may bookmarks
women at crossroads, between places, languages, and lives
I really enjoyed my reads this month. I had a loose tbr pile in mind, picked a few titles from it, but ultimately let my mood carry most of my reading.
These bookmarks centre on women’s experiences. They read like intimate portraits of resilience, exploring how women’s struggles are often belittled, brushed aside, and how invisible we can sometimes feel. Different voices, different geographies, different eras, yet all these books are trying to make sense of who we are and where we stand.
Some interrogate what it means to be seen, or rather misseen, as a woman. Others sit at thresholds between languages, cultures, roles, or emotional states. I’m grateful to these authors for sharing these stories.
may reading menu
Famesick by Lena Dunham (memoir)
Sisters in Yellow by Mieko Kawakami (literary fiction)
The Wax Child by Olga Ravn (historical fiction)
Intermezzo by Sally Rooney (literary fiction)
A Midnight Pastry Shop Called Hwawoldang by Lee Onhwa (magical realism)
Exophony: Voyages Outside the Mother Tongue by Yōko Tawada (essays/languages)
Mongrel by Hanako Footman (literary fiction)
Taiwan Travelogue by Yáng Shuāng-zǐ (historical fiction)
Famesick by Lena Dunham
Lena Dunham’s second memoir, Famesick, was published in April and has taken over the Internet, as the director and actor herself often does. Sadly, not always for her talent, but rather because of the drama surrounding her. She was an it-girl for a while, the girl next door, the real one, and then things went downhill, as they often do in this industry.
I was in my twenties when Girls aired on HBO, and I very much identified with the characters. Like them, I was trying to make sense of adult life, post-grad life, and the job market. So I’ve always been fond of Dunham, and when Famesick was released, I wanted to give it a go, to hear her side of the story rather than the gossip-column version.
What I’ve always appreciated about Dunham, or her character Hannah in Girls, is her brutal honesty. To me, she represented body acceptance and female sexuality in a way that felt refreshing at the time. And yet, reading Famesick, something felt different. It seems like she kept a lot to herself, especially how she felt, setting aside her feelings and forgoing her health to become more adaptable, more desirable, more lovable, more amiable, more accommodating.
At times, the memoir felt repetitive, the same cycle resurfacing again and again. She would be okay for a while, then have another health issue, then recover, only to become unwell again. She entered an odd fame and sickness loop and couldn’t quite get out of it. It isn’t a pity memoir, nor does it feel like a search for sympathy, but rather a way to share her story and reinforce how women’s feelings, health, and struggles are brushed over and deemed invalid. It also shows how easily you can be gaslit, not only by strangers, but by those close to you and even doctors.
Famesick depicts the whirlwind of adulthood in a way that feels very true to Dunham. She explores her complex relationship with fame, identity, visibility, and the cost of ambition, questioning whether the emotional and physical toll of being in the public eye was ultimately worth it.
“We cling to our tragedy just as tightly as we cling to the things we love most. Airtight explanations for what ails us.”
Sisters in Yellow by Mieko Kawakami (tr. Laurel Taylor & Hitomi Yoshio)
I’ve read a few of Mieko Kawakami’s shorter novels and have always found her writing immersive. She captures the everyday brilliantly, often exploring topics like mental health, school bullying, womanhood, the female body, and societal pressure. I was looking forward to reading her latest translated book, Sisters in Yellow.
The story starts as Hana hears news of Kimiko, an older woman who once took her in, being arrested for keeping someone locked in her flat and abusing her. Hana is then thrust back into her teenage years in the 1990s. Through flashbacks, we learn how she met Kimiko and how, in an attempt to escape a penniless, unhappy life with her mother, they moved in together, opened a small bar called Lemon, and later met the other “sisters”.
I must say, at first, I didn’t connect with the story and wasn’t sure where it was heading. But slowly, I started to feel for Hana. Her insecurity, her need to be loved, to matter, to find her place in the world.
The novel is often described as a thriller. It isn’t quite one, though it carries a thriller-like atmosphere. We’re thrown into Tokyo’s underground, full of secrets, manipulation, and betrayal. Hana’s obsession with money, paired with her anxiety, creates an undercurrent of tension throughout.
There were moments when the narrative lost me, and I missed how Kawakami’s shorter novels usually grip me more tightly. This one felt a little too long, yet remained compelling enough that I couldn’t quite look away.
With Sisters in Yellow, Kawakami explores friendship, motherhood, class, autonomy, and the resilience required to exist on the margins, especially for women and the working class. It’s intimate, socially observant, and compelling in a distinctly Mieko Kawakami way.
“Well, I mean, maybe what I’m doing isn’t wrong, but what am I actually doing?”
“But”—Kimiko looked at me—“who’s going to ask you that?”
“What?”
“Who’s going to ask you what you’re doing with your life?”
“Well…” I blinked at Kimiko.
“Why would anyone ask that?”
“Well, I don’t know, but—”
“Then it doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter, because nobody’s asking.”
“I think… I think maybe I’m asking myself?”
“Then just stop asking yourself.”
The Wax Child by Olga Ravn (tr. Martin Aitken)
The Wax Child is told through the perspective of a child shaped in beeswax, a little doll the size of a human forearm. I haven’t read many books told through inanimate objects, but it’s a narrative style I’ve been enjoying lately. In this novel, we travel to the 17th-century Danish witch trials, centred around Christenze Krucklow, an impoverished and unmarried noblewoman accused of witchcraft.
Olga Ravn’s writing is compelling, poetic, and gripping. There are no chapters, just fragments from the wax child’s thoughts and observations, with spells and incantations woven throughout the novel. These stem from real grimoires, adapted by Ravn to feel more accessible to a modern reader.
That isn’t the only historical thread Ravn draws on. These women lived, were tried, and later killed for their “crimes”. She brought them back to life, gave them a voice, and transported me right there with them. It felt like both a bodily and spiritual experience. I’ve never read anything quite like it, and I suspect this story will stay with me.
I am a child shaped in beeswax. I am made like a doll the size of a human forearm. They have given me hair and fingernail parings from the person who is to suffer. I was borne by my mistress for forty weeks under her right arm as if I was a proper child, and my wax was softened by her warmth.
Intermezzo by Sally Rooney
Intermezzo follows two brothers, Peter and Ivan Koubek, who have recently lost their father and are thrust into a strange liminal space where they’re forced to re-evaluate their lives, as well as their relationship.
Everything separates them. Peter is a 32-year-old lawyer in Dublin, caught in a complicated love triangle between two women, his first love Sylvia and the young Naomi. Ivan is 22, a socially awkward chess genius. When he meets Margaret, much older than him, it feels like light is finally shining on him. The chapters shift between the two brothers. Peter’s sections are very stream-of-consciousness, moving from one scattered thought to another in an almost staccato rhythm. At times, they can feel difficult to follow, probably because they mirror how our own minds often work. Ivan, meanwhile, feels more composed, more mature in a way, which is interesting given that he’s the younger sibling.
I started reading Intermezzo in November 2024. Part 1 felt very slow for me as I got to know the characters and understood their dynamic. I was also reading it in short bursts during my 20-minute breaks at work, but this book needed longer, more focused reading time. So I finished part 1, and then put the book down before picking it back up later. I read part 2 in larger chunks and finished part 3 on audio, which completely changed the game for me.
For this book, the audiobook format ended up working really well because we’re so immersed in the characters’ inner worlds. I shared it in my reading slump as information article, but sometimes it’s not the book, the timing, or even us. Sometimes, it’s the format.
Death happens, and no one knows how to deal with it. Grief is different for everyone. The way we react to it, the way we live with it, is deeply personal, even within the same family. As always, Rooney captures the subtleties of human connection and miscommunication with precision.
A Midnight Pastry Shop Called Hwawoldang by Lee Onhwa (tr. Slin Jung)
Yeon-hwa’s grandmother has recently passed away, leaving her bakery and copious debt to her granddaughter. The deal is simple: take over the shop for a month and open it to customers between 10 pm and midnight. If Yeon-hwa follows those two conditions, she gains access to the money her grandmother set aside to pay off the debt.
I love a slightly eccentric grandmother with a plan, especially one that’s impossible to say no to.
After opening her grandmother’s mysterious bakery one evening, Yeon-hwa discovers that its clientele is rather peculiar: wandering spirits in search of sweets to fulfil unfinished business before reincarnation. Moved by their stories, she gets down to work, baking pastry after pastry.
Will I ever get tired of magical, healing novels about the afterlife and ghosts? Probably. Was this one very different from others I’ve read? Not really. Same premise, different background. Each spirit story is tender, woven with hope, love, and regret that tugs at your heartstrings.
Sadly, the story of the living felt a little underbaked. I wished Lee Onhwa had woven more of their lives into each chapter. Maybe the book could’ve been slightly longer, because the opening focuses on Yeon-hwa, the middle on the spirits, and only at the end do we return to her. As the protagonist, she felt slightly absent in parts of the story. There was room to deepen her narrative and make the whole feel more distinctive.
Exophony: Voyages Outside the Mother Tongue by Yōko Tawada (tr. Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda)
I initially borrowed this book from my library, and as I was starting on the first page, I felt compelled to underline and annotate it. Given that it came from the library, I couldn’t and knew it would frustrate me, so I ordered my own copy. I love it when books are so captivating right from the first page, it has its own kind of magic.
Exophony is a collection of essays reflecting on life between languages: our mother tongue, the languages we learn, the ones we live in, and those that are not our own. As a Japanese-born writer based in Germany, Tawada draws from her own experience to explore language as something constantly in motion, always shifting, evolving, and creating new possibilities. Rather than identifying as an immigrant writer, she describes herself as “exophonic”, someone who exists beyond a single mother tongue.
This book is deeply rooted in how language shapes identity, thought, and creativity, often embracing the strangeness of linguistic displacement. Exophony is sometimes chosen, sometimes imposed, sometimes necessary. Japan imposed its language across Korea and other countries during imperial rule. In Senegal, writers once had no choice but to write in French. Today, some are reclaiming Wolof, while others write “against a past in which they were forced to write in French” and choose “an altogether different language” instead.
I was reviewing my annotations while writing this review and realised I already had pages of thoughts despite only being on page five. Exophony is such a rich book. It made me reflect on my own first language, which I can’t fully describe as my mother tongue, on English, the language I use every day and ultimately express myself in through writing, on the languages I’d like to learn or relearn, and on all the translated books I want to read to better understand their music.
In the introduction, author Naoise Dolan writes, “I defy you to come away from this book not yearning to explore something too, whether it’s learning your first foreign language or simply re-examining the peculiarities of English.” That perfectly captures my experience of reading Exophony. It left me with more questions than answers, and made me want to pay closer attention to the languages that shape my life.
Mongrel by Hanako Footman (tr. Translator)
Hanako Footman’s debut novel follows three Japanese women. Mei, biracial and living in Surrey, is grieving her Japanese mother as she navigates her identity and sexuality. Yuki, who leaves the Japanese countryside to pursue music in London. Haruka, who runs away from her childhood home to become a hostess in Tokyo clubs.
Mongrel has a rather slow burn start as we get to know its three protagonists. Ultimately, it’s more character-driven than plot-driven. Through Mei, Yuki, and Haruka’s stories, Hanako Footman explores isolation, womanhood, mixed identity, and the complexities of love. Though they touch on similar themes, each woman’s perspective feels unique, shaped by her own background and experience.
When a novel follows several lives, it’s easy to assume they’re connected somehow. Beyond the fact that all three women are Japanese, though, Hanako Footman keeps that connection just out of reach, leaving me wondering when and how it would finally reveal itself. When those seemingly separate lives finally converged, it all clicked into place, and I found myself even more invested.
At its core, the novel examines what it means to be Japanese, both in Japan and abroad, while shedding light on the wider immigrant experience. It’s an introspective and tender novel that captures the complexity of growing up between worlds, cultures, and languages. Challenging at times, yet also beautiful and enriching.
Taiwan Travelogue by Yáng Shuāng-zǐ (tr. Lin King)
A few books on this year’s International Booker Prize longlist caught my attention. One of them was Taiwan Travelogue by Yáng Shuāng-zǐ.
I mean, the blurb alone is irresistible.
Disguised as a translation of a rediscovered text by a Japanese writer. Taiwan Travelogue is a bittersweet story of love between two women, nested in a mouthwatering exploration of food, language, history and power. Set in May 1938, the young novelist Aoyama Chizuko sails from Japan to Taiwan where her interpreter proffers tantalising glimpses of island life and helps her to taste as much of its cuisine as her larger-than-life appetite can bear.
A love story between two women, language, history and food. It ticks all my boxes.
The first thing that struck me was that Aoyama Chizuko, the Japanese writer, isn’t explicitly described as a woman in the opening pages. Without the blurb, one could argue that the way she carries herself, proud, almost arrogant at times, gives her the aura of a male literary figure. Maybe because she comes from a more privileged background as a Japanese Mainlander, compared to the interpreter, the Islander, Ō Chizuru (Chi-chan / Ông Tshian-hȯh), who embodies qualities traditionally expected of women: being reserved, skilled in domestic work, amiable, accommodating, and attentive to others. So it’s refreshing to read about a woman being bold, and a little cocky too.
One of my favourite aspects was the novel’s concept of being a “rediscovered” Japanese text presented as a translation. More than once, I found myself wondering where fiction began. I enjoyed its unique structure with a “fake” introduction, a note from the “author” Aoyama Chizuko, footnotes, an afterword, and various translators’ notes. This was truly compelling. I also loved that each chapter revolves around a specific dish.
While the novel lingers on food and its delicious descriptions, it also invites deeper reflection on Japan’s colonial occupation of Taiwan. It’s subtle, but firmly present. Yáng Shuāng-zǐ hints at it through the relationship that naturally develops between Aoyama and Chi-chan, some comments shared by the writer, and some silences from the interpreter. These made me ponder, as there’s a huge power dynamic between the two characters.
The writer wants them to be friends. How could Chi-chan refuse Aoyama’s friendship, given the difference in status and power between them? It’s interesting to have this coloniser wanting to befriend the colonised person. As Chi-chan says, “it is ultimately impossible for a Mainlander and an Islander to share a friendship as equals.” There is no doubt that something blossoms between them; there is real love and care, but it’s always shadowed by a more subtle power imbalance. The simple fact that Aoyama decides to give Ō Chizuru the nickname of Chi-chan, a pet name. Yes, the endearing intention is there, but it also feels imposed, almost like renaming a pet after adopting it.
Personally, I’m really happy that Taiwan Travelogue won the International Booker Prize 2026. Yáng Shuāng-zǐ is the first Taiwanese author I’ve read from. Lin King did a tremendous job at translating it and providing historical, cultural, and literary context for the English readers. I loved learning about Taiwan and its wonderful cuisine. Chi-chan’s love for her island was truly endearing. There were beautiful passages throughout, especially when the characters observe the island, the nature, its simple beauty. Taiwan Travelogue is a beautifully crafted blend of history, romance, and food writing, elevated by sharp, subversive commentary on class, colonialism, superiority and saviour complexes.
Having followed some of the International Booker coverage, I also enjoyed seeing Yáng Shuāng-zǐ and Lin King interact. They genuinely seem like creative partners, and at times their collaboration reminded me of the relationship between the novel’s two central characters.
“But don’t you agree? Rushing to catch a bus or a train, rushing from one attraction to the next—that kind of ‘touring’ is just moving around, not ‘traveling’.”
”Then how would you define traveling?”
”Traveling is living in a foreign place.”
”Living?”
”As in, experiencing all four seasons of normal life in a foreign place. Leaving behind a home environment where one’s habits have settled into old, tired ways and spending one’s days somewhere else, trying to find some new feeling in the mere act of being alive in this world. In this sense, traveling is a way of cleansing one’s body and mind—starting afresh.”
This month’s books took me across countries, generations, languages, and lives. Some explored what it means to belong, while others questioned identity, womanhood, grief, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.
What stayed with me most was how many of these books existed in-between things. Between languages. Between cultures. Between versions of ourselves.
Have you read anything recently that shifted the way you see the world, or yourself? What were some of your favourite reads in May?
Until next time,
Amandine
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Taiwan Travelogue is at the top of my tbr! So glad to see you liked it!
I'm glad you found so much to take away from Exophony - I felt the same! I haven't read Tawada's fiction but I thought her point of view on language was fascinating and enlightening.