What We’re Loving: New Staff Edition 2019
I have encountered few paintings as simultaneously imaginative and relatable as those displayed in Jenna Gribbon’s most recent show, “When I looked at You the Light Changed,” at the Friedricks and Freiser Gallery in Chelsea, New York. The exhibition showcases two bodies of Gribbon’s most recent work. In the first, Gribbon renders her models wrestling in disorienting settings. All the wrestlers are young women, suggesting their relation to thirty-one-year-old Gribbon. They engage in charged and laborious physical activity, lunging toward or heavily bodying their opponents for the sake of sport rather than play or entertainment. By placing women in traditionally male roles of physicality, Gribbon creates a sort of tension between the painting and the viewer, who instinctively interprets female nudity, and particularly interaction between nude females, as inherently erotic. Gribbon elevates her work by placing her subjects in highly specific and personal settings, creating a strong sense of intimacy. In one, women wrestle in her “grandmother’s kitchen,” in another at a waffle house, and in a third in her “highschool bedroom.” The fuzzy realness of the loosely painted backgrounds contrast and confuse the primal nature of her wrestlers, making the series almost surrealist.
In the second part of her show, Gribbon enhances this intimacy, portraying ordinary yet exquisitely tender moments with those closest to her. These paintings are much smaller than the prior group, and feel like snippets of larger memories. In several, Gribbon anchors herself in the piece by painting her hand or arm. In one, she rests her fingers gently on her girlfriend’s cheek, and in another reaches toward her young son, just grazing his sleeping face with the palpable lovingness that makes her work emotionally unusually and immediately human. In both series, her immaculate detailing combined with loose, painterly brushwork makes her work more than worth visually experiencing.
— Cary Moore ’23
Laini Taylor’s Muse of Nightmares (2018) begins as a nightmare fairytale, resplendent in star-crossed lovers attempting to be human and falling into heroism. The story follows these adolescents as they fight the villains who come to destroy them. It’s a wacky ride, full of blue superheroes and stressed children subjugating ghosts, but ultimately the plotline is a familiar one. Although at first glance, it is very similar in structure to a fairytale — children, fighting evil, and a ride into the sunset — Taylor twists the basic storyline of good against evil into a tale less about battles and more about becoming, and couches the whole novel in poetic imagery.
One line I love sums up the underpinnings of the book: “Once upon a time there was a silence that dreamed of becoming a song.”
Both the protagonists and the villains are fighting against stagnancy and the silences within themselves. As I begin my freshman year, the search for becoming resonates with me. There is the letting go of ghosts I carry, and the realization that even the (figurative) angel guarding my home cannot stop change from coming. And most of all, even within the quiet void of beginnings, there is still room to dream of music.
— Adira Smirnov ’23
Thank you, Spotify’s new “On Repeat” playlist, for reminding me that I only ever listen to the same three artists again and again. Or maybe: thank you, Spotify, for putting all my favorite Gregory Alan Isakov songs on one playlist, and then interspersing them with a couple other songs so I can pretend I have a varied and eclectic taste in music.
When I listen to Gregory Alan Isakov, I am reminded of the hugeness of the world — or perhaps, that I am ever so small. His lyrics deal heavily with the natural world, and the way we interact with it, revelling specifically in imagery of open spaces. In “Caves,” he sings, “I used to love caves / stumble out into that pink sky / remember that bright hollow moon / it showed our insides on our outsides,” and follows up the same idea later with “now I think I like birds,” a beautiful transition from a closed-off life to one of openness and freedom. In “That Sea, the Gambler,” he sings, “Oh we were sea bound and aimless at best / clutching to the wheel and those charts / but that sea was just a gambler at heart.” No one can quite create a sense of place the way Isakov does, and I fell in love with the poetry of his lyrics the minute I heard them.
His sound is powerful and atmospheric, yet simple, with a low voice that falls almost secondary to the sweeping instrumentals that define his music. Isakov is also (fun fact) a full-time farmer, when he isn’t on tour.
— Emily Perez ’23
In her 8th studio album, Practice of Love, Jenny Hval crafts something completely unique that dances between the pop and the avant garde, reframing the trite theme of love in a way that feels fresh and distinct.
The album eases into its grand ambitions with “Lions” (feat. Vivian Wang), a track that invites the listener to study and find sanctity in the trees, grass, ground, and clouds Hval describes. “Lions” establishes that Hval will neither explore love in exhausted contexts nor limit her scope to one conception of love. Rather, she dwells in the “godless land” she crafts in “Lions.” She provokes conversation about her decision to not have children. She celebrates otherness.
On the title track (my personal favorite), Hval and the Australian musician Laura Jean discuss the implications of choosing not to have a child. Can a childless woman ever defy her typical relegation to a secondary role? Hval is conflicted: “I’m part of this human ecosystem, but I’m not the princess, and I’m not the main character, because I feel like maybe the main characters are the people that have kids, because they literally keep the virus going . . . but I want to be the star of the human story . . . .”
Hval’s unabated intellectualism is supported by the albums subtle, woozy, electronic percussion. Her cerebral voice that supports the albums’ narrative echoes above the sliding synths, which keeps the album grounded in the experimental pop genre.
— Drew Pugliese ’23
Created by and starring Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Fleabag (Amazon Prime) effectively uses comedy to subvert the idea that women should maintain a level of discretion in the public world. The show follows the titular character, Fleabag, a cheeky British 20-something who runs a failing café and often ends up in the middle of drama with her family and significant others. Fleabag is overtly despicable, yet simultaneously endearing as she often breaks the fourth wall to wink at her viewers. I feel as if all audience members can relate to some aspect of Fleabag’s antics, as we all understand the frustration of miscommunications and dumb mistakes.
Although “the antihero” has been a staple of popular culture for some time now (e.g. Holden Caulfield, Walter White, Deadpool), there has seldom been space for an unlikable female protagonist, especially not one as shameless as Fleabag. Fleabag seamlessly tackles issues of religion, female sexuality, and personal morality with easy humor and charm. Additionally, the public’s appreciation for Fleabag was recently affirmed as Phoebe Waller-Bridge won three (!) Emmys for the second season of the show this past month, including Best Comedy.
— Chloe Satenberg ’23
Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita has become somewhat of an icon, not only for surface level concept like its sense of eroticism and uncomfortable discussion of pedophilia, but also for its intricate character development and integration of several hidden themes. The captivating retelling of middle aged Humbert Humbert’s relationship with 12-year-old Lolita is often cited in other aspects of popular culture and literature, and its movie adaptation is often viewed as a spectacle.
When I read this novel (admittedly, I had chosen to read it for a seminar class and had to write a 25-page paper about it), I examined it through a lens that critics popularly take: psychoanalysis. The readers of Lolita are given a tormented inside look into the workings of the mind of a pedophile, as opposed to a third-person perspective that would have framed Humbert in a completely different light. Humbert’s narration of the novel has played with the minds of all readers, including critics, who say they were surprised to feel themselves sympathizing with the criminal. Humbert builds a sort of background behind his desire of young girls, placing the blame on his first lover Annabel. On top of this, Humbert is an intellectual who manipulates language in order to establish credibility with the reader, as he seeks to prove that what he did to Dolores (known in his fantasies as Lolita) is completely okay.
Although the novel is full of twisted details and is hard to read without feeling discomfort, I really admire the psychology of this novel, and the intense breakdown of the characters as they continue to become immersed in their journey across America. Analyzing this novel painstakingly for a class made me look deeper into a lot of aspects of Humbert’s mind that I normally would not have done, helping me understand why anyone could actually find themselves pitying the cruel pedophile. The novel should be read with an open mind in order to be fully taken in, as it interweaves several cultural, historical, and psychological themes in telling the story of the pedophile and little Dolores Haze, who becomes lost in the image of promiscuous “Lolita.”
— Riya Singh ’23
What I’ve been loving for at least a half-year is the Lumineers’ visual album, III. The premise of III, a transgenerational look at alcoholism and dysfunctional familial relationships in a fictional family, seems more likely to produce a movie or a novel. Most albums seem to mainly draw from the lived experiences of the artists producing them. Yet, Wesley Schultz and Jeremiah Fraites went the extra mile with this one: the album, their third, is a collection of three EPs, each revolving around a character in this family, specifically Gloria, Jimmy, and Junior Sparks.
The production of these songs always begins sparse and simple, with piano riffs reminiscent of old home videos and indie films. Some of those songs build into album-defining moments like “Leader of the Landslide,” and others like “Donna” remain mysterious in their simplicity, only offering glimpses at this meaning. In some songs, the production immediately highlights these lyrics, and, with others, you could be lost in the song for weeks barely noticing the words. Yet, universally, these songs twine together to form a haunting picture of this family, and the use of anecdotes and specific detail allow the listener to immerse themselves in the minutiae of this fiction, and thus in the daily experience the band is creating.
Beyond all of this, the album is, frankly put, gorgeously built. I played “Donna” on repeat for days when it first came out, and the album’s natural cinematic qualities so perfectly soundtracks life. Earlier this summer, my friend’s car got towed, and, as I drove her home, we just sang along to this album so she’d feel better. This album captivates you, and you don’t have space left in your brain to worry while inhabiting this alternate world, which is why that was so effective. Notably, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the accompanying videos, which center around the familial house and create a Lana del Rey-esque aesthetic ripe with stark shots. Each video will add layers of meaning to the song it visualizes and the album as a whole. I couldn’t recommend this album more highly.
— AnneMarie Caballero ’23
On Friday, October 4th, Sabrina Claudio, one of my favorite musical artists, released her fourth studio album Truth Is. Fans know her sound as melodic, serene, and penetrating, a riptide of neo-soul rhythms combined with lyrics of deep self-reflection.
This album continues with such qualities, while displaying Claudio’s growth as an artist. The title track is also available in a Spanish version, showcasing her desire to connect with her roots and share such an intimate part of herself with her fans. This effort is highly admirable and charming, grounding Claudio despite her quick ascent to fame and stardom.
My favorite song from the album is “Hurt People.” The song conveys a message of love and the importance of healing in times of brokenness. Some lyrics from the song that I found particularly powerful are the following:
I wish that I could mend you, babe
But I’d be putting you together while I’m falling apart
And still, I find you tryna bind my pieces
How could you give the kind of love I need with your broken heart?
In these lines, we see how love can be a powerful force of reconstruction, despite two lovers’ shattered individualities of being. Claudio’s question calls us to ponder on the ways in which we as human beings can discover resilience in intimacy not with just another person, but with ourselves. With such a realization, we can be set free from hurt. We are one. We are all.
— Matthew Choi Taitano ’20
It seems like these next four years are shaping up to be not only a time of preparation for the future, but a unique opportunity for reminiscence. As I crest the summit between childhood and adulthood, I can’t help but wonder at how I’m suddenly in the midst of that legendary stage of life called college — a period that many adults draw their signature stories from and that many children spend their childhoods dreaming about. The future seems so vast right now, and the past feels like it’s trying to dissolve behind me. I love it too much, however, to allow it to disappear.
When this school year began, I experienced for the first time the bitter, overwhelming taste of homesickness. This sensation diffused through my life: it cemented itself into my thoughts, my emotions, and my actions, to the point where it more often than not distracted me from the task at hand. I wasn’t treating my past with love and respect, and instead I was unhealthily prioritizing it over the present. Listening to “In My Life” by the Beatles inspired me to banish this poisonous worldview — to try to change my mindset to one that acknowledges the symbiosis between yesterday and today. As John Lennon says in this song, “Though I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I’ll often stop and think about them.”
I think I’m starting to better understand life’s methods of forward motion. I’m learning to think about my past with thankfulness and deliberation, and though I cherish the present, I’m really looking forward to accumulating and telling my own crazy stories. I have a hypothesis that the past is a double-sided coin: on one hand, it has the potential to produce negativity stronger than any other; but, with the right combination of thoughtfulness, love, and respect, it can become a never-ending reservoir of warmth and strength.
— Abi McRea ’23
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been immersed in the many worlds of N. K. Jemisin’s short story collection, How Long ’Til Black Future Month. The pages within span centuries and universes, jumping from 19th century New Orleans, to current day New York, to a futuristic digital landscape known as “the Singularity,” and beyond. Each story falls somewhere on the spectrum between science fiction and fantasy.
Despite the constraints of length, all the narratives feel fully realized, their otherworldliness grounded in their characters’ humanity and given texture by the specificity of details scattered throughout. One protagonist, fighting malicious fae forces in Jim Crow Alabama, binds her opponent using “rosemary, sage, and fig,” rather than the traditional rowan, thorn, and ash. Another carries on a one-sided conversation about her loneliness, all the while catching glimpses of New York Subway lines that do not exist according to the Manhattan Transit Authority.
You may be wondering, based on what I’ve told you so far, what the title has to do with the book’s contents. It was taken from an essay Jemisin published in 2013, “a meditation on how hard it’s been for [her] to love science fiction and fantasy as a black woman.” As she began writing, she noticed that “science fiction claimed to be the fiction of the future, but it still mostly celebrated the faces and voices and stories of the past.” While I’ve read the collection, I’ve come to realize how each chapter serves as an implicit response to the question on its cover. All are threaded together by incisive commentary on issues of race in America, systemic discrimination, and internalized biases. Yet perhaps the most telling commentary is the way in which race is not an issue at all, in the matter-of-factly diverse worlds that Jemisin peoples.
As a child reading fantasy, I wondered why the protagonists my favorite books were so often boys. Growing older, I questioned the Medieval European backdrop that so many fantastical worlds appeared to be based on. How Long ’Til Black Future Month offered me vibrant new landscapes, at once unfamiliar in the realm of fiction but familiar from real life, drawing on the diversity of our modern world and the universal experiences we encounter within it.
— Batya Stein ’22
I first read about Sally Rooney, and her novels Conversations with Friends and Normal People, in her profile in the New York Times after she was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize. I was highly intrigued by the idea that we finally may have found the first great voice of millennial literature.
I don’t think Rooney’s language is filled with the poetry of the world or specifically beautiful or appealing imagery. Her style is quite restrained and matter-of-fact, with an awareness that no word should be superfluous or flamboyant. But her prose has a momentum to it that slowly lures us in the beginning of a chapter, so that by the end, we don’t realize we have run far ahead of the leash until it has swiftly yanked us back. And it’s this momentum — evident of a mature manipulation of language (and of the audience’s response to it) utilized by every great writer — that I think sets her above the rest of her crowd. Rooney writes about topics (love, belonging, doubt) that have been written about centuries before even Austen wrote about them in a style that proves shows she knows what she’s doing.
The difference is that finally it seems there is a mainstream, competent, universal adaptation of these themes in a modern context. Instead of hand-penned letters, her characters craft texts, and instead of agonizing for days when and if a response will come, her characters agonize twice as hard in half the time.
The best thing about Sally Rooney, which becomes evident when comparing her comparatively mundane first novel with her more stylized second (which makes use of, for example, time jumps), is that she’ll only get more confident in her writing and will take bigger strides in experimentation. There’s only more time for her to rise even higher and truly define herself, whatever movement may follow her. She holds the power like she holds the audience in her palm.
— Benjy Jude ’23
Tirelessly, medical scientists have used modern technology to wage war against cancer. Recently, they’ve cracked down one secret code: capturing cancer’s allies, viral pathogens, to let them “betray” it. Although still a nascent innovation, the use of viral pathogens to kill cancer — viral oncolytic immunotherapy — could be the next stratagem spelling cancer’s defeat.
I first became fascinated with oncolytic immunotherapy through an HBO documentary, VICE Special Report: Killing Cancer, in which scenes of unprecedented surgeries on desperate cancer-stricken patients pulled at my heartstrings. What most allured me was how researchers had successfully employed viruses, agents that can kill thousands, to save these patients’ lives.
My “journey” through the documentary began with the findings of Dr. John Bell, a scientist conducting research on smallpox viruses to target tumor cells. In response to Dr. Bell’s explanation that viruses could be genetically engineered to target only cancer cells, I started wondering about the exact mechanism behind this process. How were viruses able to attack proteins specific only to cancerous cells? Which exact viral genes were manipulated? I yearned for answers and, resultantly, took heed of Bell’s fellow researchers featured in the documentary.
Specifically, I carefully observed the research of Dr. Stephen Russell, an oncolytic therapy researcher at Mayo Clinic. Through his studies, I witnessed the first-ever patient with myeloma undergo complete remission. I marveled at how Dr. Russell genetically engineered the measles virus to trap radioactive iodine in tumor cells. Although his studies were complex, his explanation was terse, compelling me to further research the specific viral mechanisms behind iodine entrapment.
Joining the team of inspirational doctors was Dr. Juan Fueyo, a neuro-oncologist applying his studies on adenoviruses and rats to a real-life patient with brain cancer. After a suspenseful operation, the patient survived. Perhaps the documentary’s most interesting treatment involved modifying genes in T-cells containing HIV to save children with leukemia.
The implications of these groundbreaking experiments are paramount for the future of healthcare, considering that cancer mortality remains a ubiquitous problem. After watching the documentary, I am overcome with curiosity, inspiration, and optimism for the prospects of cancer treatment.
— Colton Wang ’23
When I found out about Toni Morrison’s passing this summer, I was completely devastated. She was one of those figures that I was amazed I got to be on the same earth with; it felt like the end of an era.
One of the reasons the news hit so hard was because I had, on a whim, decided to watch a documentary about her at the movie theater a few weeks before. Called The Pieces I Am, it explores her incredible career through interviews and snapshots, all interspersed with bright commentary by Morrison herself.
Making writing interesting on film is really hard, but this one did it so well. Morrison has such a warm, infectious personality — every time she talked, it felt like a conversation with a friend. It doesn’t follow any set sort of chronology but dips into her influence, her youth, and her work throughout, taking us on a sort of emotional journey in realizing how powerful her stories have been.
It was fascinating to regard Morrison as a representative for a turning point in the literary canon: a figure that represented the diversification of what could be considered a “universal” story. In so many ways, I was amazed at how hard she worked to remove the “white gaze” from her work, liberating and humanizing her characters in a way not many writers of color could’ve done before. She opened up the conversation for so many writers in her footsteps.
All in all, I think the documentary was such a great journey through the career of one of the most talented and revolutionary writers of our time: a writer that by all existing convention wasn’t supposed to succeed, yet through just believing in her own writing, changed the game.
— Kate Lee ’23
Gifted to me by my former Creative Writing professor, The Angel of History, by Rabih Alameddine, explores the life of a Yemen-born poet. The novel jumps between moments, exploring his lonely childhood in an Egyptian whorehouse in between chapters narrated to his former lover, whom he lost to the AIDS crisis while living in San Francisco. The novel is written with the vagueness, descriptive qualities, and melodic phrasing of poetry prose.
I am usually skeptical of overly poetic writing. I associate that style with more traditional forms of literature, and when I read “flowery” novels that use vocabulary I don’t know and reference cultural phenomenons that people of color don’t usually have access to, I usually feel isolated. Such works tend to have the double effect of making me feel like an ignorant reader and an inadequate writer.
Still, this novel, in all its poetic glory, and in all the references I do not understand, addresses experiences and personas I can relate to and sympathize with. Rather than feeling insecure that I do not have the craft to write such a masterpiece, I appreciated the unique yet almost traditional expression of experiences somewhat relevant to my own, presented in a form I have never thought nor written in.
— Hamza Hashem ’22
Yesterday I was walking in autumnal chill, wrapped in a cardigan matching the color of the leaves at my feet and thinking of snickerdoodle cookies with mugs of hot chocolate, Rachmaninoff’s third playing through my headphones. And it dawned upon me that this scene could’ve been taken straight out of my longtime-favorite book, John Knowles’ A Separate Peace.
Since I first read A Separate Peace in ninth grade, I’ve read novels more renowned, more complex, more universal, but I’ve yet to come across one that better encompasses the romanticism of childhood. This story was everything I dreamed youth should be: the setting is an idyllic bubble, the main characters are the very definition of carefree careless boys, the plot cycles from immortal laughter to overwhelming fragility.
Having youth was brilliant bliss and leaving it was breaking bitterness.
In moments like yesterday, I’m reminded that I’m living the crest of this wave. Perhaps the wave will crash down — in a year, in four months, in two weeks — but right now I’m only just getting started at Nass Lit and at Princeton, and it feels like it’s straight out of a novel.
— Lindsay Li ’23
For me, “Heaven or Las Vegas” by Cocteau Twins will always be the roads of Croatia in summer. I spent countless hours with it in the backseat of a rental car, watching rocky cliffs drop into the Mediterranean and holding my breath through thousand-meter tunnels. By its very nature, this album is very much like driving through a foreign country. There are occasional echoes of the familiar, but the richly textured sound and just-shy-of-intelligible lyrics are so distinctive that you can’t help but feel transported.
The first time I heard “Heaven or Las Vegas,” on the school bus home about halfway through my senior year, I didn’t like it at all. I found it grating and couldn’t pick out a recognizable song from the waves of noise. But I gave the album another chance on a family trip to Croatia and became hooked. It’s not an easy listen: you almost have to want to like the album. But the gift of its strange phrasings and odd pronunciations is that soon enough, you’ll think of your own lyrics — your own interpretation of the sounds millions have heard since 1990 — and you’ll never be able to unhear them.
Everyone’s “Heaven or Las Vegas” is different, of course: no two people will ever have the same emotional response to a piece of music, much less the same memories tied to it. Still, I know that everyone who gives it a chance will have a “Heaven or Las Vegas” that is excellent. It is a beautiful album: ethereal, soaring. Clear like the water that hovers, shimmering, before me every time I hit play.
— Meera Sastry ’23
Shortly after I returned home from vacation in Japan, I picked up Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. It was a copy that I had received as a gift a while ago but never had the time to go through. After experiencing Japanese culture for myself in its many dimensions, I wanted to see what this book held for me, from the author who was hailed as the “voice of his generation” in Japan.
Norwegian Wood is the first realist novel published by Murakami, one that quickly shot him to fame. It’s about a man, Toru Watanabe, looking back on his college years and the relationships he made back then. In the first chapter, Murakami sets the dreary, nostalgic tone of the book:
Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I’ve forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud? Be that as it may, it’s all I have to work with. Clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast, I go on writing this book with all the desperate intensity of a starving man sucking on bones.
The rest of the novel follows the struggles of a younger Toru, which range from from dealing with his strange roommate to his messy relationships with two girls, Naoko and Midori. Naoko is troubled and is in a sanitorium for most of the book. Toru visits her and remains in love with her even as he spends more and more time with Midori, a girl in his class. I love how Murakami contrasted the two female characters, Midori’s youthful energy versus Naoko’s tragic beauty.
Murakami’s descriptions and storytelling are beautiful in a stark, realistic way. There are few truly happy moments in Norwegian Wood, but that’s not why we read it. I had just been through a breakup, but reading Norwegian Wood somehow calmed my soul. Toru deals with things stoically throughout the book even though they affect him deeply. I really appreciated the end of the book — it ends in the middle of a scene in Toru’s memory while he calls Midori after a period of separation. There’s no closure, no sign that they end up together, but that’s more accurate to real life. It left me with the feeling that life goes on, even if one ending feels abrupt.
I definitely need to reread Norwegian Wood to experience that misty world Murakami wrote about and appreciate our world in all its uncomfortable beauty.
— Ivy Wang ’23
Over the summer, I discovered poet Maggie Smith’s daily Twitter series. Every morning, she offers soft encouragement, lyrical advice, and poetic inspiration in under 280 characters. Each one ends with the same phrase: “Keep moving.”
Smith began writing these tweets after her divorce, serving as a daily self-reminder to move forward through a difficult time. Despite being deeply personal to her state of mind — or perhaps because of that very fact — they have become a source of light for the thousands of people who follow them, including me. Each tweet is a poem in its own right, using simple language to offer profound reflections on the struggles and beauties of daily life. Somehow, Smith continually manages to spin into words my exact fears, offering new ways of thinking through the doubts that infest my thoughts. In reading the replies to these tweets, I am far from the only one struck by her uncanny insight. That so many people find their own worries echoed in these posts highlights the universality of our internal battles, a fact that I find great comfort in. Over the past couple of months, Smith’s tweets have encouraged me to look deeper within myself, to find solace in my failures, and to always keep moving.
— Sandra Chen ’23
Aside from the fact that she attends Yale (SUCKS!), Kinsale Hueston is a force to be reckoned with. Now on my second year of being an active follower, I’ve watched as Kinsale continues to be a voice for indigenous people across America, speaking up and out, with strong yet eloquent words, while dressed in meaningful attire. Because she was a 2017 National Student Poet, I originally ran across her work while watching a slam poetry competition series on Youtube. But my eye was not the only one attracted to her bubbly personality and contagious passion. Catching the eye of Yale’s spoken word platform and political superstars like Kamala Harris, and earning her place in TIME Magazine’s Optimist Issue, Kinsale is nothing short of “powerfully indegineous,” and she makes sure the world knows it. Captivating audiences on nearly every platform of social media and stages across the nation, Kinsale shares original works, like my personal favorite “Sherman Alexie,” to wide audiences while absolutely crushing the fashion industry with her indigenous brand-inspired outfits. Acting as a stepping stone for the youth of the nation, she embraces the concept of being Diné right alongside the idea of using her education to allow others to see a side of the story that has been shut in the shadows for too long. A definition of a role model for her peers, Kinsale is one of the many young voices of the nation who deserves her time in the spotlight.
Kinsale, we see you, we love you, and keep up the good work.
— Savannah Pobre ’23
Fun fact: Megan Miranda and I went to the same high school, pretty close by to Princeton: Peddie School! However, I am not being biased in choosing Megan Miranda’s The Last House Guest as one of my favorite reads in the past few weeks. For me, The Last House Guest highlights an aspect of a novel that we do not always consider, or that the literary community often discourages us from considering, which is the book’s cover. We all know the famous line, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” as the cover does not tell the whole story. In this quote, a book cover is compared to the exterior, the superficial. Yet, the book cover of The Last House Guest seems to undermine the common assumption that a book cover is solely confined to the exterior, having no relationship whatsoever to the interior, to the heart of the novel. For context, The Last House Guest is a thriller, published just this past June, that traces the murder of a young girl in the small, coastal town of Littleport. There’s a strong relationship between people and place, as the characters often express feeling defined by Littleport, taking their identity from its social dynamics and physical atmosphere. In making the setting incredibly central to the character’s lives, a driving question throughout the novel becomes: does the place shape people or do people shape the place?
The first thing that I noticed when I picked up the novel was the textured book cover, covered in three-dimensional raindrops. As I made my way through the novel, I constantly felt these raindrops on my hands, connecting the interior (the story within the pages) to the exterior (the book cover). The raindrops also capture the tone of Littleport as a dark and eerie, yet fascinating place with many secrets to uncover. The two-dimensional images on the cover play with perception. The words of the title, The Last House Guest, appear to be behind a window, but then Megan Miranda’s name seems to be in front of the window. The text in between, “A Novel,” could either be in front or behind the window, depending on the way that you look at it. In manipulating the text in this way, the book cover reflects on the nature of the narrative, which also plays with perception. The people of Littleport harbor their own secrets, and it’s our job, as the readers, to figure out how the different pieces of the puzzle come together. Then, as you peer “inside” the window on the cover, you see a large house in the distance, elevated on a mountain over the water. What is interesting is that though there are no people shown on the cover, it is assumed that there are people on the inside, looking out from the window to the house across the water. Or perhaps the person on the inside of the window is the one being watched. The question then becomes: who’s being watched and why?
So what exactly is the role of a book cover? Should we be paying attention to the outside of a book? Megan Miranda’s The Last House Guest forced me to consider how a book cover both reflects the dynamics of the novel, drawing on particular themes, settings, or tones, and adds to the novel by prompting the reader to think about questions that manifest in the pages. Miranda’s book cover created an initial plethora of questions before I started reading, impacted the actual reading experience with the three-dimensional feature, and left me to think about ideas of perception, people and place, and, of course, the purpose of a book cover. I wouldn’t go as far to change the famous quote to “do judge a book by its cover,” but I would argue that there is something worthwhile to explore in a cover, something that may be on the outside, but embodies much of the depth that we associate with the inside.
— Mia Salas ’22
