Month: March 2026

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I Support Women’s Rights but She’s Testing Me

Okay wait let me be so real, my first reaction reading this was just like why does this already feel so intense for no reason? I went into it thinking it would be more of a nostalgic friendship story, but instead it starts with Lila disappearing and Lenù reacting in such a detached, almost irritated way that it immediately made me question everything about their relationship. It didn’t feel like a normal friendship from the start, and that feeling just kept building. When Lenù explains that Lila didn’t just want to leave but “wanted every one of her cells to disappear, nothing of her ever to be found” (p. 20), that line genuinely stuck with me because it’s such an extreme way of thinking, but it also feels completely real for her character.

What really stood out to me is how Lenù responds to that disappearance. Instead of trying to find Lila, she just starts writing everything she remembers, saying “I turned on the computer and began to write all the details of our story” (p. 23). That moment made it feel like the story isn’t just about their friendship, but about memory and control, like Lenù is trying to hold onto someone who clearly doesn’t want to be held onto. It almost feels a little obsessive, but in a way that makes sense given how intense their connection is.

Even when the story shifts to their childhood, it doesn’t get lighter the way I expected it to. Their friendship literally begins with them walking up these dark stairs toward someone they’re terrified of, “the day we decided to go up the dark stairs… to the door of Don Achille’s apartment” (p. 27). That moment really stayed with me because it shows how their relationship is built on fear and challenge rather than comfort. It’s like from the beginning, Lenù and Lila are pushing each other into situations that are uncomfortable, and that dynamic never really goes away.

Lila especially feels like the kind of person who completely pulls you in without even trying. She’s bold and unpredictable, and Lenù is clearly drawn to her but also slightly afraid of her at the same time. That dynamic felt very real to me because it’s like when you meet someone who has such a strong presence that you start shaping yourself around them without even realizing it.

Overall,  this book is way more emotionally intense than I expected, but that’s also what made it so engaging. It doesn’t try to make friendship look simple or comforting, and because of that it feels a lot more honest and hard to look away from.

Discussion Question: To what extent do you think Lenù’s identity is truly her own, and at what point does her admiration for Lila turn into something more like dependence or obsession?

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Identity Crisis, But Make It Luxury: The Business of Buying a Better Past

I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever read a book that made me feel this disoriented but also weirdly impressed at the same time. Like I started this thinking it would be a normal story and then suddenly I’m being narrated to by a gecko and no one is acting like that’s unusual. I had to just accept it and move on, which honestly sets the tone for the entire book. It constantly puts you in situations where you’re like wait what, and then five seconds later you’re like okay fine I guess this is my reality now. Even the way the narrator casually describes its life, saying “I was born in this house, and grew up here. I’ve never left,” (p.3) immediately makes you realize that this is not going to follow any normal expectations.

What actually stayed with me though wasn’t just the weirdness, it was how casually the book treats something that is actually kind of insane. Felix literally sells people new pasts, like full identities, family histories, childhoods, everything. At first it feels almost funny, like wow rich people are really out here customizing their lives like it’s a LinkedIn profile. But the more I read, the more uncomfortable it got. It made me realize how much of identity is just storytelling. If you can rewrite your past and people believe it, then what even makes something “real” anymore. When the narrator repeats “Nothing passes, nor expires, / The past is now,” (p.3-4) it doesn’t even feel dramatic, it just feels like a quiet fact, which honestly made it hit harder.

The writing itself also has this strange calmness to it, even when it’s describing things that should feel intense or disturbing. The house, the memories, even the history of Angola in the background, everything feels slightly distant but not in a bad way. It’s more like you’re watching everything through a glass window, which fits perfectly because the narrator literally spends most of its time observing. When it says, “This is a living house. A living, breathing house,” (p.9) I actually believed it. The space feels alive in a way that mirrors how the past itself is treated, like something that isn’t fixed but constantly shifting and reacting.

I also found the characters kind of funny without trying too hard. Felix especially. He’s doing something morally questionable at best, but he carries himself with this weird confidence like he’s providing a legitimate service. The way his business is described, that he “sells them a brand new past,” (p.16) is so simple but also so absurd that it almost sounds normal after a while. And somehow the book never fully condemns him or defends him, it just lets him exist, which I actually appreciated. It felt more real that way, like people are complicated and not everything needs to be clearly labeled as right or wrong.

Overall, I think what made this book stand out to me is that it doesn’t give you clear answers or a neat message. It just leaves you sitting there slightly confused but also kind of amazed at how creative it is. I didn’t always understand what was happening, but I was never bored, and honestly that says a lot.

Discussion Question: If identity can be constructed through stories and memories, like in Felix’s work, is there really a meaningful difference between a “real” past and an invented one?

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This Is the Worst Group Project I’ve Ever Seen

When I started reading Money to Burn by Ricardo Piglia, I immediately felt like I had been dropped into the middle of a crime movie without any warning. There is no slow introduction, instead we are suddenly following criminals who are already deep into planning a robbery. Within the first few pages I was like okay… clearly we are not easing into this story.

The first characters we meet are known as “the twins,” which is already confusing because they are not actually twins at all. The narrator explains that “They are called the twins because they’re inseparable. But they aren’t brothers, nor do they even look like one another.” Honestly this detail immediately hooked me because it shows how weird and unconventional the characters in this world are. Their identities are not really about facts but about reputation and the roles they play in the group.

One thing that stood out to me while reading was how seriously these criminals treat the robbery. It is not chaotic at all in the planning stage. In fact, they treat it almost like a military operation. They carefully study the timing of the money transfer and the layout of the square. At one point the narrator explains that the money transfer only takes “seven minutes from when the money appeared in the doorway of the Bank to getting it loaded on to the station wagon.” Seven minutes!! Reading that made me stressed on their behalf because that is such a tiny window of time. One wrong move and the whole thing could completely fall apart.

Another thing I found really entertaining was how strange some of the characters are. Malito, who is basically the mastermind of the operation, is described as extremely intelligent but also kind of unhinged. For example, he constantly cleans his hands with alcohol because he believes that “every germ gets transmitted through the hands.” This is such a random but oddly funny detail. Imagine being in the middle of planning a huge robbery and the guy in charge is obsessively disinfecting his hands like he is in a hospital.

What I also noticed is that even though the gang thinks they have everything perfectly planned, the story already feels unstable. Witnesses later contradict each other, people are nervous, and everyone seems slightly paranoid. Even during the planning stage there is this sense that things could spiral out of control at any moment. Overall, Money to Burn feels chaotic in a way that actually makes the story more interesting. Even though the characters try to act like they have everything under control, it is pretty clear that the situation is way messier than they think. Watching everything slowly unravel is what makes the book so tense and honestly kind of addictive to read.

Discussion Question: Did the ending surprise you, or did you expect things to turn out that way?

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How One Random Coat Turned a Dinner Party into a Conspiracy

Reading “The Trenchcoat” honestly felt like sitting through one of those long adult dinner parties where everyone is drinking wine and talking about politics while you slowly lose track of what the conversation is even about. For most of the story, the characters are just sitting around talking, gossiping, and making slightly awkward jokes. At first I kept waiting for something dramatic to happen, but the story mostly stays in this slow, tense dinner conversation.

The weird thing is that everyone is technically having a good time, but it doesn’t actually feel fun. The narrator even describes the atmosphere with “laughter, jokes, signs of the times,” (196) but also calls the whole thing an “festive force of nature” (196) That description made me laugh because it perfectly captures the vibe of the story. Everyone is laughing, but the laughter feels forced. It’s like people are pretending everything is normal when clearly nobody feels relaxed.

The funniest and strangest part of the story is the whole raincoat situation. There’s this random coat hanging in the hallway and suddenly everyone is acting like it’s the biggest mystery of the century. One character asks, “Which trenchcoat?” (233) and someone immediately replies, “What? What which? The raincoat.. i’m telling you that one” (233). At that point I had to pause because I was thinking: are we seriously about to have a full investigation about a coat? But the more the characters talk about it, the more paranoid the conversation becomes. People start acting suspicious of each other, like the coat might belong to someone dangerous or connected to the government. It’s funny at first, but it also shows how tense their world is. When nobody trusts anyone, even a random coat becomes suspicious.

Another thing that stood out to me while reading was how boring life seems for the characters. Most of their time is spent sitting around talking, gossiping, and making comments about other people. Nothing dramatic is really happening, which actually makes the story feel slow on purpose. Usually when we read stories connected to politics or war, everything is intense or full of action, but here the characters mostly just hang out, complain, and talk about each other. Somehow the most exciting thing that happens is everyone trying to figure out who the trenchcoat in the hallway belongs to.

The dialogue is also chaotic. Characters interrupt each other and sometimes repeat themselves. There were moments where I had to reread parts because I lost track of who was talking. But in a weird way that makes the scene feel realistic, like an actual messy conversation instead of a perfectly organized one.

By the end of the story, the trenchcoat feels less like an object and more like a symbol of paranoia. When people live in a system where everyone might be watching everyone else, even something as normal as a coat hanging in a hallway can cause a whole room of adults to panic. Overall, the story is slow, a little confusing at times, and honestly kind of funny in a dark way. It shows how people can turn something small into a huge mystery when they are already suspicious of everything around them.

Also, after reading this story, if I ever walk into someone’s house and everyone starts arguing about a random coat in the hallway, I’m immediately leaving.

Discussion Question: If you walked into that dinner party and saw everyone arguing about a random trenchcoat, what would you assume was going on?

 

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This Book Told Me to Pee Before Reading It

There are books that tell a story, and then there are books that look you in the eye, point at you, and say: you. Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler is the second kind. From literally the first sentence, you’re being instructed: “You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel… Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought.” And I’m sorry, but who starts a novel by telling me to adjust my lighting and make sure I’ve peed before reading? The audacity. The intimacy. The chaos.

Calvino basically traps you inside the act of reading. You’re not just observing a story — you are the reader inside the story. And that “I” floating around? That could be you, the narrator, the author, or some poor man stuck in a foggy railway station questioning his life choices. Probably all of the above. At one point the narrator casually says, “I am the man who comes and goes between the bar and the telephone booth. Or, rather: that man is called ‘I’ and you know nothing else about him.” WHICH IS WILD. Imagine being reduced to a pronoun. Identity? Gone. Just vibes and existential train smoke.

The opening scene in the station feels cinematic and oddly suffocating. “The novel begins in a railway station, a locomotive huffs, steam from a piston covers the opening of the chapter…” It’s atmospheric, sure, but also deliberately vague. You don’t know where you are. You don’t even know when you are. And that’s the point. Calvino keeps dissolving certainty. The more you try to grab onto the plot, the more it slips away like steam.

What I loved most is how the book makes you hyper-aware of your own expectations. There’s this moment where the narrator reflects that “in reading… you must remain both oblivious and highly alert.” That line honestly summarizes the whole experience. You have to surrender to confusion while also paying attention to every detail. It’s like intellectual multitasking.

But beneath all the cleverness and postmodern tricks, there’s something very human happening. The “I” at the station feels trapped in time, wanting to undo mistakes, to return to a “zero moment.” That feeling? Relatable. We’ve all wanted to rewind a conversation, erase a decision, re-pack the metaphorical suitcase. The fragmented narrative mirrors that anxiety — life isn’t linear, so why should novels be?

Reading this book felt like being gently roasted by literature itself. Calvino knows you buy books faster than you read them. He knows you expect something and pretend you don’t. And he calls you out for it — politely, but still. It’s playful, philosophical, and slightly unhinged in the best way.

Honestly? It’s not just a novel. It’s a mirror. And it’s staring directly back at you.

Discussion Question:
Why do you think Calvino chooses to address the reader directly as “you”? Does it make you feel more connected to the story, or does it make the reading experience feel strange and unsettling?

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