luce (cry bebè's back from hiatus)'s Reviews > Blue Light Hours

While I typically appreciate coolly restrained storytelling, mood-driven narratives, and melancholic slice-of-life stories, Blue Light Hours doesn’t succeed in pulling any of these off. The writing feels overly trimmed down, stripped of its intended meaning and substance. It brings to mind a review discussing contemporary fiction of the Rooney variety: “The results, allegedly, are blanched, lifeless novels, characterized by minimalism of description, coolness of tone, humorlessness of style, and wobbliness of genre—not quite fact, not quite fiction.” While the author of this review goes on to praise Rooney and novelists like her for her “supremely intelligent critique of our discourse,” I cannot do the same. In fact, I agree with the criticism directed at these books. They are ‘less’, less funny, less emotional, less compelling, just less.

These types of novels seem affectedly apathetic, even clinical, but not in a lethally precise way, such as Brandon Taylor's style, but rather robotic, as if they could have been written by AI. Despite their attempts to present reality unvarnished and resist plot and character arcs, they strike me as incredibly artificial and labored, which makes them pretentious, despite their efforts to be authentic and real.
In Blue Light Hours, the interactions between the mother and daughter, while not inherently off-putting given my fondness for mumblecore-esque books, lack authenticity. Despite attempts to portray natural, unadorned dialogue, the exchanges between them feel studied. The rhythm of their conversations is discordant and stilted, failing to convey a sense of their relationship or history together. Instead, reading their back-and-forths felt like watching amateur theatre, with the characters reciting lines without conviction.

Additionally, the prose occasionally ventures into twee territory, reminiscent of Instagram poetry ( millennial ennui vibes: “I lived alone, I rarely spoke, I ate badly”), detracting from the overall experience. Despite my desire to connect with the theme of a young woman navigating college life away from home, the book failed to convey the narrator's longing (be it for home, for Portuguese, or for her mother) that I anticipated.

The latter section, with its perspective shifts and clinical references to 'the mother' and 'daughter,' further highlights the book's tendency towards style over substance. While the summary promises a poignant exploration of the mother-daughter relationship across borders, there was nothing in these pages. Sure, now and again the author captures a certain mood, thanks to descriptions of the weather and changing seasons, but these did not make the book particularly atmospheric or immersive. Writing-wise, I can't help but compare it unfavorably to Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au and Dove mi trovo (aka Whereabouts) by Jhumpa Lahiri. Theme-wise, there are plenty of other novels that managed to explore these themes with either more depth or style: American Fever by Dur e Aziz Amna, The Pachinko Parlour by Elisa Shua Dusapin, Tell Me I’m an Artist by Chelsea Martin, The Idiot & Either/Or by Elif Batuman, Lucy> by Jamaica Kincaid, and Villette by Charlotte Brontë.

Reading this left me feeling completely indifferent. It didn't elicit any positive or negative emotions; it was like glancing over a grocery list or a bus schedule. I felt absolutely nothing. While it might be better than feeling annoyed or disliking something, at least when I read something that causes those (negative) emotions, I know it's had some effect on me.

I could see this novel working for readers who enjoy the work of Rooney, Aysegül Savas, or Bronwyn Fischer. As with any of my other negative reviews, take it with a pinch of salt, and if you are undecided about whether to read this novel, I recommend you check out some more positive reviews.