Recent Reads #36 | Sci-fi, good poetry, & a lot of mixed feelings

A recurring theme across these ten reads is how form shapes feeling: several books deliver sharp emotional or intellectual impact through restraint, structure, or worldbuilding—while others lose power when character development gets crowded out or when organization blurs what should stay distinct. The strongest through-line is that “value” in literature doesn’t map neatly to star ratings; even disliked books still contribute something to a reader’s life and perspective.

Kristen Arnett’s “With Teeth” centers on Sammy’s volatile, manipulative relationships—especially with her wife, Monica, and her son, Samson. The reading experience is “normal and weird” at once: not much seems to happen until the final pages, when the character’s true nature lands with force. The book is polarizing by design, and the narrator’s enjoyment hinges on whether readers like unreliable, chaotic protagonists. The takeaway from a book club discussion becomes bluntly practical: everyone needs therapy.

Joshua Whitehead’s “Love After the End,” an anthology of Two-Spirit queer Indigenous speculative fiction, earns praise for consistent writing quality and careful curation. Still, the arrangement creates confusion: stories with similar premises—terraforming, AI—appear back-to-back, making it harder to distinguish them in the reader’s mind. The collection’s appeal is therefore personal; standout resonance will vary by reader, even when the craft stays high.

Thoracurus Daughter’s “Magma” is a sparse Reykjavik novella about a 20-year-old woman trapped in an increasingly toxic, abusive relationship. Its brief vignettes and light touch make pain register through what’s unsaid. The main complaint is occasional “on-the-nose” moments that feel louder than the book’s usual subtext-driven restraint.

Poetry and prose diverge next. Kaveh Akbar’s “Pilgrim Bell” is described as wise and tender, balancing grand ideas about religion and God with the poet’s humility about what a human can truly know. Marlo Granados’s “Happy Hour” follows Issa and her best friend in cash-strapped, party-girl New York; it’s rich in youthful insight and charm, though it grows repetitive and meanders, with enjoyment depending largely on how much a reader connects to Issa.

Bae Myung Hoon’s “Tower” offers a concept-first interconnected world: a 674-story skyscraper functioning as a sovereign nation. The lore is the main draw, including a striking discovery that a power broker is a dog. Characters are more functional than deeply psychological, but the premise is so compelling it invites comparisons to “vertical Snowpiercer.”

Hari Kunzru’s “Red Pill” is cerebral and existential, beginning as a haze of thoughts in Berlin before narrowing into a clearer trajectory that makes the narrator and writing feel more compelling. Amy Jo Burns’s “Shiner” impresses with sensory Appalachia and tactile nature detail, yet its structure—switching focus among characters—limits Ren’s arc and leaves the cast less fleshed out.

Susan Choi’s “Trust Exercise” starts strong with performing arts-school energy and then becomes divisive after major shifts that complicate narrative reliability; the tailspin can either deepen or muddy the themes. Megan Nolan’s “Acts of Desperation” lands as melodramatic “telling” rather than earned character development: even when topics like self-harm and abusive relationships are handled sensitively, the narrator feels there isn’t enough underlying personhood—only pain.

Overall, the most memorable successes come from books that let subtext, structure, or worldbuilding do the emotional work; the biggest disappointments come when organization or pacing prevents characters from breathing long enough to become fully real.