Until recently, I always had avoided audiobooks. While some doubt that listening to books counts as reading, that line of thinking never has appealed to me: I just had no interest in the format, since I associated it with the monotonous books on tape that my childhood library hoarded in its cloistered back room.
Set in a village on the outskirts of Norway, Hanne Ørstavik’s Love tracks the lonesome paths a single mother and her young son take over the course of a single winter’s night.
The books I’m reading over the weekend, all on the NBA shortlists, range from a collection of short stories set in Florida to a novella about a single mom who recently has moved to a quiet village in northern Norway.
A thought-provoking look at the lasting effects of trauma, Where the Dead Sit Talking follows two Native American teens as they form an unexpected bond.
An unexpected turn in luck has led to me culling many of the books on my shelves, and forced me to consider why that might not be a bad thing.
Some people think of reading only as a kind of escape: an escape from the “real” everyday world to an imaginary world, the world of books. Books are much more. They are a way of being fully human.
—Susan Sontag, Where The Stress Falls
Mini reviews of titles I read this spring, all from indie publisher Dzanc Books: The Lost Daughter Collective, Animals Eat Each Other, and The One You Get.