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Mystery & SuspenseMystery

Murder Town

Review by Linda M. Castellitto

Anyone who’s lived in a small town (or enjoys thrillers about them) knows that secrets, lies and betrayals are heightened by close proximity—especially in an isolated area that’s hard to get to, and even harder to escape. 

Shelley Burr deftly captures and conveys that particular brand of tension in Murder Town, and turns it up several notches by making her fictional Rainier, Australia (located halfway between Sydney and Melbourne) a place once charming, now cursed.

Seventeen years ago, travelers routinely popped into Earl Grey’s Yarn and Teashop or picnicked in Fountain Park. But then a serial killer murdered three people in Rainier, and the town and its traumatized residents have never recovered.

In the present, over the objections of victims’ families, some residents are campaigning for outsider Lochlan Lewis to set up a “Rainier Ripper” tour that could bring in desperately needed revenue. Ghoulish true crime fans routinely show up to gawk and ask intrusive questions, so “Why not make it formal?” teashop proprietor Gemma Guillory muses. “Why not scrape a little bit of a living back from the horror they’d all endured?”

Shelley Burr explores the deadly consequences of true crime tourism.

Alas, an entirely new horror emerges when Lochlan is found murdered in the fountain. Gemma decides to secretly investigate; it won’t be easy, but she’s tapped into the gossip pipeline and a pro at “glid[ing] through the day greasing every interaction with white lies and fakery.” Fans of Burr’s 2022 bestseller, WAKE, will be thrilled when private investigator Lane Holland joins her quest: He’s working remotely this time (from prison, to be precise) but has his own urgent reasons for pursuing the case. Can they pull it off before the Ripper’s legacy destroys Rainier once and for all?

Murder Town is a twisty rural noir rife with cleverly tangled character dynamics, claustrophobic suspense and an intriguing exploration of true crime fandom through the lens of a community struggling to heal even as terror strikes once again. And Gemma makes for a compelling tour guide through life in Rainier: She’s a community mainstay, protective parent and risk-taking undercover novice determined to drag the town’s darkest truths into the light, no matter the danger or consequences.

Shelley Burr’s rural Australia-set mystery Murder Town explores an intriguing angle of true crime fandom: so-called “dark tourism” of serial killer-related sites.
FictionSpeculative FictionShort Stories

Ruined a Little When We Are Born

Review by Matthew Jackson

The first thing you’ll notice when you open Tara Isabel Zambrano’s Ruined a Little When We Are Born is just how many stories she’s managed to pack into this slim volume. There are more than three dozen of them, some running less than two pages as part of her continued practice of flash fiction, others running to more conventional short fiction lengths, all of them united by common themes of family, femininity and motherhood. 

Rooted in the Indian diaspora, many of the stories in Ruined a Little When We Are Born are centered on rituals of one kind or another, ranging from the mundane to the arcane. In the opening story, “Mother, False,” a girl experiences shocking physical changes upon the death of her mother. In “Shabnam Salamat,” the arrival of her father’s new young bride sparks an awakening in a daughter. In the bewitching “There Are Places That Will Fill You Up,” a girl connects with her long-lost mother in a search for new meaning, with surprising results. And in “Milky-Eyed Orgasm Swallows Me Whole,” a woman has a conversation with the physical manifestation of her sexual climaxes.

Through beautifully constructed sentences that read as much like prayers as they do like prose, Zambrano’s stories slither and grow like unpredictable, invasive vines, creeping inside your brain and refusing to leave. It doesn’t seem to matter whether she gives herself 10 pages or just one; this is an author who understands that the job of fiction is to generate empathy and genuine emotional response in the reader, and who knows how to extract those things with poise and confidence. 

There’s a swagger to this book, a sense of being in gifted hands, and yet there’s also a dramatic vulnerability that comes through, particularly in the stories about growing up, learning what adulthood means or realizing that parents are not superheroes. Whether she’s exploring Indian folklore or introducing an old woman to the strange powers of a dishwasher, Zambrano is always in command, always writing earnestly and vividly. Anyone who enjoys the careful art of the short story will find that in this case, “art” is very much the key word.

Anyone who enjoys the careful art of the short story will find that in Ruined a Little When We Are Born, "art" is very much the key word.
Mystery & SuspenseMysteryCozy Mystery

Brooklyn Kills Me

Review by Jamie Orsini

After solving an attempted murder in Emily Schultz’s Sleeping with Friends, book editor Agnes Nielsen is learning to navigate her newfound fame as a minor celebrity. She moves into an upscale condo building in Brooklyn and forms a quick friendship with her neighbor, the magnetic heiress Charlotte Bond. While attending a party at Charlotte’s, Agnes meets some of New York City’s biggest movers and shakers—and is possibly drugged by another guest. Agnes leaves the party, unsure why she was targeted, and within hours, Charlotte suffers a fatal fall from their shared building. The police investigation rules her death as accidental, but Agnes suspects the heiress was murdered. Though her memories of that night are hazy, Agnes leans into her recent success as a detective and launches her own investigation to find justice for Charlotte.

Brooklyn Kills Me is a sharp and original cozy mystery. It’s easy to root for Agnes: She’s still figuring out her life, but she’s also deeply committed to finding out what happened to Charlotte. She’s levelheaded and quick on her feet, even when dealing with powerful members of the New York City elite. Agnes’ investigation is aided by her friend Ethan Sharp, and the novel is better for it. Agnes and Ethan have a long and complicated friendship, but both care about each other and are integral to solving the murder. The duo is also genuinely funny, and Schultz expertly threads their humor through the novel, elevating it beyond a by-the-numbers cozy.

The central case is fast-paced and clever, with an exciting midpoint twist that deepens the mystery and reveals that Agnes may be in more danger than she realizes. A fun, fresh cozy with an engaging puzzle at its core, this second installment in Schultz’s series starring Agnes can be read as a standalone, with one caveat: The ending of Sleeping with Friends is revealed in this book, so readers be warned!

Emily Schultz’s Brooklyn Kills Me is a sharp, original and genuinely funny cozy mystery.
FictionLiterary Fiction

How Does That Make You Feel, Magda Eklund?

Review by Alice Cary

Soon after Magda Eklund turns 65, she and her longtime best friend Sara have a discussion about birthday parties. Magda brings up one of her earlier parties, where Sara was at first “nowhere to be seen,” eventually arriving late. Sara reassures her by saying, “Mags, I will only ever surprise you by showing up, how’s that? For the rest of your life, whenever you least expect it, I’ll be there.”

Read our interview with Anna Montague about How Does That Make You Feel, Magda Eklund?

That prescient pledge turns out to be the premise of Anna Montague’s debut novel, How Does That Make You Feel, Magda Eklund? By 2011, when Magda turns 70, Sara has died—quite suddenly—and her husband has asked Magda to become caretaker of Sara’s ashes because his girlfriend is moving in. Magda, a psychiatrist, obliges: The ebullient, artsy Sara was the shining light in her life, and after her death Magda has drifted. She spends all of her time helping patients in her Manhattan practice, while steadfastly ignoring her own confounding issues. She continues to write letters to her late friend, noting, for instance, “How perhaps I’ve always been a better custodian of other people’s feelings than my own.” However, when she stumbles upon Sara’s plans for the two of them to celebrate Magda’s 70th birthday with a road trip, Magda decides to forge ahead with the journey.

In lesser hands, this setup—having a deceased major character—might present hurdles, such as the difficulty of revealing layers of the past while advancing the plot, and of making Magda’s interior psychological journey compelling. Rest assured, Montague nimbly tackles each of these challenges and more, including frequent, well-balanced doses of humor and pathos. Magda’s road trip, which includes stops in Virginia, Tennessee, New Orleans, Texas and New Mexico, allows her to meet an intriguing succession of characters, all while learning more about her own psyche and her relationship with Sara. At one point, she wanders into a women’s retreat, where the dubious director’s words prove apt: “The real trips happen here, in our heads. In our hearts.”

How Does That Make You Feel, Magda Eklund? is a noteworthy debut about looking back while moving forward. Friendship, love, regret, repression, grief, yearning, aging and new beginnings—Montague explores each of these themes with both creative and contemplative depth.

Read our review of the audiobook of How Does That Make You Feel, Magda Eklund?

Anna Montague explores friendship, aging, grief, regret and love with both creative and contemplative depth in her noteworthy debut, How Does That Make You Feel, Magda Eklund?
FictionLiterary FictionHistorical Fiction

Our Evenings

Review by Alden Mudge

Alan Hollinghurst’s exquisitely fashioned seventh novel arrives in the form of the memoir of David Win, a gay, mixed-race, somewhat successful actor in British experimental theater. The novel opens with a prologue in which David acknowledges the death of Mark Hadlow, “an ethical businessman, a major philanthropist, married to one woman for seventy years.” Mark and his wife Cara changed David’s life by awarding him a scholarship to attend an elite English boarding school. Interested and caring but not close, they remain connected to David until their deaths.

So too, in a different way, does their son, Giles, who is David’s teenage tormentor when we encounter him in the novel’s first chapter. David has been invited on school break to the Hadlows’ farm to meet his benefactors. David does everything possible to avoid Giles, who as a boy and, later, as an adult, is filled with resentment, right-wing political ambitions, vanity and bluster. By the time of his father’s death, Giles is the leading government minister heading the Brexit effort to rid Britain of immigrants.

At its most graspable, Our Evenings is about the conflict between an open, generous Britain and a clenched, intolerant one. Hollinghurst explores this divide through the consciousness of an extremely bright and observant brown-skinned English boy who is attracted to other boys, born to an unknown Burmese father and an English dressmaker from a middling town in the countryside.

Of greater interest is that which is harder to describe. Hollinghurst has an astonishing ability to convey the ineffable; seemingly minor exchanges among boys at school or classmates at Oxford, for example, burst with revelation. He unveils the subtle gestures of class distinction and cultural power as they modulate over the course of roughly 70 years. Hollinghurst is not half Burmese, but his artistry is such that we feel the same visceral shock as David himself when strangers other him. The novel also continues Hollinghurst’s profound examination of gay love amid homophobia. The author manages to do all this while keeping his story at human scale, without grandiosity or abstraction. In short, Our Evenings is a masterful accomplishment.

Our Evenings is a masterful accomplishment: an intricate vision of the conflict between an open, generous Britain and a clenched, intolerant one from Booker Prize-winner Alan Hollinghurst.
FictionPopular FictionHistorical Fiction

This Motherless Land

Review by Lauren Bufferd

Nikki May’s second novel, This Motherless Land, opens in Nigeria in the late 1970s after 9-year-old Funke Oyenuga’s comfortable world is shattered when her mother and younger brother are killed in a car accident. Her father folds under pressure from his extended Nigerian family and sends Funke to live with her maternal grandparents at a remote estate in rural England. Isolated and miserable, a victim of her aunt Margot’s racism and condescension, Funke strives to fit in, even dropping her Nigerian name and going by Kate. But the aggressions pile on: She’s sent to the village school while her cousins Liv and Dominic are enrolled in private education, and sleeps in the attic even though there is an extra bedroom. Funke’s grandparents, though grieving, are no match for Margot’s selfish sulking. Only adventurous, spunky Liv offers Funke sympathetic companionship. But as the girls grow up, societal pressures and concerns about money, school and status get in the way of their friendship. After another traumatic accident, Funke is packed up and sent back to Nigeria to live with the father who so cruelly sent her away. 

In alternating chapters, This Motherless Land follows Funke and Liv into adulthood. Liv falls into a pattern of dead-end jobs, drugs and casual sex, before getting sober and accepting steady work at a day care center, while Funke pursues a medical degree in Lagos and restarts her relationship with her father and his new family. Though rocky at first, her return to Nigeria reconnects Funke to the spirit of her mother as she realizes just how many people her mother’s life has impacted for the better. 

With clever references to Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, another novel that explores class, bad parenting and a beloved ancestral home, This Motherless Land reaches back to canonical English literature while presenting something new and fresh. Though there are a few hard-to-believe plot twists, especially toward the end, May’s warm way with her characters and her sharp eye for the details of life in Lagos, as well as the outsider’s view of English culture she presents, make this an engaging and thought-provoking family-centered novel about race and reinvention. 

Nikki May’s warm way with her characters and her sharp eye for the details of life in Lagos make This Motherless Land an engaging and thought-provoking novel about race and reinvention.
FictionLiterary Fiction

Clean

Review by Harvey Freedenberg

On the second page of Alia Trabucco Zerán’s novel Clean, we learn that “the girl dies.” That startling disclosure propels readers into an extended, engrossing monologue that blends a taut mystery with a vivid account of the hardships of a servant’s life in the home of the family for whom she works.

Addressing unidentified interrogators located on the other side of a one-way mirror, Estela Garcia asserts early on that her account “has several beginnings” and that “nothing is ever as simple as it seems.” From that it’s clear that the story of the circumstances leading to the tragic death of 7-year-old Julia, the daughter of lawyer Mara Lopez, and her husband, physician Juan Cristobal Jensen, of Santiago, Chile, will be a digressive one. 

For Estela, hot, dry Santiago provides a dramatic contrast to her home on an island off Chile’s southern coast. Mara is pregnant when 33-year-old Estela joins the household, and the maid quickly must adapt herself to the demands of her employers, which become even more challenging after Julia’s birth. She’s a difficult child, especially when it comes to her resistance, as she grows, to eating.

In Sophie Hughes’ spare, quietly eloquent translation, Zerán portrays a life of incessant toil, interrupted by the Sunday of leisure Estela often spends without leaving her room. Her employers make little effort to relate to her on a human level, and she’s haunted by her separation from her mother, who had urged her not to work as a domestic servant. 

Estela’s melancholy, which at one point drives her into a protracted silence as she goes about her duties, is interrupted only briefly when a mutt she names Yany follows her home from a nearby gas station, later returning for periodic visits that must be concealed from Mara and Juan. The “charmless dog” is involved in the cascading series of events that culminate in Julia’s death, and by the time Estela’s narrative comes to a close, the ultimate responsibility for that tragedy is anything but clear. Clean is a well-drawn character study whose sadness lingers in the mind. 

Alia Trabucco Zerán’s Clean is the story of a live-in servant who is involved in a child’s tragic death. This well-drawn character study’s sadness lingers in the mind.
FictionHistorical Fiction

Shy Creatures

Review by Chika Gujarathi

Clare Chambers’ Shy Creatures begins in 1964 in the London suburb of Croydon, where Helen Hansford works as an art therapist at a psychiatric hospital called Westbury Park. Though her mother discontentedly calls her place of work “a mental asylum,” Helen—unmarried and in her 30s—has found not only her professional calling, but also the love of her life in the very clever, handsome and married Dr. Gil Rudden. Their careful affair has been going on for years when a curious patient named William Tapping enters their lives.

Found at the age of 37—mute, half naked, and with a beard that looked like it was never trimmed—William had been living as a recluse with his aging aunt Louisa in their home in Croydon. When the police came to check on a reported commotion at the house, they discovered the two, and, for a lack of other options, called Westbury Park. Gil is eager to take on this once-in-a-lifetime case to help demonstrate a humane approach to psychiatric treatment. Helen, by Gil’s side in this mission, is thrilled to help after finding sketches that show William to be a terrific artist who loves to draw, especially birds and buildings.

Here, the story morphs into two tales running in opposite directions by means of alternating chapters. One follows Helen, now completely engulfed in the cause of restoring William’s life, as her above-and-beyond efforts to help him affect her own life and her relationship with Gil. In the other storyline, Chambers dives into William’s past, ultimately revealing a courageous secret sacrifice.

Chambers’ inspiration for Shy Creatures comes from a true story about a recluse treated at a mental hospital in 1952. Her reimagining is tenderly told, with just the right balance of melancholy and hope to keep the pages turning.

Clare Chambers’ historical novel Shy Creatures is tenderly told, with just the right balance of melancholy and hope to keep the pages turning.
FictionHistorical Fiction

Women’s Hotel

Review by Sydney Hankin

Somewhere in between a modern apartment building and a Hilton or Holiday Inn lies the Biedermeier, an unassuming hotel in the heart of 1960s New York City and the subject of Daniel M. Lavery’s Women’s Hotel. The building’s hallways bustle with women both old and young, all hailing from different hometowns, with different backgrounds and big-city dreams. As residents come and go and life plans take detours, Women’s Hotel masterfully captures the joys of community, neighborliness and circumstantial friendships that this bygone mode of living made possible.

Katherine, a Biedermeier floor manager and Mrs. Mossler’s second-in-command, might ride the elevator up to retrieve pinking shears from Carol or down to negotiate favors with Kitty. She might walk over to Lucianne’s to gossip, visit J.D. to stare curiously at her stray cat or accompany Pauline to a meeting of political activists. In Women’s Hotel, these events aren’t linked by an ongoing mystery or conflict. Instead, each resident’s experience is blended stylistically in a way that imitates the inseparability of real lives. The intentionally minimal plot allows Lavery to focus on intimately exploring this unique moment in time; in his own words, the novel should “be taken for no more than what it is: a diffuse sketch of a short-lived, patchwork commonwealth, a few impressions of a manner of living that was briefly possible for a small group of women in the middle decades of the last century.” In extracting beauty from ordinary stories easily overlooked, he’s created a memorable novel.

Lavery, a bestselling author, former Slate advice columnist and cofounder of The Toast, writes in a style reminiscent of contemporary wordsmiths Nathan Hill and James McBride. Through sentences of remarkable elegance, humor and complexity of phrase, the Biedermeier is drawn so vividly that it nearly becomes a character in itself. The women’s hotel stands tall as a deeply loved, grounding constant for its countless tenants, tenants who will always tease, entertain, support, exasperate and—above all—protect each other to no end.

Read more: Daniel M. Lavery on the universally torturous experience of moving house.

Through sentences of remarkable elegance, humor and complexity of phrase, former Slate advice columnist and cofounder of The Toast Daniel M. Lavery vividly imagines a 1960s women’s hotel in his debut novel.
FictionPopular FictionDebut Fiction

Libby Lost and Found

Review by Melissa Brown

We find out who we are through our favorite books, especially the ones we read as kids. Books can give us a place to hide or a place to be braver than we ever would be in real life. This is abundantly true for Stephanie Booth’s two like-minded protagonists in her debut novel, Libby Lost and Found, which takes the idea that books shape our reality and runs with it, from New Jersey to Colorado and through a magical forest where the protagonists of a beloved children’s series are stuck. 

The Falling Children series, and the mystery surrounding the identity of the series’ author, have whipped the world into a frenzy akin to Pottermania. But the anonymous author, Libby Weeks, is in trouble. Libby’s fictional (and only) friends—her characters Benjamin, Huperzine and Everlee—have been trapped in a forest since the previous book, because Libby can’t seem to write the next installment. It’s not writer’s block, it’s dementia. 

To receive such a diagnosis at 40 has the reclusive Libby coming apart at the seams of her gray sweater. She’s desperate enough to finally answer emails from a passionate 11-year-old fan, Peanut Bixton, who promises she can help save the Falling Children from the evil Unstopping and finish the series. Peanut feels deeply connected to the world Libby created, where anagrams abound, Knock-knock birds tell terrible jokes and toys with damaged souls just need a little love to be redeemed. With the internet clamoring for her blood and threatening to unveil her identity if she doesn’t release the final book, Libby gets on a plane for the first time and flies to Peanut’s quaint hometown. In Peanut, Libby finds a version of her younger self, before her anxieties took over. In Libby, Peanut finds an adult who listens and isn’t keeping secrets from her—at least not on purpose. 

Stephanie Booth’s writing is fast-paced, funny and full of feeling. Readers who enjoyed Where’d You Go, Bernadette will find a story that is equally madcap, implausible and inventive. Libby Lost and Found is a roller coaster ride that does leave the track at times, but Peanut’s dogged youthful enthusiasm carries the day and the plot. As Libby struggles to remember how to dial a phone or button her shirt, let alone what she was planning to write next, her fate, along with the fates of her Falling Children and of Peanut, grow magically, if occasionally predictably, intertwined until the end.

Libby Lost and Found takes the idea that books shape our reality and runs with it, in a madcap, implausible and inventive roller coaster ride about an author and her 11-year-old fan.
FictionPopular FictionFamily DramaDebut Fiction

The Magnificent Ruins

Review by Arlene McKanic

Nayantara Roy’s stunning novel The Magnificent Ruins caused this reviewer to think of two things. The first was my admittedly American view of India as huge, colorful, crowded, astonishingly beautiful and astonishingly ugly, unbearably hot or tortured by monsoons, with bitterly contentious politics, mouthwatering cuisine, a deeply entrenched caste system and a patriarchy so oppressive that it’s often fatal to girls and women. In The Magnificent Ruins, all of this turns out to be true.

As the novel went on, the second thing I thought of was Eminem’s song “Kim,” where he fantasizes about murdering his wife and stashing her body in the trunk of his car. This is because the Lahiris, the family at the heart of the book, are nearly that unhinged in the way they treat one another.

The book is mostly narrated by one of the Lahiris, Lila De. An editor in New York City, she was born in Ballygunge, Kolkata, and raised in her family’s mansion, a relic from the time of the British Empire. The Lahiris are Brahmins, and though the women in the family work, the men of the older generations do not; it’s beneath them. They live, more or less, off a dwindling trust fund. When Lila’s beloved grandfather dies, he leaves the great pile of a house—the magnificent ruins—to her. This discombobulates her already fractious relatives. Lila is not only a woman, but a young woman from America. She’s technically not even a Lahiri. When faced with a crisis rite, in this case the elaborate wedding of Lila’s cousin Biddy, things go nuclear.

Yet these people love Lila, and she loves them, and, nearly miraculously, so does the reader. It is a testament to Roy’s discernment and empathy that we never break with any of the Lahiris even as they behave atrociously to each other. Many of us know families like this. Indeed, some of us come from families like this, where white-hot hate, resentment and violence mingle with love, loyalty and moments of tenderness. Lila, too, shares her family’s talent for cruelty toward loved ones, but she’s American enough to be in therapy. A deliciously long book, The Magnificent Ruins is riveting from its first page to its last.

Read our review of the audiobook of The Magnificent Ruins.

For the Lahiris, the family at the heart of Nayantara Roy’s deliciously long The Magnificent Ruins, white-hot hate, resentment and violence mingle with love, loyalty and moments of tenderness.
FictionLiterary FictionDebut FictionComing of Age

Only Here, Only Now

Review by Michael Magras

Teenage years are hard enough to get through as it is. Add a fractured family life, and the terrain gets even rockier. That’s the situation facing Cora Mowat, a Scottish girl growing up in a grimy post-industrial town along the Firth of Forth, in Only Here, Only Now, Tom Newlands’ uncompromising debut novel.

The book spans four years, from 1994 to 1998. Newlands has created a memorable character in Cora, who, at the outset, is 14 and lives alone with her mother, a wheelchair user, in Muircross, “a manky wee hellhole sat out by itself on a lump of coast the shape of a chicken nugget.” With that description, who could blame her for having her “heart set on skipping this housing estate and vanishing,” preferably to college in Glasgow?

As Cora and her mother wait for approval on an application for a better house in Abbotscraig, a school psychologist recommends that restless Cora be “checked for anxiety, and for being hyper.” Like Newlands, Cora has ADHD, which she describes by saying, “It’s like you’re always tired but you can never rest.”  

That’s just one of the hurdles Cora has to negotiate, all of which Newlands describes with memorably earthy phrases. Her mom’s new boyfriend is “a gangly-looking thing, head like a conker” who has a missing left eyeball yet is kind to her, unlike the other “kitten stranglers” her mom has brought home. After he moves in with them, however, Cora wonders what he’s doing with CDs, alarm clocks, vacuum-packed legs of lamb and other seemingly stolen merchandise in his room.

By year’s end, a sudden tragedy upends Cora’s life and expectations. Newlands dramatizes the resulting changes in the book’s subsequent sections, first in Abbotscraig in 1996, where Cora has a relationship with a young man who’s a troublemaker, and then in Glasgow in 1998, where she is forced to confront her choices of the past four years and decide what she wants to do next. 

The book sags a bit in its middle section, but the tension and distinctive characterizations return in the novel’s final third. Only Here, Only Now may be one among many coming-of-age stories, but this winning debut is distinguished by Newlands’ sympathy for his characters and the originality of his prose.

Tom Newlands’ Only Here, Only Now is a winning coming-of-age story distinguished by Newlands’ sympathy for his characters, among them Scottish teen Cora, her wheelchair-using mother, and her mother’s shifty but kind boyfriend.
FictionDebut FictionComing of Age

Blue Light Hours

Review by Laura Sackton

In her debut novella, Blue Light Hours, award-winning translator Bruna Dantas Lobato explores how distance—between languages, cultures and places—can affect a relationship.

At the center of the story are a mother and daughter and the rituals they create to remain close to each other despite the thousands of miles between them. The unnamed daughter is in her first year at a small liberal arts college in Vermont; her mother remains at home in Brazil. The daughter goes about her mundane days and then recounts them to her mother over Skype. Her mother, in return, offers details about her own increasingly lonely life.

These exchanges between mother and daughter are both melancholic and mesmerizing. Neither of their lives are particularly interesting in the conventional sense. There are no devastating breakups or major meltdowns, no financial catastrophes or familial betrayals. The daughter does her schoolwork, makes friends with her fellow international students, eats in the dining hall, observes the unfamiliar New England seasons. The mother watches soap operas, goes to work, asks again and again about her daughter’s strange new world. 

The book, instead, probes beneath the surface: How much of a life can truly be shared over Skype? How does being apart change a relationship as foundational and important as the one between a mother and a daughter? What happens when what is shared, over time, becomes rote, empty? 

Dantas Lobato explores these questions with thoughtful nuance. Her writing sometimes feels emotionally restrained, but perhaps this is a reflection of the characters’ longing: the daughter’s longing for the particular ways her mother knows her and also for the excitement of a new, separate life; the mother’s longing for her daughter to remain close. The prose itself embodies loneliness: crisp, declarative sentences that have the flow and rhythm of poetry. Blue Light Hours is an intimate meditation on home and homesickness, belonging and wanting to belong, on what it means to leave and be left, and the many tiny ways of attempting to bridge an impossible distance.

Bruna Dantas Lobato’s debut, Blue Light Hours, is an intimate meditation on home, homesickness and the many tiny ways of attempting to bridge an impossible distance.

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