Longlisted for the 2025 International Booker Prize
Named one of the Best Books of the Year by NPR
“[De la Cerda's] tactics succeed in creating the enchanting feeling that one is sitting across from each narrator, being told their stories as a close confidante. . . . The author’s demand that we bear witness to the senseless murders, in all their gruesomeness, of these bright young women is sobering and commendable.” —Kirkus Reviews
“De la Cerda offers a refreshingly unapologetic voice for women who refuse to be placated. This is worth a look.” —Publishers Weekly
“With sharp social criticism and sardonic humor, de la Cerda balances brutality with compelling portrayals of characters whom readers may otherwise be tempted to condemn. . . . A work of narrative art and a powerful testament to diverse experiences and stories that deserve to be heard.” —Necessary Fiction
“Reservoir Bitches offers a foundation on which working-class, provincial, and otherwise marginalized writers in Mexico and elsewhere can add the detail necessary to transform tales into nuanced stories that reflect the richness of the world of their protagonists.” —Los Angeles Review of Books
“De la Cerda’s writing has flair, and fangs.” —Full Stop
“The reservoir dogs may have drafted the outline, but the Reservoir Bitches get the last word. Embodied or not, human or not quite, they’re alive. That’s their resistance. So alive they walk right off the page. So alive you could invite them to your party. So alive you can hear their voices for real. And if you listen hard enough, to the sound under the silence, you might.” —Southwest Review
“Dahlia de la Cerda is the armed wing of morras who write, the long-awaited apostle of morras who help morras. Barrio counterwriting, misoprostol mixed with weed, narcocorrido tweets, a fuckload of violence, Dahlia’s books are all or nothing—luxury literature that is proletarian, radical, and carnal for our era of idiots and cowards.” —Gabriela Wiener, author of Undiscovered
“This book has the force of an ocean gully: it sucks you in, drags you through the mud, and then cleanses you.” —Andrea Abreu, author of Dogs of Summer
“I couldn’t put this book down! Equal parts punk, brilliant, and urgent, with a side of Mexican goth. Dahlia de la Cerda’s blend of raw, at times brutal storytelling is exactly what we need right now. A force on its own that refuses to be tamed, the writing here is a literary gift.”—Julián Delgado Lopera, author of Fiebre Tropical
“The brutal, fascinating, and truthful stories in Reservoir Bitches describe, without indulgence, the highly complex reality of young women in Mexico.” —Berna González Harbour, El País
“It’s been a long time since I’ve read a book like this: the kind that makes you feel like your chest is going to explode.” —María Teresa Priego-Broca, La Silla Rota
“A small monument to transgressive literature, hard, soft, romantic, and painful.” —Gerardo Lima Molina, Tierra Adentro
“Dahlia de la Cerda’s work has become a reference point for its groundbreaking characters, for its fusion of expressionism and irony.” —Manuel García Pérez, Mundiario
2024-07-04
Thirteen “reservoir bitches” tell readers: Sit, stay, escúchame.
Mexican author de la Cerda’s English-language debut, a story collection translated from Spanish by Sanches and Cleary, presents a group of Mexican women facing down danger and tragedy at every turn. The “bitches” are women from different economic backgrounds—drug empire heiress Yuliana struts the streets in Louboutins, and teen mom Stefi works 12-hour shifts at a shoe store—as well as racial backgrounds—blond-haired and blue-eyed Constanza masquerades as a mestiza to aid her husband’s political campaign, and an unnamed narrator seeks revenge on her murderers after being resurrected by a figure from Mexican legend. De la Cerda’s narrators have lived very different, equally important lives, but their voices tend to blend into one another. Most have a similar sense of humor and code of ethics, and many make use of an irreverent tone, colloquial language, and nicknames for the reader, such as “fam,” “queen,” and “amigui” (each of these words appears in its own story—perhaps this is an attempt to distinguish their narrators). These tactics succeed in creating the enchanting feeling that one is sitting across from each narrator, being told their stories as a close confidante. This feeling remains even when we know the narrator is dead—which does not happen just once, but four times. The most prominent theme is the epidemic of femicide, specifically in Mexico. In one of her most powerful moments, de la Cerda writes, “Mexico is a monster that devours women. Mexico is a desert of pulverized bone. Mexico is a graveyard full of pink crosses.” The author’s demand that we bear witness to the senseless murders, in all their gruesomeness, of these bright young women is sobering and commendable. However, the sheer magnitude of loss and injustice displayed here means that the vengeance secured against the perpetrators, which is posed as badass feminist action, feels limp.
De la Cerda sums it up best: “Being a woman means living in a state of emergency.
