This is why I love short story collections. The first two stories didn't resonate with me at all but the rest was so brilliant that five stars just seem right. This is the kind of absurd fantastic realism that has always floated my boat. It reminds me of Dahl's "Kiss Kiss" and Yanagihara's "To Paradise", building a world that almost feels like our world joined with fantastic elements that feel oddly logical. After every story I could understand what feeling or complex situation Ma tried to make more graspable by utilizing said fantastical concepts. I felt like I had gotten to know Ling Ma without actually knowing her - recounting the similarities between the different protagonists. This felt like a dream, created by my head to bring the subconscious to the surface. I can't wait to dwelf into her bestselling debut novel "Severance" and I hope that she will never stop writing. My personal favourites: Peking Duck, Returning, Office Hours.

Als in der dritten Story die Hauptfigur unsichtbar wird, weil sie mit ihrer Ex-Besten-Freundin eine Droge nimmt und plötzlich Dinge entgleiten, hatte mich das Buch endlich. Je wilder die Story, desto größer meine Lesefreude. Und der Mix aus Skurrilem und Subjektiven macht diese Short Story Collection zu einem Juwel. Ma schreibt zudem unfassbar schön, ihre Sätze perlen von den Seiten oder schillern grotesk. Die letzten Sätze donnern dann immer in den Ohren und man sollte sich viel Zeit lassen, dem Nachhall der einzelnen Geschichten über Transformation und Exklusion nachzuspüren. “Making love with a yeti is difficult at first, but easy once you’ve done it more than thirty times. Then it’s like riding a bike. The human body learns. It adapts. The skin toughens, capillaries become less prone to breakage. Contusions heal by morning - you don’t even see them. Certain fluids stop secreting altogether.” “As I started to step past her, Bonnie stopped me. “Wait, you get a hug.” She dragged me into her embrace, feeling my shape and size as a competitive sport. Nothing had changed. “You look thin.” “Thanks, Mom.” Our Chinese mothers gauged our bodies like this, and she had become their torchbearer. Those excelling at the game are its most devout rule-enforcers. I stepped back.” “Y had also migrated to where all the guests clustered, but he didn’t seem to be socializing. He was still just kind of standing there. It hit me differently this time. What I’d mistaken for snobbery was a kind of self-acceptance. Unlike the rest of us, he didn’t swim against the tide of himself.” “English is just a play language to me, the words tethered to their meanings by the loosest, most tenuous connections. So it’s easy to lie. I tell the truth in Chinese, I make up stories in English. I don’t take it that seriously.”