenty of great stopping places along the way. One of the most common difficulties I personally face with philosophical books is finding a good place to put the book down, as doing so often interferes with the ideas that are presented (and results in a reread of several pages next time I pick the book up). By breaking everything down like he does, Smith makes it easy to move from one section to the other without getting lost in ideas.

Writing: I love a dense philosophical text as much as anyone, but I’m not always in the mood for that–and that’s certainly not what Smith delivers. The prose in Breakfast with Socrates is straightforward and has personality. I laughed out loud on multiple occasions and was able to easily follow Smith’s train of thought as he broke down each concept; however,  I didn’t feel as though these ideas were watered down. They may not be the most complex ideas in the philosophical world, but they are certainly ideas that make readers take another look at their daily lives–which is, for all intents and purposes, the point of the book.

Ultimately, I’d recommend Breakfast with Socrates to anyone who is interested in philosophy or in learning about the significance that even the most simple of daily routines holds. Readers who enjoy psychology would also find this to be a good read.

For more information, visit Robert Rowland Smith’s:

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The Night Circus: An Imaginative Love Story

The Night Circus had a lot of buzz surrounding it, but I waited until the paperback came out to get my hands on it. I have to admit that my feelings about this book are very conflicted. I want to love it, I really, really do. I want to recommend it without hesitation to everyone who loves imaginative stories; however, there is one caveat to my recommendation: the characterization is a bit weak. As I mentioned in another post, this is a rare occasion, though, in which I might be able to overlook this flaw because of the nature of the story. 

In The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern has woven an incredibly creative story revolving around a traveling, magical circus. Called Le Cirque des Rêves, it is only open at night and is the product of a duel between two magicians, Celia and Marco, who, although they have competed with one another for years, do not know the identity of their adversary. The magicians fall in love and, as a result, put the very existence of the circus–and lives of those who are involved with it–at risk.

Plot: The most fascinating aspect of this book is the storyline. Morgenstern has created a world full of magic that doesn’t feel trite or contrived. This is extremely difficult to do for an adult audience, but she pulls it off spectacularly. The creativity behind this story is, quite honestly, what pulled me in. The pace is quick enough to hold the reader’s interest but not so fast that it feels as though details are slipping by unnoticed. Ultimately, the plot kept me reading and I admit to staying up way past my bedtime to finish the book.

Writing: Morgenstern’s prose is clear yet descriptive; she provides just enough detail to bring the world to life but does it in a straightforward manner. As a result, the story that she creates is one that seems to grow organically. I enjoyed the writing style and believe that it is why the plot was able to move so quickly.

Characterization: This is where the book fell short for me, and I have to admit that I didn’t even recognize it until my boss (who was reading the book at the same time) brought it to my attention. The main characters don’t seem to grow from the beginning of the story to the end, but even more worrisome is the fact that two of the characters (Celia and Isobel) are so alike that I actually thought they were the same person at one point. When all was said and done, I wasn’t invested in the futures of the characters; I read to the end to see what happened to the circus, not what happened to Celia or Isobel or Marco or any of the other players.

I do have to say, though, that the circus itself was developed into a character of its own. It grows throughout the story as Celia and Marco add to it, changing shape and inviting new twists and turns into the plot. I really enjoyed this aspect of the novel and think that this is why I didn’t give up on the narrative, as seeing the circus grow and the plot develop is what drove the story–not the development of the characters.

Ultimately, I can’t give The Night Circus a 100 percent recommendation simply because the characterization was flat; however, I would recommend it to anyone who can choose to suspend judgment on that part of  the book and enjoy the rest of the story. I NEVER thought I would say that, as I fully believe in characterization as a key component of a well-written story. But in this case I think the rest of the narrative is imaginative enough to be worth the read despite this flaw.

For more information, visit Erin Morgenstern’s:

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Object Lessons: Short Stories, Powerful Messages

One of the best ways that writers can hone their craft is through reading. Now, this doesn’t mean to simply imitate other writers; the right way to use reading as a research tool is to look at the different elements of writing that successful authors employ. To indulge in a metaphor, reading allows writers to pull off the face of a clock and see how its gears interlock, how they move in time. For this reason, you might consider reading a particular story to be a case study, which is how The Paris Review approaches the art of understanding writing in Object Lessons.

Structure: Object Lessons is a compilation of short stories that have been chosen by other authors because they illustrate some of the most important aspects of successful writing. As the title entails, the book looks at the stories one at a time, providing a brief introduction to each written by the writer who chose it. These stories have a few things in common: each has appeared in The Paris Review, each is written as a short story, and each is considered a shining example of one facet of writing or another. But here the similarities end. The 20 stories that make up this collection focus on different themes, involve different points of view, are structured using different techniques, and invoke different reactions in readers.

I like the way that the stories are structured: introduction, story, introduction, story, introduction, story, etc. This simple organization allows readers to work their way through one story at a time and really focus on the object lesson at hand, rather than approaching the book as a whole. I highly recommend savoring each story and not trying to plow through this book, and this structure makes it easy to do.

Pace: Short stories can be tricky because they can vary so much in length–and this means that they can also be misleading, as some “short” stories are much longer than readers anticipate. The pieces that are included in this volume span a wide range of pages, but none are so long that readers will become bored with the idea of the book or feel as though it is dragging.

Writing: The writing styles contained within Object Lessons are tremendously diverse, and I think this is part of what makes this a great resource for readers. Because each piece is different, readers are exposed to new structures, ideas, and techniques that they may have never before considered.

I really love short stories, and I believe that Object Lessons does a fantastic job of presenting readers with engaging, memorable pieces. But I believe the real success of the collection lies in the inclusion of the introductory essays written by the authors who chose each story. These give readers a road map that allows them to better understand the course that the writer has taken and why their technique is notable. I would recommend that any writer or lover of short stories dig into this collection.

For additional information about The Paris Review, visit:

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I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.

The Black Count: Exploring Race, Loyalty, and Ambition in Revolutionary France

Alexandre Dumas has gone down in the annals of history as one of the leading literary legends of France. But research conducted by Tom Reiss, author of The Black Count, reveals that the basis for Dumas’ most incredible fictional stories are rooted in the real-life experiences of his father, after whom he was named. Son of a black slave mother and a white fugitive French nobleman, the elder Dumas was born on the island of Saint Domingue and, after being sold, joined his father in France. Here he became a member of the French aristocracy and, through his conquests on the field of battle, climbed to some of the highest ranks of the Revolutionary army (in his final battles he served beneath Napoleon–before Bonaparte decided to overthrow the government). Calling upon letters written by and to General Dumas, accounts recorded by his son the author, and other historic texts, Reiss weaves the tale of a man who was able to achieve great feats despite his race during a time when the slave trade was high and every Frenchman was wary of the loyalty of others.

Pace: The pace of the book is perfect for the record at hand. Because there are so many historic details surrounding the French Revolution and the battles that followed, it could have been very easy for Reiss to get caught up in other aspects of this particular time in history; however, he does an excellent job of sticking to the details that impacted Dumas personally. As such, the reader has a basic grasp of the historical context in which the events described took place, but the Revolution as a whole never overshadows the story of General Dumas. The movement from one detail to the next is perfectly timed, allowing readers to fully absorb important elements without becoming bored.

Writing Style: Reiss’s prose is clear and detailed. As such, he allows readers to easily follow very complex military events and historical nuances. But the key to really bringing readers into the world of General Dumas is the fact that Reiss looks beyond events and dates to provide a more comprehensive picture of the time. For instance, he briefly touches on the reaction of the French population to the first draft in history, rather than just noting that it occurred. Instead of detracting from the story of General Dumas, these details help readers to understand the motivations behind his decisions.

I also greatly appreciate that Reiss clearly indicates where he found the details that he provides. Additionally, I find it interesting how he compares different accounts and discusses, to a certain extent, the factors that may have prompted the discrepancies between them. This adds another dimension to the historical context that Reiss builds within the book and, ultimately, makes it a more interesting read.

Larger Issues: I initially started this book because I thought it would be interesting to learn more about General Dumas, as I had no idea that the author’s father was such an important man in French history. But as I read, I discovered many larger issues that have changed my perception of the time period. The subject of race plays a prominent role, as Dumas was a black man living in a country that first supported slavery and then became the first to disavow it. But the ideas of loyalty, universal freedom, betrayal, and glory on the battlefield all played important parts in the life of General Dumas. Family, honor, and dedication to a cause were also major motivations to a man who achieved a surprising amount–and endured horrific circumstances.

I highly recommend The Black Count to anyone who is interested in learning more about French history. Additionally, this is a great read for anyone who is looking to learn more about Dumas the writer, as it provides insightful details that can enhance a reading of The Count of Monte Cristo and many of the other books that Dumas wrote.

For more information, visit:

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I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.

January First: A Parent’s Love

In January First, Michael Schofield recounts his experiences raising January, his daughter. While, for the first few years of her life, Schofield blames her erratic behavior on her high IQ, it quickly becomes apparent that there is more to her condition than her intelligence. After years of fighting to keep Jani safe from the promptings of her hallucinations, and to keep her infant brother protected from the violence that they demand she commits, Schofield and his wife finally receive a diagnosis for their daughter: schizophrenia. As the most severe mental illness, treating this condition is extremely difficult–particularly in the case of a child, as this illness does not typically emerge until later in life. Through it all, though, Schofield’s love for his family and his determination not to give up on his daughter carry the people he cares for most through an incredibly trying experience.

Pace: The tempo of the narrative, to borrow a musical term, is one that keeps readers interested. Each chapter is headed with its corresponding month and year, making it easy for readers to follow the timeline of the book.

Writing Style: Schofield’s writing style is clear and concise. He describes the important aspects of events, but does not get too elaborate in terms of the details. This is important for two reasons. First, the memoir spans several years. While it may be acceptable to recreate dialogue to one’s best approximation, recreating entire scenes and their details is typically frowned upon. As such, Schofield has kept the story true to his memory and made it easier for readers to navigate a story that could easily become difficult to understand.

The second reason that his writing style fits the book is because this is not a story about the details–not the environmental details, anyway. This is a story about Schofield, Jani, and the rest of their family. As such, he focuses on the human interaction that takes place. I believe this makes it easier to retain focus on the story and keeps readers engaged.

Larger Issues: Schofield’s memoir brings up a long list of issues that society really needs to consider to a greater degree. First and foremost is the issue of mental health. People may argue that today’s healthcare system fails to provide the level of care that individuals who suffer from mental illness–and their families–need, and they would be right in many regards. But Schofield’s story speaks more specifically to the instance of mental illness in children. From both the book and my own studies in psychology, it is evident that this is an area of the field that needs further investigation. While today’s professionals may do their best given the resources that they have, it is integral that these resources (and the knowledge that fuels them) are continually expanded upon in an effort to better understand and treat children. Furthermore, Jani’s experiences raise questions about the educational system and how it should be expected to meet the needs of children who require special attention.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in psychology or who loves memoirs. While it was very difficult to read at times, as the challenges that Schofield and his family face are monumental, it is an enlightening look into the lives of families who are fighting mental illness on a daily basis.

To learn more about Schofield and his family’s journey, visit:

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I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.

Arcadia: Revealing the Darker Side of Utopia

This post contains spoilers.

Arcadia is the story of Bit, who lives with his parents in Arcadia House, a large mansion that shelters the rise–and eventual fall–of their commune. Set in the 1970s, the novel juxtaposes the idealist fantasy of a utopian society with the harsh realities of starvation, poverty, and power struggle.

Cover and Title: I absolutely love the paperback cover. The colors, the font, the proportions–it’s all perfect for the story.

Plot: The pace of the story is great in the first half, but then Lauren Groff skips ahead many years and it is a bit disjointed. The Bit from the first half of the book is a different person, to a certain extent, than the Bit in the last half of the book. While I recognize the importance of Bit growing into a new person, the progression of time is abrupt and makes it difficult to, in a way, really care about him in the second half of the novel.

In addition to Bit changing from one half of the story to the next, the entire vibe of the book quickly shifts. We move from Bit in Arcadia to Bit in the city, and suddenly the book becomes dystopian. After another, albeit less drastic, jump into the future, Bit and his daughter find themselves in a world that has been plundered by the human race. An epidemic breaks out and the planet, as a whole, is an incredibly negative, dangerous place.

Now, I understand the idea of putting these two very different worlds side by side; using these two environments as foils for one another allows readers to see the stark  disparities between the utopian and the dystopian while simultaneously showcasing the cracks that Bit had never noticed in his utopian childhood. At the same time, Bit’s good nature and optimism remain intact. In theory, this works; in practice, it makes for an uncomfortable read that actually detracts from the effectiveness of the structure.

Writing Style: All of that being said, I still enjoyed the book because Groff is an incredibly talented writer. Her prose draws readers in by sharing intimate details about the characters and their experiences. Lyrical to a certain extent, Groff’s writing is rooted in reality. Whether she is talking about a utopian day spent on the commune or the ways in which the world is falling apart, she chooses to focus on details that make each scene believable.

While I did find that the execution of Groff’s creative story structure was a bit distracting, I believe that the message it carries is important and that, ultimately, the message outweighs the discomfort that the reader may feel when transitioning from one part of the narrative to the other. In fact, I believe that this discomfort heightens the ideas put forth by the story. For this reason, I would recommend this book to anyone who is interested in reading a novel that pits two very different worlds against one another–and showcases how optimism and kindness can play an integral role in each.

To learn more about Lauren Groff and her work, visit:

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Living, Thinking, Looking: Examining Life

In college I took a class on art in literature and Siri Hustvedt’s What I Loved was one of my favorite books in the curriculum. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity to read her latest collection of essays, Living, Thinking, Looking. I’m glad I did, as I found this book to be both interesting and enlightening.

Cover and Title: I like that the cover is both simple and artistic. The title, too, is appropriate for the collection; however, I have to admit that every time I think or say the title “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing” by Jack Johnson somehow ends up stuck in my head.

Structure: The collection is divided into three parts. The first part explores experiences that Hustvedt has had during her life. The second section speaks to memory, imagination, and emotion. The final segment considers the visual arts. I appreciate that the essays are organized in such a fashion, as it made digesting the content much easier; however, I will say that this is certainly not a book that readers should breeze through. Hustvedt, in all of the sections of the book, is flushing out complex ideas about a variety of topics, from neurobiology to philosophy to psychology and more. I read the book cover to cover, but I would recommend taking it one story at a time instead of trying to tackle the whole thing to really savor what she is saying.

Writing Style: Hustvedt is an incredibly intelligent woman, and I was at first a bit intimidated by some of the topics in the collection. I do have a background in both philosophy and psychology, but my last neuroscience class was six years ago. These fears were unfounded, though, because the way in which Hustvedt presents the information makes it accessible without dumbing it down. While I naturally found some of the essays more intriguing  than others, I feel as though I learned something from each, and I believe this is important when reading essays.

I think that I was able to connect with this particular collection because of the writing style that Hustvedt employs. She admits to having to read things over to process them and highlights her own insecurities when it comes to writing and interpreting art. For this reason, I no longer felt intimidated by the content. Hustvedt lets readers in by admitting that she faces the same struggles that they do, and this is what really won me over while reading. Here’s a passage that really highlights this:

The act of reading takes place in human time; in the time of the body, and it partakes of the body’s rhythms, of heartbeat and breath, of the movement of our eyes, and of our fingers that turn the pages, but we do not pay particular attention to any of this. When I read, I engage my capacity for inner speech. I assume the written words of the writer who, for the time being, becomes my own internal narrator, the voice in my head. This new voice has its own rhythms and pauses that I sense and adopt as I read. The text is both outside me and inside me. If I am reading critically, my own words will intervene. I will ask, doubt, and wonder, but I cannot occupy both positions at once. I am either reading the book or pausing to reflect on it. Reading is intersubjective–the writer is absent, but his words become part of my inner dialogue.

It happens that I find myself half-reading. My eyes follow the sentences on the page and I take in the words, but my thoughts are elsewhere, and I realize that I have read two pages but haven’t understood them. Sometimes I speed-read abstracts of science papers, zooming through the text to glean whether I want to read the whole article. I read poems slowly, allowing the music of the words to reverberate inside me. Sometimes I read a sentence by a philosopher again and again because I do not grasp its meaning. I recognize each word in the sentence, but how they all fit together requires all of my concentration and repeated reading. Various texts call for different strategies, all of which have become automatic (p. 134).

In Living, Thinking, Looking, Hustvedt examines a long list of topics through engaging prose. I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys nonfiction and exploring how art, psychology, philosophy, and neurobiology play a role in today’s society.

To learn more about Hustvedt and her work, visit her website.

I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.

Partitions: Poetic, Poignant Portraits

In Partitions, Amit Majmudar has woven three stories of people displaced by the partition that occurred in 1947 between India and Pakistan. Through the narration of a ghost, the book reveals the journeys made by a pair of Hindu twin brothers, a young Sikh girl, and an old Muslim doctor. As the experiences of these people bring them closer and closer together, the violence and chaos of the division of India continue to spiral out of control.

Before breaking it all down, I’d like to say that this is easily one of the best books I’ve read in the last five years. I have not a single criticism, from the cover to the style, and I am astounded that this is Majmudar’s first novel. A noted poet, he has seemingly effortlessly adapted his lyrical style to create a narrative that is engaging and, in many instances, breathtaking.

Cover and Title: The title is perfect, as it speaks to multiple facets of the book. First and foremost is the actual partition that took place. This occurred when India split into two countries, thereby creating Pakistan. When this happened, people were displaced for religious reasons. This adds another dimension to the meaning behind the title; barriers were built both geographically and religiously.

Plot: The story moves at a pace that is quick enough to hold the reader’s interest, but slow enough to allow the reader to enjoy Majmudar’s prose. As the stories wind together, the tension builds and, the moment before the three plot lines combine, there is a scene that literally had me on the edge of my seat. To the entertainment of the rest of Panera’s patrons, I’m sure, my jaw dropped and I quickly inhaled when I reached this pivotal part of the narrative.

Writing Style: Majmudar’s prose is concise yet lyrical. His background in poetry is evident, but the imagery doesn’t get in the way of the narrative.  What caught my attention most is his ability to breathe life into mundane details. A great example of this comes in the prologue:

“The trains are snippets of river, in motion even as they stand here in the station, drowning, taking on people as if taking on water. Every living body is a tiny collection of flow” (p. xii).

The style is what, largely, allows the story to be told from the perspective of a ghost. By creating a world that is deeply rooted in imagery and metaphor, the presence of a supernatural power, though not at all the subject of the book, is more a natural element of the story than an unnatural deviation from the historic events upon which the narrative is based. Because of the writing style, and the structure of the novel, Majmudar can weave the supernatural with the historic and, in so doing, create a timeless portrait of a devastating event.

Larger Issues: By setting the book during partition, Majmudar is able to highlight the political, social, and religious issues that occurred; however, by basing the story on the experiences of the characters, not the actual historic events taking place, he avoids having to showcase these issues and, instead, underscores their importance through the way in which they impact the narrative. Religious intolerance, murder, sexual slavery, and other major issues are presented in a way that is personal, not clinical, because they are told with regard to the characters and not in the context of history itself.

After reading Partitions, I’m looking forward to delving into some of Majmudar’s poetry. As is evident from the rest of this review, I highly recommend Partitions to anyone who loves literature.

I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.