tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29278588812681819452024-03-13T15:11:35.950+00:00Book OdysseyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger942125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-69570283993798281332023-11-04T11:51:00.000+00:002023-11-04T11:51:00.914+00:00Book #45<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiSh1qVaGQuNhBNezp3qK15Y0pyVeiCWAU8mqSocUHHXd2jSnvHajVxD7mVP01ihOrxZ00un8S6N2sX7xDFhmH1sWTvMTLOZs9Y8ODo3u3oAQwXlX_2kg3SOjJZAFwFhLqTrPfGaZ_s5rAXzslCjc2Njujcps7QPXzybtOu1t5_jKcqvPekNEj27gIMERp/s500/41VsMD23OgL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiSh1qVaGQuNhBNezp3qK15Y0pyVeiCWAU8mqSocUHHXd2jSnvHajVxD7mVP01ihOrxZ00un8S6N2sX7xDFhmH1sWTvMTLOZs9Y8ODo3u3oAQwXlX_2kg3SOjJZAFwFhLqTrPfGaZ_s5rAXzslCjc2Njujcps7QPXzybtOu1t5_jKcqvPekNEj27gIMERp/w265-h400/41VsMD23OgL.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Shutter Island </i>by Dennis Lehane</u></b></div><br /><span style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></span><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;">The year is 1954. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i>U.S. Marshal Teddy Daniels and his new partner, Chuck Aule, have come to Shutter Island, home of Ashecliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane, to investigate the disappearance of a patient. Multiple murderess Rachel Solando is loose somewhere on this remote and barren island, despite having been kept in a locked cell under constant surveillance. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i>As a killer hurricane relentlessly bears down on them, a strange case takes on even darker, more sinister shades—with hints of radical experimentation, horrifying surgeries, and lethal countermoves made in the cause of a covert shadow war. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><i>No one is going to escape Shutter Island unscathed, because nothing at Ashecliffe Hospital is what it seems. But then neither is Teddy Daniels.</i></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve always loved this novel. Never knowing who to trust, nothing being quite as it seems, twists, wildcards, no real certainty - it’s gorgeous.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lehane gives a lot here, much of it feeling chaotic and cluttered, particularly towards the finale. It’s tempting to lose patience here, but it felt akin to the mind of our protagonist attempting to piece together information which was being received.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the most frightening things shown to us, which is present in real life also, is that once one is proclaimed insane, any protestations you make to the contrary only add to the argument against you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The twist is bloody glorious, a true mindbend, and Lehane’s writing is skilful, allowing most scenes to be interpreted from two different angles. It would be such a joy to read this again without knowing the book’s secrets, but sadly I am decades past that joy.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-78990138927592226502023-11-04T11:38:00.005+00:002023-11-04T11:38:30.685+00:00Book #44<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Dexl1Z1nW8lsBbWSQ0GWaPlnh-9s6lJAT8Y_eP_DG06q_tMJ5ye1tRyx4ykYrG6zI1xrGOsIUMT1ZTZTEmYFxP8QyZESFtBZFNY02SGVwKC3MukngUrVf-KwtVSY0xQJOOmFjIyMahVTZWE_cr8z-GjCvGC2WrtpdVSKXH_fMtV1EWvM_z_xbCUAVDl0/s500/41y+BnHcQ1L.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Dexl1Z1nW8lsBbWSQ0GWaPlnh-9s6lJAT8Y_eP_DG06q_tMJ5ye1tRyx4ykYrG6zI1xrGOsIUMT1ZTZTEmYFxP8QyZESFtBZFNY02SGVwKC3MukngUrVf-KwtVSY0xQJOOmFjIyMahVTZWE_cr8z-GjCvGC2WrtpdVSKXH_fMtV1EWvM_z_xbCUAVDl0/w261-h400/41y+BnHcQ1L.jpg" width="261" /></a><br /><b><u><i>The Vanishing of Margaret Small </i>by Neil Alexander</u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i></i></span></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Meet Margaret Small: 75, plain spoken and a Cilla Black super fan. Shortly after the death of her idol, Margaret begins receiving sums of money in the post, signed simply 'C'.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>She is convinced it must be Cilla, but how can it be? To solve the mystery of her benefactor Margaret must go back in her memories almost 70 years, to the time when she was 'vanished' to a long-stay institution for children with learning disabilities.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh Margaret, I would move mountains for you. You are one of the most endearing characters I have met in a long time, and Alexander has written you in such a way that I must protect you at all costs. Your obstacles in life, your joys and sorrows, all combined to create such a wonderful person, and reading your story was an incredible honour. Yes, I know you are fictional, but since finishing your story I often hope you’re doing well. That’s the power of a wonderful author.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We follow Margaret’s life along two timelines - present day, then flicking back to her childhood when she was taken to a home for children with additional needs. Her life has been filled with trials, and yet she remains one of the brightest, and kindest, characters I’ve ever met.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Margaret is a huge Cilla Black fan, and soon begins to receive letters from ‘C’. Convinced this is indeed Cilla, Margaret pulls us into her quest to have those around her believe what she’s telling them, and to discover who the mystery letter writer is. I was heartbroken to discover I hadn’t believed Margaret either, and that each of us have our own predispositions no matter how much we don’t want them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I truly loved this novel and being allowed to meet Margaret. An astounding debut, a happy sad experience, and one which I will remember for a while to come.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-87902085022983734292023-11-04T11:24:00.002+00:002023-11-04T11:24:16.418+00:00Book #43<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNH99UNCZM110xvfSt-XxcJ6fjq0RdsdmOF6PULOjFZpUKI9CzZRttFKGRKe_t1fFwFkMPMFtK0sg4uwAUN1wSNHqXPS4hiC3VxSW2BahM7P1_dzeu1lmBqF47vVQdjMdGUZ1nnp4KtkrBZtYAQHe9pDkKHtp64VA8XY2nHDMjd7fqrV_i6lCLDLTVoYN8/s1000/61QA76dLgfL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="691" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNH99UNCZM110xvfSt-XxcJ6fjq0RdsdmOF6PULOjFZpUKI9CzZRttFKGRKe_t1fFwFkMPMFtK0sg4uwAUN1wSNHqXPS4hiC3VxSW2BahM7P1_dzeu1lmBqF47vVQdjMdGUZ1nnp4KtkrBZtYAQHe9pDkKHtp64VA8XY2nHDMjd7fqrV_i6lCLDLTVoYN8/w276-h400/61QA76dLgfL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The Cracked Looking-Glass </i>by Katherine Anne Porter</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b></b></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b>'She only wished to prove to herself she was once more on a train going somewhere.'</b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>A passionate, unfulfilled woman considers her life and her marriage in this moving novella by one of America's finest short story writers.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A strong and affecting story about marriage, and encroaching old age. Rosaleen marries a man thirty years her senior, and after many years, when signs of aging begin to show in him, she considers her life choices, her mistakes, and her own still relatively youthful body and mind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The power held in this story, considering its length, is rather impressive. In fifty pages, Porter shows us multitudes - whole lives spanning decades, discontent, flaws, feelings - and these aren’t limited to our protagonist.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I did feel a bit sore in places, recognising Rosaleen’s nostalgia for younger days, for things which could have been but never were. Porter explores her characters tenderly, and yet somehow abuses her readers by forcing them to consider their own pasts, their own lives speeding away from them, peppered with mistakes and regret.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-21234382353959605062023-11-04T11:18:00.001+00:002023-11-04T11:18:04.492+00:00Book #42<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu69pXV085TeH0O1vONivSrybVe2J454xYuF55wd9mH6N4Kv7lrsCkZiTb4ZDfYjd-_nGmHs6JQtSz4pA-p2eyw_9iRKLhfRGaxY2WWwYUEjWOOTNvqWpVegIz2_nx5TYFtPyPjIqjiGs4sEkIimRU0wq_Syg4iYXLjqLf1tWdGwcwIwFkZwAgwPRk2F2S/s392/Insurgent_(book).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="258" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu69pXV085TeH0O1vONivSrybVe2J454xYuF55wd9mH6N4Kv7lrsCkZiTb4ZDfYjd-_nGmHs6JQtSz4pA-p2eyw_9iRKLhfRGaxY2WWwYUEjWOOTNvqWpVegIz2_nx5TYFtPyPjIqjiGs4sEkIimRU0wq_Syg4iYXLjqLf1tWdGwcwIwFkZwAgwPRk2F2S/w264-h400/Insurgent_(book).jpeg" width="264" /></a><br /><b><u><i>Insurgent </i>by Veronica Roth</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>One choice can transform you – or it can destroy you. Tris Prior's initiation day should have been marked by victorious celebrations with her chosen faction; instead it ended with unspeakable horrors. Now unrest surges in the factions around her as conflict between their ideologies grows.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>War seems inevitable; and in times of war sides must be chosen, secrets will emerge and choices will become ever more irrevocable. Tris has already paid a terrible price for survival and is wracked by haunting grief and guilt. But radical new discoveries and shifting relationships mean that she must fully embrace her Divergence – even though she cannot know what might be lost in doing so.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After finishing <i>Divergent</i>, I felt as though I’d been on an insane journey without any substance. I debated continuing the series, but as someone who doesn’t like to abandon things, found myself bubbling within the pages of <i>Insurgent</i> only months later, worried it was going to be much of the same.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And it was. It truly was. I still hated Beatrice - intended to be written as a strong woman (girl) but turning out irrevocably selfish and irritating. Romance shoehorned in there either to advance the plot or to appeal to teen readers. A quite unbelievable cast of characters who encounter quite unbelievable situations, even for a dystopia.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still, I inhaled the pages once again. There was something propelling me through, although I have not one single suggestion on what this driving force could have been. There was some interesting commentary on how society is structured (think Shyamalan) which didn’t have the level of impact I would’ve liked, although I assume this will be explored further in the final instalment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Is there such a thing as a hate read which only becomes so after you’ve finished reading? The mysterious force urging me to continue remains a closeted enigma.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-28885101684132167332023-11-04T11:12:00.001+00:002023-11-04T11:12:05.829+00:00Book #41<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG9dMiQDPs_ywPKqz6ogx_4yjRgFwTtO8xkpIoec5ipXt1rmCF3cziwCRRJbfh9aD9nKhAerpO7Zt2N3weVNP4lO7IY5z718ZxoGLOacQEWtbGmovwch2CvU-oiqzeEdunC1RpvmDgnYPiJNjnA79Gl9nVgEkmQFEtWHeznO-0gA2LW2r20KKiIjizylbv/s1000/61Uip5EP6SL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="691" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG9dMiQDPs_ywPKqz6ogx_4yjRgFwTtO8xkpIoec5ipXt1rmCF3cziwCRRJbfh9aD9nKhAerpO7Zt2N3weVNP4lO7IY5z718ZxoGLOacQEWtbGmovwch2CvU-oiqzeEdunC1RpvmDgnYPiJNjnA79Gl9nVgEkmQFEtWHeznO-0gA2LW2r20KKiIjizylbv/w276-h400/61Uip5EP6SL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="276" /></a><br /><b><u><i>Leaving the Yellow House </i>by Saul Bellow</u></b></div> <p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b></b></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b>She had lived by delays; she had meant to stop drinking; she had put off the time, and now she had smashed her car.</b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>At once harsh and tender, expansive and acutely funny, this is the story of an elderly and self-destructive dipsomaniac in a Western desert town, who finds herself faced with a final, impossible choice.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Bellow tells us, <i>“you couldn’t help being fond of Hattie,”</i> and that was quite the tragic understatement to me. I quite simply loved her as I love all women who shun their vulnerabilities, judge their neighbours, and live life entirely on their own terms.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After one too many lemonades one evening, Hattie crashes her car and suffers consequences which impact her independence. In the gloom of this situation, she begins to take stock of her life, and come to a decision on who will inherit her yellow house after she’s gone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was an interesting exploration of old age, loneliness, the slow yet sudden realisation of our time running out, and what that means for our fellow humans and our possessions. Bellow really has created quite a character with Hattie, and his prose is stunning, dragging us into her story, her list of predicaments, and her memories of life.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-70483282107124833452023-08-31T19:01:00.002+00:002023-08-31T19:01:24.250+00:00Book #40<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldrXBFHVhbI_1jRzpy4CewRM-Kk8Gx7Z8Y25AR0rXL-Yv2tEARJjLxvVZUjw3PcwIW-XtT_v6uMUqavx_KxeSFwQtj_t4KO7ZUNxxhotowJt4EWoxKSpmNeV35HSFUNPRejKK_p6DOfp35jzfC-zMEYkl-rkd2PV0r3vP7NwVKoTjpEUuxcqJsxgCpdfW/s1000/814rOYqM0aL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="641" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldrXBFHVhbI_1jRzpy4CewRM-Kk8Gx7Z8Y25AR0rXL-Yv2tEARJjLxvVZUjw3PcwIW-XtT_v6uMUqavx_KxeSFwQtj_t4KO7ZUNxxhotowJt4EWoxKSpmNeV35HSFUNPRejKK_p6DOfp35jzfC-zMEYkl-rkd2PV0r3vP7NwVKoTjpEUuxcqJsxgCpdfW/w256-h400/814rOYqM0aL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>People of Abandoned Character </i>by Clare Whitfield</u></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>London, 1888: Susannah rushes into marriage to a young and wealthy surgeon. After a passionate honeymoon, she returns home with her new husband wrapped around her little finger. But then everything changes.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Thomas's behavior becomes increasingly volatile and violent. He stays out all night, returning home bloodied and full of secrets. The gentle caresses she enjoyed on her wedding night are now just a honeyed memory.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>When the first woman is murdered in Whitechapel, Susannah's interest is piqued. But as she follows the reports of the ongoing hunt for the killer, her mind takes her down the darkest path imaginable. Every time Thomas stays out late, another victim is found dead.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Is it coincidence? Or is her husband the man they call Jack the Ripper?</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I do wonder what Jack the Ripper would think of his legacy still being analysed and pondered over one hundred years after his brutal campaign. There are so many different takes on who this man could have been, his motives, his mental state, his desires. With <i>People of Abandoned Character</i>, Whitfield gives us another unique take on the story, and does it well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We meet Susannah, a nurse in Whitechapel. She marries a handsome and wealthy doctor, and all of her chips seem to fall into place, at least until after the honeymoon. As events unfold and the Ripper’s atrocities plague the city, we begin to wonder whether the similarities between the killer’s predilections and her husband's cruelties are coincidences or clues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s a lot happening here outside of the murders, which I welcomed and was enveloped in. Whitfield has depicted the atmosphere of Victorian London vividly, and I was both glad and appalled to see the squalor, feel the fear, and experience the iniquity of the time. Whitfield touches on societal customs and expectations in a way which really drives home Susannah’s situation, and I did appreciate the subtle nods to LGBT relationships.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There were a few aspects of this which I found to be slightly contrived, and I really had to suspend my disbelief towards the end of the novel. What should have read as huge twists seemed incredibly beyond the scope of my imagination, despite there being some ideas thrown around which were a bit more credible.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An overall exciting and atmospheric account of life in London during the Ripper’s reign. Hold your nose.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-53878939753093495132023-08-31T17:57:00.003+00:002023-08-31T17:57:29.750+00:00Book #39<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuedICdLezJI1oyRp4lFisOhS_tdDxrOG6mrCfH_bVTgGAPp83Im_2IJVXRn3MxclPnJtV5iwkNEErtm_kbl1rcFeNTo_yYJC2YtVbfmWYwL4fUJm7s10GpqQjZ6BcxgTVqsi4HVQQa2XRWZKR3dvUjuK6lzENUaio0MdhFF7EYfSctoGqRSwBoU3gw_hv/s400/9781408890042.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="261" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuedICdLezJI1oyRp4lFisOhS_tdDxrOG6mrCfH_bVTgGAPp83Im_2IJVXRn3MxclPnJtV5iwkNEErtm_kbl1rcFeNTo_yYJC2YtVbfmWYwL4fUJm7s10GpqQjZ6BcxgTVqsi4HVQQa2XRWZKR3dvUjuK6lzENUaio0MdhFF7EYfSctoGqRSwBoU3gw_hv/w261-h400/9781408890042.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Circe </i>by Madeline Miller</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>In the house of Helios, god of the sun and mightiest of the Titans, a daughter is born. But Circe has neither the look nor the voice of divinity, and is scorned and rejected by her kin. Increasingly isolated, she turns to mortals for companionship, leading her to discover a power forbidden to the gods: witchcraft.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>When love drives Circe to cast a dark spell, wrathful Zeus banishes her to the remote island of Aiaia. There she learns to harness her occult craft, drawing strength from nature. But she will not always be alone; many are destined to pass through Circe's place of exile, entwining their fates with hers. The messenger god, Hermes. The craftsman, Daedalus. A ship bearing a golden fleece. And wily Odysseus, on his epic voyage home.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>There is danger for a solitary woman in this world, and Circe's independence draws the wrath of men and gods alike. To protect what she holds dear, Circe must decide whether she belongs with the deities she is born from, or the mortals she has come to love.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was my first time meeting Circe. Yes, my copy of Homer’s epic has remained in place on my shelf for around thirteen years or so, ashamedly so. So it remains that Miller’s version of Circe is the only one I have for reference at the moment, but it’s such a beautiful depiction that I can almost forgive myself for the lack of expertise on my part.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">True, she’s a lesser known god, born without any apparent powers or skill. But it’s her resilience, her determination to become, and her traceable growth throughout these pages which make her one of the greats in my eyes. Exiled, shunned, cruelly treated, she adapts, improvises, and ultimately reaches a height of power which stuns mortals and gods alike. Each of her abilities and nuggets of knowledge are born from situations she’s had to overcome; she persists, she thrives, and she expands.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The story is so intricate that it absolutely requires a perfect writing style to support it, and Miller really delivers here. The words almost dripped off the page for me in their lyrical beauty; the worlds of gods and mortals intertwined in an almost poetic vessel of complete beauty. I was grasped by the words, and held tight as I was swept through this tale of absolution.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And through it all, despite her elevated immortal status, Circe’s various stages of joy and pain struck me as incredibly relatable. Despite her physical reactions to these being beyond the scope of any of us, her emotions, her sentiments, and her fire remain inherently and irrevocably human.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-27733492698539788302023-08-31T17:51:00.004+00:002023-08-31T17:51:41.278+00:00Book #38<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAyhAV09eTWFzWSwxlbQcmSRYinvVJgVRkcdPS2ltB43Pn0NfMI2YuBGKLq7LO2AnNH0orsPWVWxGj8GWMwGyNAbrb2Y5QX06ep2_GT1ETe2dfkBu-z6E21dCUdUO8p29TU0o9Ezyjh5uFmrU_v6pGdF4ng6K9O0RrvGU59L9ucPFghhmee5k0v6ZSZ4p/s293/41PqBpoFxrL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="188" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxAyhAV09eTWFzWSwxlbQcmSRYinvVJgVRkcdPS2ltB43Pn0NfMI2YuBGKLq7LO2AnNH0orsPWVWxGj8GWMwGyNAbrb2Y5QX06ep2_GT1ETe2dfkBu-z6E21dCUdUO8p29TU0o9Ezyjh5uFmrU_v6pGdF4ng6K9O0RrvGU59L9ucPFghhmee5k0v6ZSZ4p/w257-h400/41PqBpoFxrL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud </i>by Ben Sherwood</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>A haunting story of a young man who narrowly survives a terrible car wreck that kills his little brother. Years later, the brothers’ bond remains so strong that it transcends the normal boundaries separating life and death. Charlie St. Cloud lives in a snug New England fishing village. By day he tends the lawns and monuments of the ancient cemetery where his younger brother, Sam, is buried. Graced with an extraordinary gift after surviving the accident, he can still see, talk, and even play catch with Sam’s spirit. But townsfolk whisper that Charlie has never recovered from his loss.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Into his carefully ordered life comes Tess Carroll, a captivating, adventuresome woman training for a solo sailing trip around the globe. Fate steers her boat into a treacherous storm that blows her back to harbor, to a charged encounter with Charlie, and to a surprise more overwhelming than the violent sea itself. Charlie and Tess discover a beautiful and uncommon connection that leads to a race against time and a desperate choice between death and life, between the past and the future, between holding on and letting go.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is a wholesome, if predictable, tale of grief, love, and how we deal with both.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Charlie is such a tragic character, and Sherwood does well to show us his inability to move on after the death of his brother. Shackled to his hometown, working in the cemetery, a slave to his routine, he feels obliged to continue this life to the most miniscule detail in an effort to remain close to his brother. His brother who, inexplicably, appears every night in ghostly form to play a charming little game of catch.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When Charlie meets Tess, he begins to envision a life which looks different, one with excitement and enrichment. He comes to a point where he will do anything for this woman, until she goes missing and he must balance his intricate routine with his dogged search for her. But the immediate question is why she turned up in the cemetery after she took to the seas and supposedly drowned.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was less interested in the romance and twist here than I was in the messages Sherwood was sending me. He raised thoughts in me of the rituals and routines we take when we lose a loved one - rituals and routines which help us cope. Although Charlie’s are extreme and supernatural, many of us will have our own. Visiting graves on anniversaries, wearing jewellery belonging to them, meeting with others on key dates to remember them - all of these are healthy routines which become tradition. Sherwood is showing us that sometimes these tributes can become harmful, and there’s an importance in recognising that - something which I hadn’t considered before.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the romance bordering on cliche, the hellbent religiosity, and that I immediately worked out what was going on here, I did enjoy this for the messages, and for the simple heartwarmingness of it all.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-89492247034382567132023-08-31T17:44:00.004+00:002023-08-31T17:51:57.070+00:00Book #37<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8UWELYEI34pYCMaJxBNIRmtFDNveDKL1alv1W6z4yOHque7YdWK80KXHTzrw4IPy9TJwqMxfa3j9IPpPQgHM7_XJhxVDy2N9ogRseiZ_HuYKe1yUA8nwp6nyrRLkIEltxj9dvuK7QBH_qpRPifR_vPNP1CC0NLpTDGFGFtDax4VnjduGI0jcWlVCakin/s1000/81tjW0RulQL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="652" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8UWELYEI34pYCMaJxBNIRmtFDNveDKL1alv1W6z4yOHque7YdWK80KXHTzrw4IPy9TJwqMxfa3j9IPpPQgHM7_XJhxVDy2N9ogRseiZ_HuYKe1yUA8nwp6nyrRLkIEltxj9dvuK7QBH_qpRPifR_vPNP1CC0NLpTDGFGFtDax4VnjduGI0jcWlVCakin/w261-h400/81tjW0RulQL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close </i>by Jonathan Safran Foer</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>In a vase in a closet, a couple of years after his father died in 9/11, nine-year-old Oskar discovers a key.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The key belonged to his father, he's sure of that. But which of New York's 162 million locks does it open?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>So begins a quest that takes Oskar - inventor, letter-writer and amateur detective - across New York's five boroughs and into the jumbled lives of friends, relatives, and complete strangers. he gets heavy boots, he gives himself little bruises and he inches ever nearer to the heart of a family mystery that stretches back fifty years. But will it take him any closer to, or further from, his lost father?</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Extremely Sad and Incredibly Beautiful - why do novels hurt more with every reread?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oskar's journey throughout these pages is wonderful and heartbreaking in equal measures. He suffers a terrible bereavement, makes the mistake of bottling up secrets, and in doing so embarks on a long, almost Sisyphean quest. Although the end result feels very important at the time, the realisation Oskar is simply trying to feel closer to his father has a harrowing, heart-dropping effect.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We explore the impact the bereavement has had on Oskar’s family, and delve into their histories. Foer shows us that death, heartbreak, and tragedy all span generations and leave a lasting imprint on families and their stories. Although the pages are peppered with Oskar’s gorgeous personality, adding much needed lifts and pauses to the sadness, I felt this time the novel was much much heavier than it was on my last read. As Oskar would say, I had heavy boots.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And it’s odd, because I understand and agree with people who don’t like this book. There’s a bit of pretension, it’s a bit off the wall unbelievable, and it’s a truly delicate task to write about such an event tastefully. But I have such a soft spot in my heart for this book which I doubt I will ever let go of. It has a dreamlike quality which I’m more than happy to sink into feet first. I doubt I could ever explain that properly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I will wait another thirteen years and meet Oskar again. Or maybe I won’t and I should understand the possibility of this. For, as Oskar says: <i>“Why didn't I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.”</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-44973558080774129172023-08-31T17:28:00.007+00:002023-08-31T17:31:07.485+00:00Book #36<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVvejie1WlbIjJBqkebPsJq3Bu1mDCEcX1ikhcHYVE0z9GjBfuKjQ91weWBsXRAyUL2IK49U1MaebEYIU1MV9UnakOdi6G_FtWf9D2Huuk6cm09GpdW7McyhCQmPNbbatKnnR9WmA7mmCvwCJOmDfmb4H33Rn2U7arNNMBo5CR1XIS8-OG7kjz-qPvbu6/s1000/71sSjvk9WNL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="639" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVvejie1WlbIjJBqkebPsJq3Bu1mDCEcX1ikhcHYVE0z9GjBfuKjQ91weWBsXRAyUL2IK49U1MaebEYIU1MV9UnakOdi6G_FtWf9D2Huuk6cm09GpdW7McyhCQmPNbbatKnnR9WmA7mmCvwCJOmDfmb4H33Rn2U7arNNMBo5CR1XIS8-OG7kjz-qPvbu6/w255-h400/71sSjvk9WNL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="255" /></a><br /><b><u><i>Passing </i>by Nella Larsen</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Clare Kendry, elegant, fair-skinned and ambitious, is married to a white man who is unaware of her African-American heritage. When she reunites with childhood friend Irene, who has not hidden her origins, both women are forced to confront the secret fears they have buried within themselves.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had never heard of this story before, and it only ended up on my shelf due to being snuggled up within a gorgeous Penguin hardcover which caught my eye. No, we shouldn’t judge books by their cover, but this one’s aesthetic got it home with me. And what a choice, what a cover, what a story.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the surface, we’re exploring racial identity and the concept of passing, and this itself is fascinating. Clare is a woman of Black heritage whose skin is light enough to allow her to ‘pass’ as a white woman, and she goes ahead and does so. She marries a white man, she runs in white circles, she goes to white-only establishments where the whites are none the wiser. After years of this life, she gets in touch with her old friend Irene simply because she misses her heritage, her old friends, and presumably their way of life and customs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s such an interesting concept. After years of being told your race, your life, even your rights, are inferior to those of white people, it would seem natural to try and claim all of those things back for yourself. But what would you choose, if this was at the expense of your background, your values, your very self? Do you push for more, or do you remain yourself? Of course the best answer to this is to both push and remain who you are whilst doing so, but in the 1920s and even now, this is difficult if not nigh on impossible in white-dominated environments.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And despite Clare’s passing being the main concept here, Larsen subtly also explores passing in other ways. As soon as Clare contacts Irene, seeking a return to her heritage, Irene is overcome with feelings of dread and apprehension at the prospect of seeing Clare again. As the story progresses, it’s clear Irene has an admiration for Clare which terrifies her, one which she attempts to keep hidden, and which manifests as hatred, and perhaps jealousy. Both of these women are passing, although neither of them seem to realise the true extent of it. Despite symbolising the disdain the Black community has for Clare and her life choices, Irene also stands as a lesson - the trauma which can result from suppressing your true self is Irene’s final message.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A fascinating and deeply informative short story, made all the more impactful after reading of Larsen’s life post-publication. Truly, truly, a masterpiece in my mind.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-81721901121181502632023-07-15T13:27:00.001+00:002023-07-15T13:27:06.299+00:00Book #35<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l9Rgm4kb9YSVEMc27xaoTiWj5ch-JkggTLEjzcGR7cABBhl-QX3OwpNVwcBP4QEXetBA6UkDfE_P25OfjXV8rL9ux1G4LOuEo3ZSRk-2PEPHxNdw31MefUbYIPRA-R8FEN0CQ9JnFRRaF7EJHODumBnKKLaq1aAO2M7CBc2go7B6zicVr7-mTSvR1hcT/s1000/61Vf2na+qvL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l9Rgm4kb9YSVEMc27xaoTiWj5ch-JkggTLEjzcGR7cABBhl-QX3OwpNVwcBP4QEXetBA6UkDfE_P25OfjXV8rL9ux1G4LOuEo3ZSRk-2PEPHxNdw31MefUbYIPRA-R8FEN0CQ9JnFRRaF7EJHODumBnKKLaq1aAO2M7CBc2go7B6zicVr7-mTSvR1hcT/w266-h400/61Vf2na+qvL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Flash Drive </i>by Peter C. Foster</u></b></div><br /> <p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Every Sunday afternoon for almost a year she strolls into the parking lot where you work and drives away in a car share. Every Sunday evening she brings it back. Until one day, when the car comes back, but she doesn’t. A stranger wearing cargo pants and an attitude shows up in her place. After he leaves, you find her bag and all her possessions in the trunk. You realize that wherever she is, she has nothing but the clothes on her back.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>What do you do? You don’t know her well, but you know she disappeared. You’re afraid she’s been harmed, but no-one believes you. You think you know who’s responsible, but then that guy turns up dead. And when the cops open an investigation, you are their prime suspect in the murder.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Erstwhile taxi driver Alex Ryan is the guy in the parking lot. Sexy bank executive Chantal Dorval is the mystery woman. Who kidnapped her? Is she alive or dead? Who killed Cargo Pants? And why? Ryan sets out to answer these questions, to find Chantal and exonerate himself. But the more he learns about her life, the more disturbing secrets he discovers, and the more suspects he turns up. And the more the police are convinced he’s guilty.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a notorious people watcher and general nosey cow, this was one frightening situation I could really see myself becoming involved with. Alex works at a taxi firm, and every Sunday sees a beautiful woman pick up a car share, and he tends to wait in anticipation of seeing her return later that night. One night she doesn’t return, and we’re whisked along a road of mysteries, complexities, and at times utter carnage, by Foster.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was completely swept up by this. Foster constantly throws information, leaving us to make sense of things as he suggests sparse links or drops red herrings. The mystery is intricate and messy, and although it feels it may never be solved, Alex’s brutal determination has us chasing people and leads with the same hellbent frustration.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Foster’s characters were gorgeous; mostly all flawed in their own ways, many cognisant of this and attempting reparations. Although no one was entirely likable, everyone’s motivations and histories were made clear, allowing us to understand them better.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although difficult to review without giving away any of the plot points - and there are a lot of them - this is a wonderful thriller which grabs hold of you without letting go. I’m keen to seek out some more of Foster’s work as I had a great time with this one.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-2404952451230887732023-07-15T13:19:00.008+00:002023-07-15T13:20:53.779+00:00Book #34<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRM1P_OIY5MXdmoygQF0hmfMAiz_j3dE7zZTTqNPA11yN6loOwEHHjpzBFVg9GzoRiM_KJVeHCUcFj91BG5N6dhWLDOrgPZru4mSsJTyPuqlhMz3N3UEPuFPzABqD1SklQcu57h6plY2YgL23sXbmKHxlBHb2nhVpWVMwi62b-G3l02HQM6ZdSBFW0su0k/s1000/61L2Kql-YNL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="691" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRM1P_OIY5MXdmoygQF0hmfMAiz_j3dE7zZTTqNPA11yN6loOwEHHjpzBFVg9GzoRiM_KJVeHCUcFj91BG5N6dhWLDOrgPZru4mSsJTyPuqlhMz3N3UEPuFPzABqD1SklQcu57h6plY2YgL23sXbmKHxlBHb2nhVpWVMwi62b-G3l02HQM6ZdSBFW0su0k/w276-h400/61L2Kql-YNL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The Duke in His Domain </i>by Truman Capote</u></b></div><br /> <p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b></b></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b>Now Brando looked at people with assurance, and with what can only be called a pitying expression, as though he dwelt in spheres of enlightenment where they, to his regret, did not.</b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>This mesmerizing profile of an insecure, vulnerable young Marlon Brando, brooding in a Kyoto hotel during a break from filming, is a peerless piece of journalism.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought I had an interest in stories of Hollywood stars from bygone eras. Maybe I am easily tricked by the glitz and glamour, and when it comes to conversations in a hotel room my interest wanes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Capote writes an article for the New Yorker on Marlon Brando after interviewing him in Japan whilst filming. It’s a clear story of social climbing, a rags to riches, pauper to prince kinda tale. Maybe this would be fascinating if I were in the right mindset, or if I were able to get past certain things.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Almost from the jump, the stench of alpha male energy wafted from the pages and wrinkled my nose. Then the clear fetishisation of Japanese women reared its ugly head. I could not.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I may need to come back to this one.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-60043468584174501112023-07-15T13:13:00.002+00:002023-07-15T13:13:35.894+00:00Book #33<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfAXt9NQAn3ouBMVLgubIQejPQzTDi0saVwkzf0CqzJRIiqWIqLhiyHtUx7ix0lAftbnMNDDNsT6ro1e0PVm9gBy7eDGWa2PByVkUMRXy9YsCMX3KynSwvPyF6kmame4-rHl_8QKT0jTnC1RjdrpuxTagrSYM_QIxUXMPCWKl0MnttS5f-JM0pE8HdqCB/s400/62596601.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfAXt9NQAn3ouBMVLgubIQejPQzTDi0saVwkzf0CqzJRIiqWIqLhiyHtUx7ix0lAftbnMNDDNsT6ro1e0PVm9gBy7eDGWa2PByVkUMRXy9YsCMX3KynSwvPyF6kmame4-rHl_8QKT0jTnC1RjdrpuxTagrSYM_QIxUXMPCWKl0MnttS5f-JM0pE8HdqCB/w265-h400/62596601.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Rosewater </i>by Liv Little</u></b></div><br /> <p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Elsie is a sexy, funny, and fiercely independent woman living in South London. But, at just 28, she is also tired. Though she spends her days writing tender poetry in her journal, her nights are spent working long hours for minimum wage at a neighbourhood gay bar.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The difficulty of being estranged from her family, struggle of being continually rejected from jobs, and fear of never making money doing what she loves, is too great. But Elsie is determined to keep the faith, for a little longer at least. Things will surely turn around. They have to.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>As she tries to breathe through the panic attacks, sleeping with her hot and spirited co-worker Bea isn't exactly straightforward and offers Elsie just another place to hide.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>As Elsie tries to reconnect with her best friend Juliet, her fragile world spirals out of control. Can Elsie steady herself and not fall through the cracks?</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This felt to me exactly like opening a window into someone else’s life. I’ve experienced none of the things Elise has, her world is as foreign to me as the moon. We are as opposite as opposite can be, me with my privilege, her with her disadvantages. And yet none of this blocked my empathy, my deep realisation of humanity, and my absolute determination to see her work things out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s a lot to unpack here - Little explores sexuality, community, oppression, generational trauma, the complexities of love and friendship. Hell, she even goes into the impact of Karens. But we’re given these themes in such a slow, true to life way. As one thing happens, just adding to the pile of situations to handle or process, it was clear to me how realistic this was. Life doesn’t hand us something and allow us to deal with it before ploughing us with the next one. We juggle everything, all of the time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I loved experiencing all of these characters with their deep, sometimes secluded, histories. Everyone has selfish motivations, and seeing them connect, repel, and heal, was wonderful.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although slow in places, and sometimes feeling plotless, I think this is a wonderful debut and I’m eager to read what comes next.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-15884121491351942892023-07-15T13:09:00.001+00:002023-07-15T13:09:05.286+00:00Book #32<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2EyVnxKpPb-RxFPR_Winqvk_ae2Ac27vklll1TZt2aoBMugQmSjAjwMfG068kwC90glTQXsJ_MWzX2o1kdRXzcqbx9GQs_8U1OsVbUK4SPy8-NcRPdtQ9trFmaxQB7GDmw94yAr-Llw56GH6UT-3eZsrAX6ifJoX5ZpogVdliHD22bHFJbinXSSz_a0tb/s1722/around-the-world-in-eighty-days-197.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1722" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2EyVnxKpPb-RxFPR_Winqvk_ae2Ac27vklll1TZt2aoBMugQmSjAjwMfG068kwC90glTQXsJ_MWzX2o1kdRXzcqbx9GQs_8U1OsVbUK4SPy8-NcRPdtQ9trFmaxQB7GDmw94yAr-Llw56GH6UT-3eZsrAX6ifJoX5ZpogVdliHD22bHFJbinXSSz_a0tb/w279-h400/around-the-world-in-eighty-days-197.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Around the World in Eighty Days </i>by Jules Verne</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><blockquote>One night in the reform club, Phileas Fogg bets his companions that he can travel across the globe in just eighty days. Breaking the well-established routine of his daily life, he immediately sets off for Dover with his astonished valet Passepartout. Passing through exotic lands and dangerous locations, they seize whatever transportation is at hand—whether train or elephant—overcoming set-backs and always racing against the clock.</blockquote></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since finishing this story, I’ve asked a number of people what springs to mind when I say <i>Around the World in Eighty Days</i>. They all said they think of a hot air balloon - didn’t Phileas Fogg travel around the world in a hot air balloon? I am here to tell you there is <b>no hot air balloon in this novel</b>. I was gobsmacked. He travels by rail, road, sea, even on an elephant at one point. No hot air balloon, but there’s a hot air balloon on the bloody cover. I did investigate this phenomenon, but the results are too ridiculous to share.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, I did enjoy this, and there was quite a bit here I wasn’t expecting. The eighty day limit of traversing the globe is a condition of a bet Fogg has with his cynical pals, creating an urgency which only manifests itself as dread and fear when we stumble into obstacles. Making things worse for Fogg, but much more delectable for readers, is the dogged detective on Fogg’s tail, hellbent on arresting him, but simply unable to obtain a warrant in one country before we skip off to the next.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's a gorgeous light hearted romp across the world. We don’t see everything, and there are definitely a few passages which didn’t quite align with my morals. But Verne is an excellent storyteller, and despite the missing balloon, I’m glad I’ve read this one.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-10971827779126969402023-07-15T13:04:00.002+00:002023-07-15T13:04:10.864+00:00Book #31<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqagG-YNann0WFC5J5J2-0JaDl-Ox7NKRaBSoRDX8R-cqU05jtf-pp2PDDwnEj9ZZJ6pfTg0LANgXcTw0mADimnKuXsMlcAJS4VBBevLnAOnfHApPKVnh2saIeL045oV6x08RZOZrNQ7EwPXWFkUMnUESkJambqnVTGJ7ZohFuExjDL3mwSeM00pM47ZF/s1000/718o5ZGvSOL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="688" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqagG-YNann0WFC5J5J2-0JaDl-Ox7NKRaBSoRDX8R-cqU05jtf-pp2PDDwnEj9ZZJ6pfTg0LANgXcTw0mADimnKuXsMlcAJS4VBBevLnAOnfHApPKVnh2saIeL045oV6x08RZOZrNQ7EwPXWFkUMnUESkJambqnVTGJ7ZohFuExjDL3mwSeM00pM47ZF/w275-h400/718o5ZGvSOL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Bad Fruit </i>by Ella King</u></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>17-year-old Lily is mama’s girl, mama’s doll.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Every evening she pours Mama a glass of perfectly spoilt orange juice. She arranges her teddy bears on the bed, just so. She puts on the matching pink clothes that Mama likes her to wear.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>But Mama’s love flies so close to hate. And as her behaviour escalates, as she starts to unravel, so do the memories that Lily has kept locked away for so long.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>She only wanted to be good, to piece Mama back together. But what if instead, Lily tears her apart?</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was marketed to me as a thriller, and after finishing I can’t think why. This is not a thriller; it’s a deep exploration of familial relationships, abuse, generational trauma, and cultural influences. Seeing this family’s structure, their hierarchies and functions, was nothing short of heartbreaking, and slowly learning the origins of the dynamic was equally difficult.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lily is the only one in this family who can pacify her mother. She has two siblings and a father who are either incapable of the task, or who have simply given up. Her mother’s erratic mood swings, her almost unreachable demands, and her smooth manipulation are all keenly felt, and masterfully written. She’s terrifyingly unpredictable, and Lily seeks only to placate and feel love from her, bargaining with her, buying her gifts, vying for her affections through chores and consolatory words.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Both of Lily’s siblings have escaped the family home, and Lily is looking forward to doing the same when she goes to study at Oxford after the summer. She deserves her own life, away from her crushing responsibilities at home. But her mother seems to cling to her more and more, desperation raises its head, and Lily begins to discover things about her mother, and indeed her wider family, she had never previously considered.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A truly difficult read, but an important study of generational abuse and its horrific domino effect. Uncomfortable, tense, yet with a wildly engaging and persistent message of awareness.</div><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-61836981990774225362023-05-25T22:12:00.001+00:002023-05-25T22:12:03.359+00:00Book #30<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsA0TCqMsMssxWYPbbH2ei25h1ylv5nF0gkLXosixlOFW3BP_KTE07fJ1qWcDVRT3TKiAOTtpZNThKt3Z-yIumo87c1O8I-FMCY-F8LgvGhNgf5mnLFi5Im0kuBF4VL4aRouaycSFaxxbc__WuPq9QH2TJsWObhNG7q-xbPigI98mJ7bYS_5rB1z7SQ/s2339/915aqnLYSQL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1521" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsA0TCqMsMssxWYPbbH2ei25h1ylv5nF0gkLXosixlOFW3BP_KTE07fJ1qWcDVRT3TKiAOTtpZNThKt3Z-yIumo87c1O8I-FMCY-F8LgvGhNgf5mnLFi5Im0kuBF4VL4aRouaycSFaxxbc__WuPq9QH2TJsWObhNG7q-xbPigI98mJ7bYS_5rB1z7SQ/w260-h400/915aqnLYSQL.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Night </i>by Elie Wiesel</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote><i>Born in the town of Sighet, Transylvania, Elie Wiesel was a teenager when he and his family were taken from their home in 1944 to Auschwitz concentration camp, and then to Buchenwald. </i>Night <i>is the terrifying record of Elie Wiesel's memories of the death of his family, the death of his own innocence, and his despair as a deeply observant Jew confronting the absolute evil of man.</i></blockquote></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How to review something like this? Impossible. I had a tear in my eye every few pages.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am so sorry.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“I did not deny God's existence, but I doubted his absolute justice.”</i></div></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-47410095174936320192023-05-25T22:06:00.000+00:002023-05-25T22:06:43.691+00:00Book #29<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavSi6csoBSEGKvgxFdbzQjvJWMoNpXqNGmsel2kkRU6Hnlc7GRnkHXBJCGeoyf0HFqTapPsEgdIpA4qheTmA6y1jGAaJaWs2OFR4rqKlw7_pA2jSp7mDx5xzCJDL9nCvWeXznNZuvDVFngdldjLm2d7vtiZ3ldqQ6OKAOKDm6NNF_LIV5bQtttlMlHA/s500/9781914518171.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavSi6csoBSEGKvgxFdbzQjvJWMoNpXqNGmsel2kkRU6Hnlc7GRnkHXBJCGeoyf0HFqTapPsEgdIpA4qheTmA6y1jGAaJaWs2OFR4rqKlw7_pA2jSp7mDx5xzCJDL9nCvWeXznNZuvDVFngdldjLm2d7vtiZ3ldqQ6OKAOKDm6NNF_LIV5bQtttlMlHA/w264-h400/9781914518171.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The Grief Nurse </i>by Angie Spoto</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Lynx is a Grief Nurse. Kept by the Asters, a wealthy, influential family, to ensure they're never troubled by negative emotions, she knows no other life. When news arrives that the Asters' eldest son is dead, Lynx does what she can to alleviate their Sorrow. As guests flock to the Asters' private island for the wake, bringing their own secrets, lies and grief, tensions rise. Then the bodies start to pile up.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lynx is a grief nurse, one of a group of rare people who have the ability to eliminate grief. In Lynx’s world, grief nurses are employed by wealthy families to keep them Bright, and to ensure grief does not encroach upon their households. Holding someone’s grief token in her hands, Lynx can restore them to joyfulness with a twist of her fingers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s a good premise, and raises many questions around the importance of grief. Although horrible to experience, could it be something we must endure to allow us to grow, to learn? Or would an instant removal improve our lives immeasurably, keeping us happy and content to continue? A difficult question which I’m still wrestling with.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I found a lot of the mechanics here to be confusing and jarring. There’s little information on the process of grief removal; we see it happening, but it seems so abstract and fantastical that it’s very difficult to understand. Spoto introduces a lot of terms, and a lot of various types of people, early on and I found it hazy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We’re given a lot of flashbacks, and a lot of memories sparked by grief, so much so that it becomes hard to keep track of whose memory we are wading through at any given time. I’m unsure if this was intended, but it felt like a dream, and confusion is not a feeling I particularly like whilst trying to get to grips with a new world, with new rules and customs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An excellent premise, and Spoto clearly has a labyrinth of an imagination, but I just couldn’t enjoy this as much as I’d have liked.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-1129319920325755162023-05-22T16:13:00.004+00:002023-05-25T22:15:43.207+00:00Book #28<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYsalsaCqAcODaJMXFMU2WbWy-h6RFOCYXo31SMZ_MtOvWfldwMKmq8zjBD7kBecizKLiYnve0E-ZzZMSj7ePTs0OM4F0FnhsElR68KAklqRvbEqiKNnz1gqMhAuF5kqHA3XUZhFcS7_9sc36TWP0gOk7zMsXqf_rNsTOLQe0hU3WiJVppOoR6Ta2yBQ/s2102/71FNUkT1oKL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2102" data-original-width="1400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYsalsaCqAcODaJMXFMU2WbWy-h6RFOCYXo31SMZ_MtOvWfldwMKmq8zjBD7kBecizKLiYnve0E-ZzZMSj7ePTs0OM4F0FnhsElR68KAklqRvbEqiKNnz1gqMhAuF5kqHA3XUZhFcS7_9sc36TWP0gOk7zMsXqf_rNsTOLQe0hU3WiJVppOoR6Ta2yBQ/w266-h400/71FNUkT1oKL.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Middlesex </i>by Jeffrey Eugenides</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Middlesex tells the breathtaking story of Calliope Stephanides, and three generations of the Greek-American Stephanides family, who travel from a tiny village overlooking Mount Olympus in Asia Minor to Prohibition-era Detroit, witnessing its glory days as the Motor City and the race riots of 1967 before moving out to the tree-lined streets of suburban Grosse Pointe, Michigan. To understand why Calliope is not like other girls, she has to uncover a guilty family secret, and the astonishing genetic history that turns Callie into Cal, one of the most audacious and wondrous narrators in contemporary fiction.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve always thought there was something intrinsically special about this novel, and rereading again after thirteen years has confirmed this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although, yes, this novel is about an intersex person navigating life, Eugenides presents us with a whole lot more than that. We don’t just see Cal, we see his entire family spanning generations, their stories, their mistakes, their dependencies and tragedies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We begin in Turkey, with Cal’s grandparents, and we track the mutated gene which contributes to his being across years and continents, eventually landing in Detroit. The intricate depictions of the lives of the entire family, the gorgeous explanations of the good old USA in the thirties and forties are completely wonderful, their detail contributing to what is a deep and soulful family history.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everything is tied together with medical jargon, ancient Greek mythology, political and social historical events, reeling us in and spitting us back out as we contemplate not only living these lives, in these times, but also living as someone who feels different but just isn’t sure why.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s a lot to analyse, and personal analysis is also vital here. I’ll spare you my own meandering and conflating thoughts, but a story which can spark thoughts about gender, belonging, sexual identity, and the diversity of mortals, can only be brimming with importance, and I feel this strongly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Impossible to describe, and even more difficult to understand my own feelings for, this story is one which deserves a close eye and an open heart. A definite slow burner which requires time to be taken as you come to deeply understand the complexities of humanity, and to grow an affection for all involved. A true masterpiece.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-33472253790638661892023-05-22T16:09:00.002+00:002023-05-22T16:09:46.990+00:00Book #27<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMS0evj918_xonJ6Gy4DWpmyXKwe122Uy_otxjMzi7JqMBPveEK9B1uYh1FdV_apATSoU2NOSG1iUSC03ne9N4dBFI5NhgBntQ6STAita5Aw2_8T36ICAUa5Tk2XL_sZLFz7bj_4Fge5rYHYxtgzQqsgc7AylXgfk7YCL2Y7fTZVqEwRfC4zNT2RkWw/s1954/81-DFVziuwL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1954" data-original-width="1298" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSMS0evj918_xonJ6Gy4DWpmyXKwe122Uy_otxjMzi7JqMBPveEK9B1uYh1FdV_apATSoU2NOSG1iUSC03ne9N4dBFI5NhgBntQ6STAita5Aw2_8T36ICAUa5Tk2XL_sZLFz7bj_4Fge5rYHYxtgzQqsgc7AylXgfk7YCL2Y7fTZVqEwRfC4zNT2RkWw/w266-h400/81-DFVziuwL.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Divergent </i>by Veronica Roth</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>In Beatrice Prior's dystopian Chicago world, society is divided into five factions, each dedicated to the cultivation of a particular virtue. On an appointed day of every year, all sixteen-year-olds must select the faction to which they will devote the rest of their lives. For Beatrice, the decision is between staying with her family and being who she really is — she can't have both. So she makes a choice that surprises everyone, including herself.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>During the highly competitive initiation that follows, Beatrice renames herself Tris and struggles alongside her fellow initiates to live out the choice they have made. Together they must undergo extreme physical tests of endurance and intense psychological simulations, some with devastating consequences. As initiation transforms them all, Tris must determine who her friends really are — and where, exactly, a romance with a sometimes fascinating, sometimes exasperating boy fits into the life she's chosen. But Tris also has a secret, one she's kept hidden from everyone because she's been warned it can mean death. And as she discovers unrest and growing conflict that threaten to unravel her seemingly perfect society, she also learns that her secret might help her save those she loves - or it might destroy her.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is one of those novels I enjoy at the time, and upon reflection wonder if there was anything of substance there at all.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The prose is engaging, in a similar fashion to other young adult dystopian novels. You launch through the chapters desperate to understand this new world, how it operates, and to see the character behaviours.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was not Beatrice’s biggest fan. I would not be her friend. Despite growing up in Abnegation, she's the most selfish person in the novel. And I do understand we had to see this to understand her choices, but she just struck me as a wee idiot.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She finds herself in a new landscape, and has to adapt. Everyone around her is markedly different from those she has left behind, and we see her trying to find her place.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The finale felt rushed, despite rubbing my face in a lot of new information, and clearly showed me where the next book is headed. I’m not sure I like the sound of it. I would have preferred more time learning of the factions, seeing inside some of the other compounds, and understanding everyone’s motivations. Maybe I just wanted more Faction High School, I don’t know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite these thoughts, I <i>did</i> inhale this; I sped through the pages like a woman possessed. I plan to read the next instalment as I <i>was</i> enthralled, but on closing the book I wondered what the hell I’d just read.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-63746768084331235022023-05-22T16:03:00.008+00:002023-05-22T16:03:59.208+00:00Book #26<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-0BS-LIZRFRzOxPHYp7ulof04rxUzLJ3DJdKZLc1H82KonckRSN27dZJekVSpQBFTUTDqHp7JtiP-Pzb8hE31T6Uz5ynXFxHYcMWHP7HB_HU1B_EJF9psw5YDpZzzJqavza08q9QL4gpYhnI4b53tfz1l6DZWvx-yZiK1P8ajYfUmwHkKv7NznpuUg/s499/419NLBNpy+L._SX344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="346" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-0BS-LIZRFRzOxPHYp7ulof04rxUzLJ3DJdKZLc1H82KonckRSN27dZJekVSpQBFTUTDqHp7JtiP-Pzb8hE31T6Uz5ynXFxHYcMWHP7HB_HU1B_EJF9psw5YDpZzzJqavza08q9QL4gpYhnI4b53tfz1l6DZWvx-yZiK1P8ajYfUmwHkKv7NznpuUg/w278-h400/419NLBNpy+L._SX344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Why Do You Wear a Cheap Watch? </i>by Hans Fallada</u></b></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b>'It was what we call in the trade a potato...'</b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Tales of low-lifes and grifters trying to make ends meet in pre-War Germany.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, I’ve been missing out. Having only gotten round to reading <i>Alone in Berlin</i> a few years ago, this collection of Fallada’s stories has reinforced a love, and prompted me to seek out more of his work.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The titular story, <i>Why Do You Wear a Cheap Watch?</i>, felt as though a lot of emotions were being stirred in me. Comedy, nostalgia, sadness, grief. And yet there was something cheeky in there too, something needling, as though I were being made fun of. It was a strange experience, but enjoyable nonetheless.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-style: italic;">War Monument or Urinal</i> didn’t grab me at all, despite the intrigue of the title. Satirical, political, and involving a lot of men talking and self-aggrandising, I wasn’t particularly engaged.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And yet, when I reached <i>Fifty Marks and a Happy Christmas</i>, I was enthralled. Fallada shows us a young, married couple, living in poverty, dreaming of the things they could buy for Christmas. Small things - things I would take for granted - are written down on a list and longed for. Their resolute insistence to have the most wonderful Christmas they can, and the clear love and generosity of those who don’t have much to give, really stayed with me. Gorgeous.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-35620716934627726162023-05-22T15:58:00.008+00:002023-05-22T15:58:56.505+00:00Book #25<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdvjkTT_Gyv7HIrBuHQtow90QGKYftOYL9zeIjc6_P2VMdZ5N7j-bqlR8xkLmCodeZ2a0wEQ_urAZpJ4shqPASEc8Rd7C4k_e93Dt3X84O-Qlq7EdgXQDC1Pgq8pULw6ABW5KFbOox12vGrzwiNjofU60gqG7zjvTmAJ4ggb8PLp0Wn4mSUEigqB-gw/s500/9781399700337.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdvjkTT_Gyv7HIrBuHQtow90QGKYftOYL9zeIjc6_P2VMdZ5N7j-bqlR8xkLmCodeZ2a0wEQ_urAZpJ4shqPASEc8Rd7C4k_e93Dt3X84O-Qlq7EdgXQDC1Pgq8pULw6ABW5KFbOox12vGrzwiNjofU60gqG7zjvTmAJ4ggb8PLp0Wn4mSUEigqB-gw/w266-h400/9781399700337.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Ghost Girl, Banana </i>by Wiz Wharton</u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><br /></u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i></i></span></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>1966: Sook-Yin is exiled from Kowloon to London with orders to restore honour to her family. As she strives to fit into a world that does not understand her, she realizes that survival will mean carving out a destiny of her own.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>1997: Sook-Yin's daughter Lily can barely remember the mother she lost as a small child. But when she is unexpectedly named in the will of a powerful Chinese stranger, she embarks on a secret pilgrimage to Hong Kong to discover the lost side of her identity and claim the reward. But she soon learns that the secrecy around her heritage has deep roots, and good fortune comes at a price.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was completely absorbed by this beautifully meandering story of a mother and daughter. A mother and daughter separated by death, by secrets, and by the social and cultural expectations of family.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We meet Sook-Yin in 1966, travelling to London from Kowloon - an instruction made by her family in order to improve their social standing, and to help with money. We witness her attempting to adapt to the language and the cultural differences whilst striving to keep a job, and we see the origin of her downfall take the form of an incredibly flawed and selfish man. Tale as old as time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In alternating chapters, we meet Lily, Sook-Yin’s daughter. Anxious, lonely, and living life to around half of her ability, she continues to mourn the death of her mother and wonder about her life. When Lily receives a letter in the post, her pilgrimage to Kowloon begins, and her life’s purpose becomes the uncovering of her family’s skeletons.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was a wonderful work of storytelling, so detailed and intricate. Wharton’s skill allows us to follow both women at once, compare their stories, and see their similarities and contrasts laid bare. Both lives are flawed, reserved, and it becomes plain to us as well as Lily that this quest for information is the only way we can heal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s true examination here of belonging; Sook-Yin found herself too Eastern for London and too Western for Kowloon, stuck in a middling limbo where racial tensions were a constant force. This void of acceptance also stuck to Lily as a child of both Eastern and Western parents; giving us the heartbreakingly uncomfortable title. I thought a lot about this, but don’t have any clever conclusions, only sadness.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And yet, one thing which binds us all is family and their dysfunctions. Surely there’s no culture in the world which doesn’t struggle with family.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-43829602359218459342023-04-15T12:20:00.004+00:002023-04-15T12:20:38.681+00:00Book #24<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSC1kXMCo4rnx7dy7rxNv1dOrx8btlQXeOzBP6R1Zm34sL-qbaNaX4DxfZRMJx9YwbADSA4spZLx_nSxx4Jvqefvsivn0syO6AdlxhcXVZvFmlQ4cwy2DJgwGAY6aMliXKWrMnGz_yQS2j5xaIDqyROXehTVg8WOcgrZX63gWMpLzPB3o6-yJl9j_6g/s293/51Cf8uUi1nL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="186" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSC1kXMCo4rnx7dy7rxNv1dOrx8btlQXeOzBP6R1Zm34sL-qbaNaX4DxfZRMJx9YwbADSA4spZLx_nSxx4Jvqefvsivn0syO6AdlxhcXVZvFmlQ4cwy2DJgwGAY6aMliXKWrMnGz_yQS2j5xaIDqyROXehTVg8WOcgrZX63gWMpLzPB3o6-yJl9j_6g/w254-h400/51Cf8uUi1nL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The Lottery </i>by Shirley Jackson</u></b></div><br /> <p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Step into the unsettling world of Shirley Jackson with a collection of her finest, creepiest short stories, revealing the queen of American gothic at her mesmerising best. This selection includes 'The Lottery', Jackson's masterpiece and one of the most terrifying and iconic stories of the twentieth century.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve read quite a bit of Jackson over the last few years, and I’ve appreciated her skill for turning the most mundane events, people, and lives, into something creeping and extraordinary. My gorgeous edition of <i>The Lottery</i> held thirteen (we love unlucky numbers) short stories; each of these have contributed to cementing Jackson as one of the greatest of all time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-style: italic;">The Lottery</i> itself truly stood out as an exploration into mob mentality, the clinging on to tradition and ritual, and how a collective, superstitious mindset can cause undue harm. There was something so unsettling as I read through this - Jackson lays out the ritual almost factually, as she builds dread in your shoulders. Utterly barbaric and macabre, and yet not surprising to see the human condition.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Other stand-outs for me would be <i>Mrs Spencer and the Oberons</i> - almost a cautionary tale on being obsessed with societal expectation, and your own self-importance, <i>The Tooth</i> - one I cannot begin to explain but which has been rolling around in my brain ever since she left the dentist’s office, <i>The Order of Charlotte’s Going</i> - cruel, heartbreaking, and one which again depicts the utter senselessness of human behaviour, and <i>The Daemon Lover</i> - filled to bursting with unbearable tension, everything from the emptiness of the apartment to the complete blankness of everyone involved; the final couple of pages were completely horrifying to me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could read Jackson every day for the rest of my life if it wasn’t for the goosebumps, the chills, and the utter horror she raises in me. All hail the queen.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-58383608228890386292023-04-10T21:03:00.005+00:002023-04-10T21:03:44.326+00:00Book #23<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDNU7VLzmF9f6RrYZxmXuoLPnCgkhBXxvLa1G0V8tf8-2R8KJze_aTdglaybb5n09ChfvudQYZeKCTxE7qfH7qLv9520rOYRThrp--bz0VxCvb-r7YhD7WEQsSBK3RN-q8sjIsAf9bKi72LaHlJHK4J1m4VNcKNOS9j6g07OAqDbmMfQ_-OeGIMFlGQ/s500/9780241588420-jacket-large.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="311" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDNU7VLzmF9f6RrYZxmXuoLPnCgkhBXxvLa1G0V8tf8-2R8KJze_aTdglaybb5n09ChfvudQYZeKCTxE7qfH7qLv9520rOYRThrp--bz0VxCvb-r7YhD7WEQsSBK3RN-q8sjIsAf9bKi72LaHlJHK4J1m4VNcKNOS9j6g07OAqDbmMfQ_-OeGIMFlGQ/w249-h400/9780241588420-jacket-large.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The Collected Regrets of Clover </i>by Mikki Brammer</u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><br /></u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><br /></u></b></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>From the day she watched her kindergarten teacher drop dead during a dramatic telling of Peter Rabbit, Clover Brooks has felt a stronger connection with the dying than she has with the living. After the beloved grandfather who raised her dies alone while she is traveling, Clover becomes a death doula in New York City, dedicating her life to ushering people peacefully through their end-of-life process.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Clover spends so much time with the dying that she has no life of her own, until the final wishes of a feisty old woman send Clover on a trip across the country to uncover a forgotten love story––and perhaps, her own happy ending. As she finds herself struggling to navigate the uncharted roads of romance and friendship, Clover is forced to examine what she really wants, and whether she’ll have the courage to go after it.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I really thought I would love this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Clover is a death doula working in New York City. Hers is an entirely non-medical service - she sits with people in their final days, offer them comfort, accepts their confessions, and records their regrets. I thought this could be quite upsetting to read, but actually we’re not given much insight into Clover’s career before we’re catapulted into a vapid romance with a guy she meets at a death cafe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although Brammer seems to have taken care to characterise Clover, there is nothing redeeming about her, and she mostly seems robotic and emotionless, particularly given her job and her reasons for doing it. I felt ashamed that I felt nothing for her, and couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the events unfolding in front of her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps, like people, some books just don’t come into your life at the right time.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-44401594369469265972023-04-10T21:00:00.006+00:002023-04-10T21:00:33.949+00:00Book #22<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2g7OSPo-36paEdfOk2iTEJchslXY4SXxSlrXg19nsEfgHZjKha2ZzAcsrUXAizM0zzu-JIpY11ws8M7oB5zWsaT34KMcK_2zmwuEnhL0dnH5-QWZa36CpJgOK5ZcmoVqYHHSqhwaFAxfI0dfYgPISuIki7ifFBoyrUauVLtjqlB4UfN6N1unRKVluqQ/s499/31vWiZ28dCL._SX344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="346" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2g7OSPo-36paEdfOk2iTEJchslXY4SXxSlrXg19nsEfgHZjKha2ZzAcsrUXAizM0zzu-JIpY11ws8M7oB5zWsaT34KMcK_2zmwuEnhL0dnH5-QWZa36CpJgOK5ZcmoVqYHHSqhwaFAxfI0dfYgPISuIki7ifFBoyrUauVLtjqlB4UfN6N1unRKVluqQ/w278-h400/31vWiZ28dCL._SX344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Piers of the Homeless Night </i>by Jack Kerouac</u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><br /></u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><br /></u></b></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b></b></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b>'See my hand up-tipped, learn the secret of my human heart...'</b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Soaring, freewheeling snapshots of life on the road across America, from the Beat writer who inspired a generation.</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I believe I have mentioned before that I cannot cope with Kerouac’s self-indulgence and tedium.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Turns out his short stories do nothing to remedy that.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927858881268181945.post-52490875244794830742023-04-10T20:57:00.002+00:002023-04-10T20:57:34.194+00:00Book #21<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP90y5kSCbIuwlMo18p7aRLALrIIiXW3MqKX8sEqYv4VwWmgz6_MQnlvBO-w4vJAyqlCeNS66PswebCzGiDfDWYKjQULhZgXPnNlb40Kb3NRuFUot9sVfC0bxBGUT4YyfslcKothaGSSS-mIeM7U3-TjhcyWOa6SZbsOHomHqx_UyEKi2JHV8QQiUKuA/s2458/71eP1pvCf0L.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2458" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP90y5kSCbIuwlMo18p7aRLALrIIiXW3MqKX8sEqYv4VwWmgz6_MQnlvBO-w4vJAyqlCeNS66PswebCzGiDfDWYKjQULhZgXPnNlb40Kb3NRuFUot9sVfC0bxBGUT4YyfslcKothaGSSS-mIeM7U3-TjhcyWOa6SZbsOHomHqx_UyEKi2JHV8QQiUKuA/w260-h400/71eP1pvCf0L.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><i>Double Booked </i>by Lily Lindon</u></b></div><br /><br /><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Georgina is a sensible 26-year-old with a routine: 1) schedule dates with long-term boyfriend, 2) teach piano to inept children, and 3) repeat until dead. Perfect.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>But when one night she deviates from her usual timetable and sees the indie lesbian pop band Phase, Georgina realises: 1) she longs to play her own music again, 2) she wants to be just like them, and 3) their drummer is really hot...</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Scared of losing her happy straight life, but feeling a new sense of belonging in the gay scene, she does what any rational person would do: she splits herself in two. She'll be Gina by day, George by night. It's going to take painstaking scheduling, a versatile wardrobe, and an ambiguous haircut, but maybe Georgina really can have both?</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have always considered the idea of a double life to be an exhausting one. The lies, the scheduling gymnastics, and in this case, the constant changing of clothes, seem to be unworthy of my time. Of course, I’ve never found myself in a situation where I had to lead two lives, but I just can’t see the payoff being equal to the anxiety of keeping things hidden.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Georgina lives a cosy life with her boyfriend, governed by routine. She loves the rigor of her schedule, and loves knowing what to expect. One night, she finds herself at a gig in a gay bar with her best friend, and the gorgeous drummer starts giving her butterflies. The drummer is gay, and Georgina is straight. Or is she bisexual?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so begins a life of blouses and makeup during the day (the old Gina), Clark Kent costume changes at dinner time, and an array of plaid shirts, denims, and Docs at night (the new George), to allow her to live both gay and straight lives at once. As I’ve said, the image changes were exhausting in themselves, never mind all the lies and delicate side-steppings to allow this double life to continue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I did enjoy this as an almost slapstick coming out story, but I truly disliked Georgina for her dishonesty, manipulation, and her incessant need to see herself as the main character in everyone’s lives. I worked out pretty early on that she wasn’t the dazzling person she believed everyone thought her to be, and it was excruciating to watch her embarrass herself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With that said, there’s a lot of important stuff here about coming out, bi-erasure, the importance of friendship, and the absolutely necessity of not being a dick.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com