This book is pretentious AF and I spent most of the book entirely annoyed.

There is no right or wrong way to love books. Whether you: • Read to escape • Read to learn • Enjoy critical analysis • Prefer head-empty vibes • Like being scared • Read to find comfort and hope • Remember in detail every book you read • Immediately forget the main characters name • Only read critically acclaimed books • Only read comics, manga, and graphic novels • Reread frequently • Never reread • Own a large collection you've only read a fraction of • Keep rare and precious books in a safe place • Precariously stack your collection in window sills • Read physical books • Read digital books • Read audio books at x3 speed • Read 25 books a month • Read 1 book a year • Read books just so you know what the hell your coworker is talking about • Read books literally no one else has ever heard of • Read because you can't go there yourself • Read because you have been already • Read because you want to do • Read because you never could • Write in the margins, highlight, tab, or otherwise annotate • Do everything in your power to preserve the spine • Intentionally break the spine • Use your book as a wallet • WHATEVER ELSE, you are a valid reader and it's entirely unreasonable for anyone to suggest you love books more or less than anyone else.

A lot of the arguments made in this book are sooooo surface level they become infuriating. Books mean something different to every person, and that's why they're so great. To assign this grandiose larger meaning, within a prescriptive framing, is such BS. You do you, boo. Read however and whatever you like.

Also everyone in this novel is just mean. For why??

⚡️ As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow — 4.5/5

This read had been a long time coming—I’ve had it on my TBR for nearly three years, and I’m glad I finally picked it up. It’s difficult to critique a book with such a clear sense of purpose: one that seeks to shine a light on the Syrian Revolution, particularly its impact on civilians. The novel thoughtfully explores mental health, the risks and realities of being a refugee, and how hope can persist amid immense loss. It also touches on the desire for freedom under a dictatorship, the isolation of watching the world observe your country’s suffering from afar, and the ways nationalism is shaped and expressed.

I loved the characters, the twists—especially the one around the 75% mark—and Kauf in particular. His presence as a vivid hallucination felt like a powerful representation of survival instincts and psychological defense mechanisms. Salama’s guilt taking on a physical manifestation through vomiting was especially striking in its realism.

My only real issue was how central the romance was to the story. This may partly stem from my own difficulty connecting with romance in fiction lately, but it was a bit of a turn-off for me. While I liked Kenan and Salama’s relationship and appreciated how it gave her a sense of family and hope, it felt rushed. I was surprised by how quickly they fell in love, and I felt that their relationship—and the persuasion to leave Syria—occupied a large portion of the middle of the book. This slowed the pacing for me and became somewhat repetitive, and I found myself waiting for the story to pick up again.

That said, I do recognize that bonds can form more quickly in times of uncertainty and instability. Overall, I commend the author for bringing these characters—and the questions they grapple with—to life. The writing style itself greatly enhances the storytelling and emotional impact of the novel.