Cats in Spring Rain, curated & translated by Aya Kusch
Published by Chronicle Books, 2022
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
An incredibly charming selection of classic Japanese art and poetry that celebrates our love of cats. Their mischief, aloofness, elegance, fierceness, and affection are all showcased, and the design and layout of the book itself is gorgeous.
I really appreciated the inclusion of the Japanese, phonetic, and English versions of each poem, with the gentle, fleeting, contemplative nature of haiku perfectly suited to the subject matter.
My only criticism is that women writers and artists are very underrepresented. I appreciate it was historically much more difficult for them to pursue the arts and be taken seriously, but I would have liked to see a little more diversity in the creators featured.
Still, this is such a lovely little read and an ideal gift for any lover of cats, traditional Japanese art, and/or haiku.
Flowers for the Sea by Zin E. Rocklyn
Published by Tor, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
I like a short, sharp horror story, which is what I was hoping for from this, but despite a good set up and strong, evocative prose, it never quite delivered on its own promise.
I don’t think this will stick with me, but I like the ideas being flirted with and the author’s overall style, so I would certainly check out more from them in the future.
Tamlin by Aven Wildsmith
Published by Knight Errant Press, 2021
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
This graphic novel is a queer retelling of a Scottish folktale. First and foremost, Wildsmith’s art is gorgeous; suitably lush to draw you into the forest setting and the whimsy of this classic story. The prose itself is simple yet lovely, reading like an extended free verse poem, while the loose, flowing nature of the panel structure adds to the dreamy quality.
It’s short, so I won’t go into any story details for those unfamiliar with the original, but its themes of forbidden love, feeling trapped, going unseen by society, and finding peace within our own bodies through (painful) transformation all lend themselves perfectly to being reimagined through a queer lens.
Fangs by Sarah Andersen
Published by Andrews McMeel, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
Normally, the idea of a self-proclaimed funny book that threatens to be this twee would not be my kind of thing. Having seen a couple of panels from this graphic novel online, however, I decided to give it a go, and I’m really glad I did. There’s not much of a story, per se. Instead, it’s a series of slice-of-life moments between a vampire and a werewolf navigating a new relationship together, playing around with well-known supernatural tropes and real-life, contemporary dating.
Something about the charm of this really worked for me: I found myself smiling the whole way through and even chuckling out loud several times. It’s a fun, silly, tongue-in-cheek yet heartfelt little read that’s perfect for an afternoon’s escapism.
This collection of poetry is chiefly concerned with gendered violence and the various perils – both real and imagined – of existing as a woman. Candid and often narrative driven, Gatwood’s style feels like a blend of poetry and essay, with some excellent turns of phrase that punch you in the gut.
This graphic novel is essentially a love letter to all things 80s horror, with particular references to The Thing and Aliens. In the wake of a tsunami, the wreck of a ship that disappeared 40 years ago begins to send out a distress signal for the first time. We follow the group assembled to investigate. As you’d expect, what they find is more than a little disturbing; the ship and its neighbouring island not quite as deserted as they first appeared.
Smy utilises two distinct formats to present the converging halves of Thornhill’s dual narrative. We have the written diary of Mary; kept during her final months at the eponymous orphanage for girls in the 1980s. Its pages detail the horrendous bullying she endures at the hands of the other girls. Running in parallel, and presented entirely in illustration, we follow Ellie in the present day. As she moves into the house across from the now abandoned Thornhill, she spots the figure of a girl lurking in the grounds and determines to investigate.
The majority of the poems in this collection focus on Afiriyie-Hwedie’s complicated relationship with language, musing on how much our cultural identity is tied up in our mother tongue; how a disconnect from one can make us feel estranged from the other.
In this collection of poems, Mans explores her identity and experiences at the intersection of race, gender and sexuality.
A highly contemporary twist on the haunted house archetype, this graphic novel is set in an apartment building that was once the site of an improvised terrorist bombing. The story looks at racism, Islamophobia, faith, and responses to extremism. It does so by essentially personifying hatred and xenophobia into the ghosts of those who died in the attack, and who now stalk the building’s current residents in search of revenge.
I’ve read several of Tempest’s other offerings – both poetry and nonfiction – and I wanted to continue making my way through their back catalogue. Though I still enjoyed the bold poetic voice on offer here, this was easily my least favourite of their books so far. The pieces chronicle Tempest’s emotions as they come to the end of one relationship and tentatively begin another.
Anderson’s novel, Speak, follows a teenage girl in the wake of sexual assault as she attempts to handle depression, navigate social isolation, and find the confidence to speak her truth. First published back in 1999, it is highly revered by many and had been on my radar for years. When I heard that Anderson was working with artist Emily Carroll (whose work I’m a big fan of) to adapt the story into a graphic novel, I knew it was the edition I wanted to get hold of.
This short from Tor Books is about a mission to make contact – and attempt to draw up a peace treaty – with the first newly discovered alien race. It has many hallmarks of classic sci-fi, and is a quick, engaging read, but it’s the subtext that helps this one stand out – even if it does become a little heavy-handed by the end. Essentially, the story is a riff on the idea of what constitutes power, and where, as a society, we place credence. Chiefly, Older asks the reader to consider why we feel compelled to supress pain.
This graphic memoir of Frida Kahlo offers a particularly insightful look into life with chronic pain, and the transformative power of art. It’s very interestingly structured, both in its forgoing of traditional panels in favour of a freeform layout, and in its narrative framing, with the book presented as though a first-person discussion between Kahlo and Death. Having suffered many losses throughout her life, and flirted dangerously close to death many times herself, this has effective thematic resonance.
Callum McLaughlin 