The House on Mango Street tells the story, sort of, of Esperanza, a young Mexican-American girl growing up in a poor neighborhood in Chicago. It's a series of small vignettes, some interconnected, some non-sequiter, giving the book a sort of mosaic effect. Close up, it's a lot of individual pieces. Far away, it's a rich, textured, lyrical look at what it means to be young and on the edge of being not-young, to be poor and female in a rich man's world.
I'm not going to say any more that that. If you've already read it, you don't need me to, and if you haven't, I don't want to spoil anything with a weak attempt at a synopsis. Not because there are thrilling plot twists, or events whose impact would be lessened by my reveling them. Just because the book is delicate and lovely and heartbreaking and unbelievably joyous and you should just read it for yourself.
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