A single fat droplet hit the singed crown of Maximilian’s scallop, spread into a glassy oval, and dissolved. Maximilian swallowed the remnants of crostini he was languidly munching and glanced up at the ceiling.
One of the most striking qualities of Aatif Rashid’s debut novel, Portrait of Sebastian Khan, is its ability to lay bare misunderstanding, in the moment it appears.
Phoebe sat up to look. Four days of driving across the country, warm air blowing in the windows, had weaved the hair on the back of her head into a ball. White and yellow lights dotted the darkness on her mom’s side of the car.
Taub’s characters, though rooted in religious and cultural specificity, convey a sense of mon humanity in all its plicated glory.
The window sill in Louisa’s bedroom has fallen off again. She is about to push the sill back in place when she notices that the wall is hollow. A feeling es over her, a voice whispers put your hand inside.
Fox brings to the family saga a poet’s eye for those details that convey the hidden mass of the iceberg and its ineluctable momentum, and her incisive prose cuts a channel through the ice of family silences to show us the choppy waters of lore, of secrets, of hidden loves from which we all emerge.
In order to travel back in time, a writer needs a map. Not a GPS, redirecting and redirecting as it evaluates traffic from a satellite. No mechanized voice from my phone, scolding me to take a left in fifty, forty, thirty feet. When I traveled to 1880s America, I used a physical map.
As a child I thought the name was pity helmet, which is what my mother called it each time she spotted our neighbor — a divorced man with custody of five — wearing one.
The book burns hot for the entirety of its read-time, and ultimately, leaves the reader with a puzzling-yet-fitting finish.
Not all girls leave a slime trail wherever they go; but the ones who do, Martine’s aunt says, are uniquely beautiful.