Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s recent collection of poetry, Oceanic, can be described in many ways, as a book about nature, about living in the world, about a sense of places, or places, but rereading the book, I can’t help but feel that most of the poems are love poems. For those who have been reading her for years, it’s her finest book to date.
Through Cotto’s hypnotic prose, one finds themselves lost in the less-explored villages of Italy as they harvest wild truffles from roadside trees, savor local cuisine (cucina tipica) with unlabeled bottles of exquisite wine, and fall in love with a different side of humanity; one becomes reminded of the passionate view of life and the world.
Lee Martin’s new story collection explores the lives, desires, and quiet moments of people who live quiet, modest lives. His characters dream and want and desire, not for grand things, but for small, intimate things. They are people who often don’t occupy the space between the covers of book.
The Boatbuilder, Daniel Gumbiner’s National Book Award-longlisted debut novel, is a striking portrayal of addiction, self-determination, and community. It is lively, meditative, often hilarious, and refreshingly unsentimental. It is also one of the most salient examinations of the millennial mind that I have ever read.
What you’re probably going to hear about this delicate, intelligent, and conscientiously slight debut memoir—if you haven’t already—is that ultimately it’s a foodie book: the story of a young woman in a bad marriage preparing elaborate dinners for a mother who has fallen ill and who will fail because no meal is medicine enough. That’s all here, but there’s much more to this memoir that will likely be treated only scantly in what is sure to amount to a smorgasbord of praise.
Moshfegh’s novel follows a conventionally beautiful 26-year-old woman—tall, thin, blonde—who has no real need to work, living on the Upper East Side in the year 2000, surviving off her dead parents’ inheritance. She has all the privilege and benefits afforded to a young, wealthy, white woman in New York, but all she wants to do is sleep.
Mc Neill’s abbreviated biography sees him described as “an illustrator, sculptor, video producer, director, and raconteur,” and notes that he won an Emmy Award for his “groundbreaking opening title sequence for NBC’s Saturday Night Live.” It’s an impressive resumé, and yet it still only touches the proverbial tip of the iceberg.
Chelsey Minnis’s latest poetry collection Baby, I Don’t Care announces itself as a sort of poem-movie. Divided into three numerical sections—possibly in reference to the standard three-act Hollywood film structure—within which poem-scenes transpire, it is crystal clear from the start that this is not your grandma’s film noir.