![]() Hurricane Season is a Rashomon of abject poverty, written in sentences that seem to go on indefinitely but in fact largely adhere to civil society’s conception of grammar. What threatened to keep me up was trying not to imagine the effort that went into accomplishing the writing in the first place - the effort not on the part of the violence’s many perpetrators, but on the part of the author, Fernanda Melchor, or her translator, Sophie Hughes, not that authorship isn’t its own form of perpetration, or a translator a sort of accomplice, or that writing isn’t its own form of violence. ![]() The incessant violence of Hurricane Season isn’t what I worried might keep me up. Finished reading this last night before bed, my ninth novel of 2023, after several weeks of purposefully not reading it right before bed, or when I ate, for that matter. ![]() Trigger warning: everything under the sun, not that I go into any detail here, I promise. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |