I like to stretch my nights out by reading graphic novels. Finishing a book before I brush my teeth makes me feel like I’m cheating time, which is a topic I should be discussing with my therapist, but instead I read The Lie and How We Told It by Tommi Parrish, which has a gorgeous cover and plays with the same panel size on repeat. The vibe is similar to Ottessa Moshfegh, Sally Rooney, Kate Zambreno (as in, dialogue heavy melancholy white people). Days later I finish The Liars’ Club by Mary Karr, which might ruin other memoirs for me forever. I think constantly now about her lush, spiky voice and how I wish to one day write like her. I beg my friends to read it, and to sell it to them I describe the book as 'Junie B. Jones' for adults because it is scrappy as hell.
For book club at the end of June (we picked books late last month) I read Red Russia by Tanya Thompson, which is this odd little book structured by the tarot arcana that rips at corporate speak. I enjoy it but feel weird afterward, which is soothed by Love my Life by Ebine Yamaji, a manga with such a grounded, hopeful through-line I might as well be dipping my hands in a clear stream. After that, I drive with my family to the Gaspé peninsula in Quebec to dip my hands in some actual clear streams. The first half of the trip I read 100 Boyfriends by Brontez Purnell and send my friend a bunch of quotes because we get a kick out of Brontez Purnell (as I said to S, funny, articulate, AND a musician? You can’t have it all bestie). Then, Hurricane Girl by Marcy Dermansky, which I like for its baldness and how close it feels to that hot fuzz of thinking when you have a fever. The Pervert by Remy Boydell and Michelle Perez, which is also constrained in its paneling but the protagonist is on the brink of crying almost always and so I like it way more than The Lie and How We Told It. Wetlands by Charlotte Roche (trans. Tim Mohr) gets me putting down my snacks several times but clutching tightly to the book until it's done. Surprisingly romantic also. Another romance: Acts of Service by Lillian Fishman which is wildly cerebral and frustrates me sometimes. I appreciate it still for its earnestness and highlight a shit ton of it. During a 16-hour long internet outage I hang out in a parking lot with my dad and read Dept. of Speculation by Jenny Offill, which has parts that really make me ache.
Then I spend the next few days reading The Atlas Six by Olivie Blake with my friend S, which I do not vibe with so much that deleting it off my e-reader feels like clearing out my tabs after handing in a project. Good vibes: Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au, which is so elegant and smooth that reading it looks like gazing into my own mind. Next to You by basso, which is understated and a has beautiful representation of silence and white space in panels. I liked pretty much everything I read this month.