In This Edition of
The BookBrowse Review
The BookBrowse Review
Published January 24, 2024
ISSN: 1930-0018
The BookBrowse Review
Published January 24, 2024
ISSN: 1930-0018
Contents
Highlighting indicates debut books
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Literary Fiction
Historical Fiction
Short Stories
Essays
Poetry & Novels in Verse
Mysteries
Thrillers
Romance
Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Speculative, Alt. History
Biography/Memoir
History, Current Affairs and Religion
Science, Health and the Environment
Literary Fiction
Historical Fiction
Poetry & Novels in Verse
Thrillers
Romance
Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Speculative, Alt. History
Biography/Memoir
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A queer, mixed race writer working in a largely white, male field, science and conservation journalist Sabrina Imbler has always been drawn to the mystery of life in the sea, and particularly to creatures living in hostile or remote environments.
Each essay in their debut collection profiles one such creature: the mother octopus who starves herself while watching over her eggs, the Chinese sturgeon whose migration route has been decimated by pollution and dams, the bizarre Bobbitt worm (named after Lorena), and other uncanny creatures lurking in the deep ocean, far below where the light reaches. Imbler discovers that some of the most radical models of family, community, and care can be found in the sea, from gelatinous chains that are both individual organisms and colonies of clones to deep-sea crabs that have no need for the sun, nourished instead by the chemicals and heat throbbing from the core of the Earth. Exploring themes of adaptation, survival, sexuality, and care, and weaving the wonders of marine biology with stories of their own family, relationships, and coming of age, How Far the Light Reaches is a book that invites us to envision wilder, grander, and more abundant possibilities for the way we live.
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In their debut essay collection, science and conservation journalist Sabrina Imbler takes readers on a tour through the ocean's briny depths to meet little-known sea creatures with fascinating lives and capabilities. Throughout, Imbler creates strikingly rendered parallels to their own experience as a queer, mixed race, nonbinary science writer.
In "My Mother and the Starving Octopus," Imbler explores the pitfalls of motherhood and womanhood through the lens of an octopus that brooded over her eggs for an astonishing four-and-a-half years, not leaving them even for a moment to seek nourishment. The account of this creature appears alongside Imbler's memories of developing an eating disorder as a teenager, partly as a result of absorbing their mother's critical comments about her own weight. Though this was a harrowing experience — which included being taken to a "weight-loss coach" and placed on a 1,000 calorie per day diet — Imbler expresses nuanced sympathy for where their mother was coming from: "I realize now that my mother's wish for me to be thin was, in its way, an act of love. She wanted me to be skinny so things would be easier. White, so things would be easier. Straight, so things would be easy, easy, easy." Imbler captures that ineffable moment when one realizes a parent is human, fallible, doing their best even when their best might be harmful.
Elsewhere, Imbler explains that the Chinese sturgeon is known to have traveled 1,900 miles every four years to spawn in the Yangtze River, until the late 20th century, when a series of dams was constructed, blocking access to the spawning site. An account of the sturgeons' plight is placed alongside the story of the author's grandmother's six-month trek from Japanese-occupied Shanghai to Chongqing as a child during the Second Sino-Japanese War — a perilous journey that placed the travelers at the brink of starvation. The easy connection is that both are stories of human-made obstacles to survival, and both stories of resilience. But Imbler takes the dual narratives further, demonstrating how both are also about being uprooted, and whether or not one can ever go home again. The author's grandmother, who now experiences memory challenges, "speaks in Mandarin more and more" as though "she is returning to China," but the China she knew before coming to the United States no longer exists. Her access to it is obstructed, like the Yangtze.
An essay called "We Swarm" is an ode to queer locations and events in New York City, including the annual Pride parade and accompanying Dyke March ("which any of us will remind you is a protest, not a parade"), as well as a stretch of Jacob Riis Beach in Queens that is a popular party spot and hallowed part of LGBTQ+ history (see Beyond the Book). The masses of people that assemble in such spots are compared to salp, "a colonial animal that spends part of its life surrounded by clones of itself," as Imbler discusses the camaraderie and support queer people often extend to one another, whether they be friends or strangers.
In one of the strongest pieces, "Hybrids," Imbler addresses the theme of community again, interrogating language to consider how white supremacy invades and infects self-expression for people of color. Describing an essay addressing their mixed race identity written many years ago, Imbler explains, "I had written the essay not just for a white editor but also for a white audience. Like a dutiful little trash compactor, I had digested my messy heap of an identity into a manageable lesson for people who were not like me." Imbler compares their own experience fielding questions about their racial background ("What are you?") to hybrid sea creatures that have been studied — poked, prodded, named and dissected — by scientists working within disciplines marred by racism, eugenics and colonialism. They go on to write of the sense of connection they feel with those who have had similar experiences — of, for instance, being asked intrusive questions about their race or being mistaken for their white father's wife by strangers. They conclude astutely that "Maybe complaining to someone who gets it is one of the purest comforts on Earth."
The book's guiding concept — sea creatures in parallel to various details of the author's life and identity — is very specific. As such, it's difficult to execute and sustain evenly throughout, and some of the connections are a little strained. But the strongest pieces demonstrate Imbler's impressive range and talent for making both the science and the personal reflections accessible to a wide audience. Their writing is vividly detailed and will be relatable to anyone who has ever felt the particular challenges of being different. Come for the sea creatures, stay for the nuanced coming-of-age journey.
Reviewed by Lisa Butts
Ed Yong, New York Times Bestselling author of I Contain Multitudes
Kristen Arnett, New York Times bestselling author of With Teeth
Megha Majumdar, New York Times bestselling author of A Burning
In the essay "We Swarm" from their debut collection How Far the Light Reaches, Sabrina Imbler reflects on their experience finding comfort and kinship in New York City's queer community. The primary setting of this essay is a part of the beach at Jacob Riis Park in the borough of Queens, which, they explain, "had been a gay haven as early as the '40s, or even the '30s." By the 1950s and '60s, the area called "Bay 1" or "the People's Beach" was a popular meeting spot for a diverse group of LGBTQ+ New Yorkers and visitors. A 1963 article in the New York Times reported that Jacob Riis was somewhere "the New York homosexual" could find others of "his kind." In the 1970s, the beach became a hub of political activity for a community seeking avenues of change after the Stonewall Riots, as the newly formed Gay Activists Alliance held voter registration drives there.
The beach is named for Danish American journalist and photographer Jacob Riis, who in 1915 partially funded the construction of a tuberculosis hospital called Neponsit Home, which now sits abandoned and dilapidated on the People's Beach. Recently, the city announced plans to tear down the ruins of the hospital and build a public park on the grounds. Regular visitors worry that any changes to the beach and its surroundings could lead to outsiders encroaching on what is considered a sacred place of queer history and community. Ceyenne Doroshow, founder of Gays and Lesbians Living in a Transgender Society, told The City, "There are so many places in New York City that we are not comfortable in. Riis is our home, our dance floor, our marriage place and our burial ground." The latter designation is somewhat literal, as the beach features a memorial to a performer named Ms. Colombia, who drowned there in 2018.
The People's Beach is a place where queer, trans and gender nonconforming people of all kinds can have fun with friends and like-minded strangers. It's more racially diverse than many other popular queer locales in New York City, and it's a safe place for those whose bodies might be outside of the cultural norm. However, police are a regular presence and have been reported cracking down on beachgoers for petty crimes, continuing the NYPD's long history of disproportionately targeting queer spaces.
Mentions of the beach have appeared in works by Audre Lorde and Joan Nestle, and a pivotal scene in Torrey Peters' debut novel Detransition, Baby takes place there as well. Visual artists have also incorporated the beach into their work; photographer Chris Berntsen has a remarkable project called "No Other Name Than Their Own," which combines present-day and historical images taken at Jacob Riis.
Jacob Riis Park, park of the Jamaica Bay Unit of Gateway National Recreational Area and a National Historic Place.
Photo by Padraic Ryan (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Filed under Places, Cultures & Identities
By Lisa Butts
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