Sophia Shalmiyev

Interesting memoir? One minute you’re lulled by story, rhythm, and sentiment, the next she’s wrenched you into a candid snapshot of pain or fury. “I prayed that my father would become a very rich man so he could keep buying violins and I could keep breaking them over the backs of chairs. Violins against women no more.”

Can't help but agree that the moments of callousness in regards to her own children and partners does sometimes distract (even detract) from her searching narrative.… (meer)

“An arresting memoir equal parts refugee-coming-of-age story, feminist manifesto, and meditation on motherhood . . .” says the blurb.

Hmm. Gobbledygook is more like it. My reading was “arrested” in no time by the absolute mess of Shalmiyev’s pretentiously opaque writing. This is another memoir in the “here’s-my-mess-you-figure-it-out” style.

The experience and inner life of another can be difficult enough to grasp when the writing is clear. It takes work to write coherently and lucidly—to attempt to communicate with precision so that others might understand. This author wasn’t interested in doing that kind of work.

The fact is: it’s mighty hard to find the (coming-of-age) story (or any story for that matter) when the reader is mired in one impenetrable sentence after another.

Take this:
“The daughters who live in flashbacks will suspend their tongues between the origin and the destination . . .” What?

Or this:
“Even Audre Lorde needs her mother’s permission to grease the gears on the train to the beginning, to knock on coffins.”
What?

If I sent this sort of nonsense to a publisher, I doubt anyone would give it the time of day.… (meer)