In Sarah Fawn Montgomery’s new collection of lyric essays, Abbreviate, readers are treated to the captivating beauty of her narrative work and the haunting vulnerability that comes with it. In just nineteen essays, she shares reflections and revelations, transporting us into the critical moments that have shaped her life and, in turn, mirror the experiences of so many women. Her language is both delicate and powerful, a reference to the feminine. At the same time, the unsettling and sometimes horrifying nature of her subjects—pain, loss, identity, womanhood—is skillfully woven together, creating a tapestry of beauty, nostalgia, and truth that lingers long after the final page.
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Amy Kennedy’s Vanishing Points is like the dictionary every person needs on their bookshelf. For such a small print, every page packs a punch while equipping its readers with the knowledge and terminology to discuss and evaluate the climate crisis in a whole new light. A collection of micro essays, Kennedy's Vanishing Points takes the shape of an ecological dictionary that ranges from actual terms such as biosphere, confirmation bias, and greenhouse effect to concepts like boomtown and climate doom. It’s a six by six powerhouse collection that gives concept after concept without much room to breathe. Kennedy’s motivation seems to be: We can only fight against something once we learn the language to destroy it.
“Fugitive essays”—the subtitle of Roger Reeves’ essay collection Dark Days—exists as a diminutive outlier on the book’s abstract orange and black cover. Positioned out at the margin, its small font rises vertically as if insisting, by its obvious contrast to the bold and horizontal title that reigns next to it, to have its insinuations considered. I think about the meaning of the word fugitive and I am immediately bombarded by the typical connotations that leach from its letters, connotations that are all derivatives of criminality. But it is by design that the reader’s considerations are provoked with such patterns of common thought, for the directive of this book is to purposely present and then subsequently eschew these typical conventions so that new and enlightening definitions are granted residency.
Author Jessie Van Eerden is not content to offer simple or comforting conclusions about faith; instead, she presents prayer as a practice that can be both comforting and uncomfortable, both a yoke and a feather. Her latest book, aptly titled Yoke & Feather, is an intimate collection of braided and lyrical essays that weaves together themes of spirituality, identity, and the search for meaning in the mundane.
The word love—and related affixes, including lover and beloved—appears 159 times in Maggie Nelson’s Like Love. That figure shouldn’t come as a surprise given the essay collection’s title. Nelson, a prominent and prolific writer who has previously examined the intangible and ever present idea of love in her autotheoretical book The Argonauts (2015), forms the title from a quote by writer Hilton Alys: “Every mouth needs filling: with something wet or dry, like love, or unfamiliar and savory, like love.” Nelson satiates that need in Like Love, giving her readers chunks of critical theory to chew on and delectable bites of raw honesty and vulnerability to savor.
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