It’s been just over a month now since I finished Flowers for Algernon, and the tears have finally subsided enough to clear my vision so I can finish this review. This book is beautiful, poignant, and powerful. The fact that it still resonates nearly 60 years on, heartbreakingly speaks to the importance of this story.

Synopsis

Flowers for Algernon follows Charlie Gordon, a 37-year-old man with an intellectual disability who works at a bakery sweeping the floors and running odd errands. Charlie is honest and agreeable. But more than anything, he wants to be smart and liked. When he is the chosen participant for an experimental research project that previously increased the intelligence of a lab rat named Algernon, Charlie sees a chance to finally become what he’s always wanted.

Style

The style is brilliant. The story is brought to us through a series of diary entries that Charlie is asked to write as part of the experiment. It is authentically his voice and words, letting the reader into the mind of Charlie. The early entries are filled with errors and spelling mistakes, as we experience life from his perspective, with quotes like “I just want to be smart like other pepul so I can have lots of frends.” (Don’t mind me sobbing away again as I write this).

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Protagonist

Charlie’s early innocence makes the story deeply affecting. He explains how hard he tries to learn, but he forgets things easily. With an IQ of 68, Charlie falls in what we now modestly classify as the 'mild' range of intellectual disability. However, ‘mild’ being the clinical term, most people in this category experience significant deficits in functioning. Though the comparison is outdated now, it’s often equated to the cognitive level of a nine-year-old. Charlie explains, if people gave him enough time, if they didn't rush him, or push him too fast, he would get it. But nobody has time. This book was a constant reminder of the gifts we take for granted.

Socially, Charlie is also naive. He refers to the workers at the bakery as his best friends, but we as the reader can see through his limited understanding and know that they’re mocking him. It’s devastating. Through Charlie’s voice, Keyes offers a view into the lives of those living with disability. It was impossible not to empathise with how much harder people like Charlie have to work compared to the rest of the world. This book should be required reading in schools. It is such a valuable lesson in empathy and understanding. (And besides, why are we still forcing students to read Shakespeare? Come on)

The Plot Thickens

As the story unravels and the experimental surgery takes effect, we notice Charlie’s intelligence increase through his corrected spelling, added punctuation, and change in vocabulary. The contents of his journal grow in complexity as well. Charlie’s world, once black and white, happy or confused, transitions to a deep and broad spectrum of emotions. Repressed memories resurface, and his internal world becomes expansive with a yearning to understand himself. He starts to question the world, question authority. He asks…WHY?

However, with intelligence comes not only awareness, but pain. Charlie describes an empty feeling in his chest that gnaws at him. He sees his once so-called friends for what they are.

He experiences shame.

He experiences anger.

He feels suspicious.

He feels lonely.

As Dr Strauss, one of the researchers, points out to him, "The more intelligent you become, the more problems you'll have". We watch Charlie’s eyes open to the world rapidly, something most of us experience gradually as we outgrow childhood. His heroes become human, his Gods, falsified. Charlie thought people would be proud of him for his new intelligence, but they resent him. With an IQ of 185 (the top 1% of the population), Charlie is just as distanced from his peers as he was prior to the experiment. Where his naivety once bolstered their egos, his intellect now threatens them. The people fear Charlie's change, some characters calling it 'against the will of God’. But shrewdly, Charlie compares himself to a blind man… Why is it so wrong for him to want to see?

Charlie has the knowledge of the world at his fingertips, but what is it without connection, without love?

Final Thoughts & a bit on Frankenstein

This may seem like an odd place to talk about Frankenstein, but stay with me here. I hadn’t sobbed like this since I read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Frankenstein, and now Flowers for Algernon, are actually the only books to have ever moved me to this level of snotty-nosed, heaving sobs (so far). The kind that indicate you have just experienced something that is going to leave a lasting impact on your spirit. I typically try to avoid sad novels, but both of these stories are worth the experience 100 times over. So I’ve been pondering, what was it about these two stories that got me like this?

Well, what connects them, I think, is their portrayal of misunderstood beings who long for acceptance in a world that judges them for attributes beyond their control. Charlie and Frankenstein’s creature each begin their stories with a sense of innocence. Frankenstein’s creature starts life with a blank slate, a wonderment that turns to vengeful rage after being subject to relentless cruelty. Similarly, Charlie starts with a childlike innocence, and as he gains knowledge, he is forced to confront cruelty and rejection too. Both stories are about craving love and finding only alienation. I think in some ways, many of us can relate to the emotional experiences of Charlie Gordon or Frankenstein’s creature. If you follow me on Substack, you’ll know I post little poems and prose on the app. Here’s one about knowing you are not like the others. Check it out here: Different.

Furthermore, both stories delve into the dangers of playing God. What happens when science pushes forward without considering the emotional consequences? Should we do something just because we can?

Frankenstein broke me, so I don’t frequently recommend this one despite how freaking excellent it is (especially the audiobook on Audible performed by voice actors). [Side note: I saw it in the theatre last year and wept like a crazy person while my seat neighbour tried to pretend they didn’t notice]. However, Flowers for Algernon, I will be championing for a long time to come! If only somehow it could be compulsory for the whole world to read this book, I’m sure society would have more empathy, respect, and dignity towards the disabled. If you’ve made it to the end of this unsolicited review, there’s really only one thing left to say.

Go read the book.

It’s worth it if it only makes you just a smidgen kinder for a day.

Cover image by Long Nguyen on Pinterest.

‘Sex and Rage - Advice to Young Ladies Eager for a Good Time’ drew me in from the byline - How could one young lady eager for a good time resist?

This coming-of-age story follows Jacaranda, a young, enigmatic woman afloat amongst a sea of hangers-on and the almost famous of 1970s Los Angeles. Drifting through life, from one party to another, Jacaranda gradually morphs from someone full of zest and effortless charm into a spiral of alcoholism and insecurity. With luck and raw talent on her side, she eventually triumphs over toxic influences to reveal an ever so shiny future awaiting her. While reading Sex and Rage, I constantly found myself saying “just one more page”, only to find myself three more pages deep before I realised. I enjoyed the world Eve Babitz painted through this semi-autobiographical novel and was especially hooked by the chapter titles. Each one so perfectly linked the closing sentence of the last to the opening of the next chapter, making it hard to stop. Example below:

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The Major Themes

More so than sex or rage (neither of which feature heavily), two main themes stood out. The first was how indulgence can turn to dependence and derail one’s potential. This theme is explored through Jacaranda’s insidious alcoholism, which begins upon meeting the “dear friends” and joining their life aboard the “barge”. The dear friends are the social circle of a New York elite - Max - and the barge symbolises their privileged life. Floating down the Nile, the barge separates them from the crocodiles that lurk beneath and the harsh realities faced by the poor on the shore. Over time, the barge drifts Jacaranda away from the normalcy she once knew. The novel is full of people gliding through life with charm and excess, untouched on the surface. As Eve writes, “People go through life eating lamb chops and breaking their mother’s hearts”. Their lifestyle may look harmless, even desirable, but often masks a selfishness that leaves quiet wreckage in its wake. Egocentrism costs something, to someone, eventually.

This brings us to the second theme. We are going to call it ‘He did nothing in particular, but everything about it was evil’. This is embodied in Max, the elusive and beguiling captain of the barge. Introduced through a boyfriend, Jacaranda and Max quickly become close. She is infatuated with him, but over time, his presence brings unease. The danger of Max was so simple yet perfect. Max never did anything particularly horrid. It was a simple glance or comment that carried the unspoken weight of his disapproval. Max was dangerous in how he subtly undermined in a deniable way. As Jacaranda narrates below, you can never quite put your finger on why people like this bring so much unease, but you know they do, and they do it on purpose, even if the target of their subversions is the only one who can tell.

I’ll let Eve explain below:

The byline summarised this book well - it was advice and a warning. A good book to read in your early 20s. Although there’s nothing inherently wrong with (as Eve phrases it) ‘being depraved in your youth’, the novel warns how partying and the wrong company can lead you astray, or make you easy prey. This was crystallised in a few lines towards the end of the novel. Wini was a character unimpressed by fame and the happenings of Jim Morrison and his groupies. Her apathy toward this lifestyle helped her to rise to the top of her industry. But when Wini meets Max and his friend Etienne, despite Jacaranda’s warnings, she still falls for the slimy allure of the barge. This softened me to how easily Jacaranda was seduced by it, also.

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What Fell Short

My High Hopes

A personal downside to reading Sex and Rage was the high expectations I began with. I usually prefer to go in blind, but I found this book recommended in the back of Hollywood by Charles Bukowski (a favourite). Then, I read a brilliant review on The Conversation, where the journalist said the book had changed her life. Together, these endorsements put the novel on a pedestal so high that it ultimately couldn’t reach, despite my subtle enjoyment.

The Anti-Climax

The narration in Sex and Rage reminded me in some ways of The Great Gatsby (another favourite). Both narrators are somewhat “normal” people, mixing with the affluent. But where tragedy defines The Great Gatsby, Sex and Rage draws a blank. Imagine a Great Gatsby where the narrator just spends a summer with the rich and moves on, unscathed. That is not The Great Gatsby. Without the heartbreak of Gatsby or the irresponsibility of Daisy, it is just a little story about rubbing shoulders with the rich. This was the problem for me with Sex and Rage. There was no climax to the story. I felt that Sunset (a side character) would have made a better protagonist. She had been handed all the bad cards in life, whereas Jacaranda just coasted through. So, when everything turned out fine for Jacaranda in the end, I felt little triumph in it.

That said, the writing was easy to be immersed in. The final pages describe Jacaranda returning to the ocean to surf again like she had as a child. Babitz paints a beautiful parallel - with luck and balance, Jacaranda stays on her feet long enough to let the once-impending waves roll softly beneath her, in the same way that she lasts long enough to make something of herself in a world designed to pull her down. In the end, it was not about falling and getting back up, it was about drifting far enough from who you are to realise that you want to come back.

This short novel follows Bukowski’s literary alter ego, Henry Chinaski, through his introduction to Hollywood, closely based on Bukowski’s experience writing and making the movie Barfly in 1987, starring Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway. This novel takes place for Bukowski/Chinaski in his late 60’s and it is clear that he has softened with age and is finally enjoying the comforts of making a living as a writer. Long gone are the days of sleeping on park benches, bar fights, and promiscuous women to ease the innate sense of loneliness a loner and misfit like Bukowski was promised in early life. As a writer and narrator, he is now reflective of his time as a young alcoholic doing it tough on the streets and speaks a lot of his current habit, the racetrack.

The novel bypasses introduction with the first sentence delving straight into the world of Hollywood mid-story: “A couple of days later Jon Pinchot phoned. He wanted to go ahead with he screenplay.” and just like that, we are transported straight into this literary world. Unconventional but effective - this was a fun way to get the reader into the motion of the story from the get-go. However, the plot took several chapters to grow on me. There were a lot of characters introduced quite quickly and this was a little jarring at first. Fortunately though, I soon enough felt endeared to the crazy characters that featured, laughing at their antics, and this quickly became the highlight of the novel. My favourite character was Jon Pinchot, the crazy French director, who was constantly struggling to get the funding needed to make the movie. Excentric and loveable, this character brought a sense of dark humor with his erratic and unpredictable behaviour.

Jon lives with his equally unhinged actor housemate, François, in a rundown, marginalised area of L.A. Their house and neighbourhood, which has clearly seen better days, fits the madness they bring. One of the ongoing gags in Hollywood involves François and his precious pet chickens, which he’s constantly paranoid someone is trying to steal. As he becomes progressively more unhinged throughout the novel, their house is broken into. Instead of calling the police, François chases the robbers down the street with a stick, screaming out something about his chickens like a madman. It was wonderful.

Another reoccurring theme throughout Hollywood is Jon Pinchot’s struggle with the studio to get the movie made. He wants to make a piece of art, whatever be the monetary loss to him, but he is constantly met with resistance and delays. In response, Jon goes on a hunger strike. He stops eating and stations himself outside the studio office in a garden chair in protest. The studio is completely unbothered by this, so, where a normal man may accept defeat, Jon ups the ante. He devises a plan involving the purchase of a chainsaw and a delightfully polite letter of threat to the studio, outlining how he’ll “cut off his fingers one by one and mail them to the executives” unless they meet his demands. Signed off, of course, with “love from Jon”. When the studio doesn’t bite, Jon storms the studio with Chinaski, plugs in his electric chainsaw, and puts the plan into motion. It. Is. Absolute. Chaos!

It was nice to see Henry Chinaski as the straight man for once, surrounded by characters so unhinged they made him look almost sensible. The contrast really brings out Bukowski’s surreal realism, events that are technically believable but are so ridiculous they feel like fever dreams. Albeit exaggerated, believable they should be. A little digging tells me Jon Pinchot is based on Barbet Schroeder, the real-life director of Barfly. And no, he didn’t storm the studio with a chainsaw in real life - just a humble handsaw. He was only going to cut off the little one… first.

I picked Hollywood up whenever I had a spare moment, in bed, in waiting rooms, and in the sauna at the gym (those now crinkled pages will never be the same again). Although it’s not Bukowski’s most poignant literary contribution, this novel was fun. The short sentences, short chapters, and plentiful dialogue made for an easy read. The story is progressed by events unfolding in present tense - a key feature of Bukowski’s style. He doesn’t pause to explain meaning or give emotional insight; he just lets the scene play out. He doesn't tell you how to feel, nor does he explain why a certain scene is poignant or why a certain character is a certain kind of person. He sets the scene, describes the events, and the reader deduces the meaning. No hand-holding, no over-explaining. He trusts that the story holds enough weight, enough quiet meaning, for the reader to uncover it on their own. And when it clicks, it’s like you’ve been let in on something subtle and unspoken. That’s what I love most about Bukowski. If you get it, you get it.

That said, Hollywood is probably best enjoyed by long-time readers of Bukowski due to the way his narration dedicates time to reflect on his life in a way that is not always progressive to the story. Hollywood is in no way mesmerising like Ham On Rye, or his early prose and poetry - but it doesn’t have to be. Hollywood was a laugh at the absurdity of fame, money, and the movie industry - chickens, chainsaws, and all.

A Korean story of a once ordinary and well-behaved wife whose life is forever changed by disturbing dreams of animal slaughter, blood and violence, resulting in her becoming a vegetarian overnight. However, do not think this a novel about diet. The Vegetarian is an allegory for so much more. In a heavy meat-eating society, Yeong-hye's vegetarianism represents a rejection of societal norms and a yearning to live more naturally. Following her vegetarianism, Yeong-hye begins to exert independence in other areas of her life, rejecting the patriarchal norms that are thrust upon her.

The story is told in multiple parts, each chapter voiced from the perspective of Yeong-hye herself, her husband, her sister, and her brother in law. Some chapters more disturbing than others; The Vegetarian delves into themes of patriarchal obedience, obsession, and a woman's autonomy. Through the shifting lens of the narrative, we witness Yeong-hye’s increasing destabilisation as her haunting dreams give rise to insomnia and a growing detachment from reality. Her unravelling is further intensified by the oppressive control exerted by those around her, who seek to stifle her newfound liberation and violently impose their own perversions upon her. Yes, this is a dark story and requires a trigger warning of multiple varieties.

The Vegetarian is no doubt a reflection of the collectivist society author Han Kang lives in, reminding me of the fable, The Oak and the Reeds. This fable tells the story of a strong, proud oak tree who stands tall above the reeds, when a storm comes, the many reeds sway together and bend with the wind to survive, however, the strong oak is uprooted. A relection of how those who forge their own identity seperate from the group are at risk of being cut down. In The Vegetarian, Yeong-hye's defiance of societal expectations brings shame upon her family, who react by permeating violence into her life to enforce the status quo. Like the mighty oak that stands too tall and is uprooted in the storm, her refusal to yield to the expectations of the world around her becomes the catalyst for a dark and disturbing series of events. A painful reminder that in such a world, bending to the collective is needed to survive.

This harrowing story is one that has never left my mind. A sad portrayal of how we as a society allow violence, exploitation, and paternalism to seep into our lives, starting with our diet. It reflects on how we live so absurdly removed from nature, how the vulnerable are not protected, the love of a sister, and the fragility of mental health. Winning the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature, this heartbreaking and sorrowful read will linger on your fingertips long after the final pages have been turned.

The novel Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid is the fictitious story of a 70s rock and roll band, making music, making it big, making love, making bad decisions and doing a lot of drugs, to put it bluntly. Supposedly, the story is loosely inspired by the dynamics of Fleetwood Mac, the making of their album Rumors in ‘77, and the love-hate relationship between Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. The story follows the rise to and early departure from fame of the fictionalised band, Daisy Jones and the Six. Having recently been developed into a television series of the same name on Amazon Prime, the book has also gathered attention. However, like many others, I stumbled onto this book following the success of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s 2017 book, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, which I read (and enjoyed) last year.

Now, a disclaimer. There are some spoilers to follow, so if you have yet to read Daisy Jones and the Six and do not wish to know what will come, you should probably avert your eyes now.

Parallels w/ The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

Daisy Jones and the Six follows the retrospective narrative structure that worked so well for The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Evelyn Hugo is a retired actress and 50s sex-symbol, writing her memoir with the help of a journalist. This novel uses a dual narrative structure, switching between the interviewer’s perceptions and present life and Evelyn’s retrospective retelling of her own. The intrigue grows in a surprise twist where the lives and stories of these two women intertwine to reveal a hidden family secret.

This was not done so well in Daisy Jones and the Six. The story is told in interview format by the ex-band members as they reflect on their success and discuss the peak of their fame producing the album, ‘Aurora’. Reid’s attempt to give the interviewer a voice towards the end of Daisy Jones and the Six did not match up and felt like a poor attempt to create the same level of surprise and intrigue as she achieved in her prior novel. It would have been better to leave this out rather than to attempt it again, poorly. The beauty in The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo was the depth of her character and the surprises in the narrative. Daisy Jones and the Six lacked this, possibly due to the presence of so many lead characters.

As someone who loves the culture and music of the 70s, I enjoyed the story nonetheless and am off to watch the television series. However, from a literary perspective, I am not recommending this one to my friends. I had high hopes for it because of my love for Evelyn Hugo - which was one of my favourite reads of 2024. However, Daisy Jones and the Six was just a fun little rock ‘n roll novel that did not make me feel anything, beyond maybe wanting to buy a pair of flares and some bangles. (Sorry!)

Now, my gripes with the novel.

Daisy Jones: As the Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Having lived through the rise and fall of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl in ‘00s pop culture, I immediately saw Daisy Jones, the female lead character, for the manic pixie dream girl she is. Beautiful, charismatic, attractive, unattainable, quirky, unconventional, mysterious, wild - what more can we want from a manic pixie dream girl? My gripe is not with the character herself, but with the unrealistic, tidy conclusion of her story.

Reid writes Daisy Jones being a serious drug user from the age of 15. In what imaginary world does she go to rehab once, leave with no real support network, and never relapse? (Taylor Jenkin Reid’s imaginary world I guess). One of the best scripts in the novel comes from Daisy’s closest long-time friend, Simone, describing how hard it is to continually support and care for a drug addict who does not care about themselves. Then, suddenly, Camilla has one serious conversation with Daisy and poof! Cured! Okay, Reid… Sure…

Daisy, as a character, was far too complex for that kind of an ending. Which brings me to my next gripe.

Billy Dunne: As Bland Male Love Interest

Why do you think Daisy was in love with Billy?

This was never explicitly explained, possibly to leave it open for the reader to draw their own conclusions, but it just didn’t make sense to me. Daisy was this cool, wild woman, swimming in her best dress and dancing around with no shoes on. There was tension building between these two leading characters, then one day, Daisy is hopelessly devastated by the smell of this self-absorbed married man’s cologne… The character progression just didn’t make sense to me.

It was clear that Daisy craved Billy’s approval, maybe because he withheld it, and that is the only reason why I can assume someone like Daisy would have loved Billy. She wanted him because she shouldn’t; she loved the temptation and pain of wanting someone unattainable, of chasing the impossible love. Daisy was self-destructive and this was another form of self-destruction.

Billy explains in his interviews that he wanted Daisy because she had given into all her demons - all he same demons he was constantly pushing down. To Billy, Daisy represented the indulgence that he craved and tried to keep small. And she was gorgeous. But what did Daisy want with someone like Billy? BORING.

Camilla Dunne: As Unrealistic Stoic Woman

Finally, Camilla, Billy Dunne’s ‘perfect’ wife. The story leaves us with this idea of Camilla as this omniscent, strong, stoic woman and this was just not the storyline I saw for her.

So many of us know women who stand by men who do them wrong, and mostly, these women do not appear stronger and more self-assured to us because they do so. Sadly, it is usually the opposite. Furthermore, these women are not left untouched by their partner’s wrongdoings. We are fed the idea that Camilla loved Billy, liked being married to a rockstar, and had her own transgressions. To buy Camilla’s character, I guess I needed more depth than that. Women who stand by these types of men ARE hurt by them, so where was Camilla’s rage? Sadness? Exhaustion? Envy? Anything?

Why did Reid want to glorify Camilla’s steadfastness? Camilla’s kindness to Daisy was a virtue, and so feminist of her. But standing by Billy, ugh. We should not be telling women that they are strong for accepting less than they deserve; this rhetoric is why research studies show that men who marry live longer and have better health outcomes, whereas there is no improvement for women who marry. We don’t need more stories telling women to stand by their man (when their man is dog shit, sorry Billy).

I felt this story was just getting good when it finished, these characters had so much potential. I considered giving Taylor Jenkins Reid another shot with Malibu Rising but after reading the reviews, it seems other readers have come to it with high hopes following Evelyn Hugo (and some after Daisy Jones), and most have expressed that it was not great in comparison.

It’s back to Eve Babitz for me… Next up is Sex and Rage. I’m hoping a story from this real-life Californian 70s it-girl will hit harder.