Amalia Gkavea

There are bad books. There are offensive books. And then there are books so drenched in ignorance, arrogance, and faux spiritualism that they leave you wondering how they were published in the first place.

The Day After His Crucifixion is marketed as a deeply moving spiritual novel, one that gives voice to the women around Christ in the immediate aftermath of His death. What it delivers instead is a theologically void, historically inaccurate, and emotionally tone-deaf mess—wrapped in clumsy dialogue and dressed up as empowerment.

Let’s begin with the most outrageous omission: the complete absence of the Virgin Mary.

In a story set in the wake of the Crucifixion—a moment that shattered her maternal heart and crowned her with the silent dignity of suffering—the fact that she is not even a presence, a shadow, a thought, is not just an oversight. It is spiritual illiteracy.

How can anyone claim to speak of Christ’s final hours and exclude the woman who brought Him into the world? Who stood at the foot of the Cross? Who carried the unbearable weight of grief, faith, and maternal love?

This omission is not artistic—it is disgraceful.

And it doesn’t end there.

The author rewrites Gospel timelines, most egregiously by having Lazarus resurrected before Jairus’s daughter. A careless error—one that no writer dabbling in sacred ground should dare to make.

The women in the novel are not empowered—they are preachy, shallow avatars for the author’s personal ideology. Their frequent snide commentary about the Holy Apostles is disrespectful, not bold. This isn’t reclamation. It’s revisionist posturing with no theological backbone.

The characters speak like they’re moderating a women’s retreat in 2024, not grieving the death of Christ in 1st-century Judea. There’s no reverence, no atmosphere, no spiritual rhythm.

And finally, just when the book couldn’t get more disappointing, I received an unsolicited email from the author herself, asking me to leave “a few good words” or “at least 5 stars” because she “poured her heart into it” and “paid a lot” to make it free on NetGalley.

Let me be absolutely clear:

I do not review with pity. I do not reward theological cosplay. And I certainly do not offer stars in exchange for guilt.

This book is not a tribute to Christ. It’s a vanity project masquerading as devotion.

It offends the faith it pretends to honour.

It silences the most powerful woman in the story.

And it insults the intelligence of every reader who takes Scripture seriously.

I do not recommend it. Not for Christians. Not for historical fiction lovers. Not for anyone who values truth.

Let it be forgotten.

‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’

John J. Dunne

A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.

In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.

Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.

The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.

Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.

‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.

Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’

John J. Dunne

‘’Madness scares you, it distracts you, but you have to look at it closely.’’

I have read Samanta Schweblin’s work extensively, and each time, I’m struck anew by the power of her writing. In just ten to twenty pages, she constructs riddles—quiet, contained, yet charged with emotional and psychological weight—that can spark hours of discussion. She transforms the mundane into the disturbing, turning everyday encounters into moments of quiet terror. If Fernanda Melchor tests the limits of your sanity with supernatural dread bleeding into reality, Schweblin does the opposite: she takes familiar relationships and recognisable emotions and quietly corrupts them. She invites you to reconsider what it means to age, to belong, to parent, to survive in a world where madness spreads silently, like an infection you didn’t know you were carrying.

The new collection, Good and Evil and Other Stories, published in 2025, continues her exploration of psychological fragility with chilling precision. The stories are brief but relentless. They don’t rely on overt horror or shock—they work like whispers at the edge of your mind, asking unsettling questions in deceptively ordinary settings.

‘’Mommy, are you happy?’’

Welcome to the Club: The story opens with a woman’s failed suicide attempt. What becomes immediately clear is that she is deeply depressed—but why? What has driven her to make a decision that would leave her two daughters without a mother? And who is the strange neighbour, the Hunter, who seems to know everything about her?

A story that raises a million questions and deliberately leaves the answers to the reader.

A Fabulous Animal: Two old friends talk on the phone. One of them is always on the run. The other is dying. After so many years, the only thing that unites them is the death of a boy and a horse…

William in the Window: In a writer’s retreat, two women become friends, sharing their worries about the ones they have left at home. One is afraid her husband will die without her. The other is afraid for her cat and gives little thought to her husband. How do you accept that kind of distance when your own partner is dying of cancer? And what does it mean when a dead animal appears to be watching you?

A quiet tale about the companionship of marriage—or the absence of it—and the human need to cling to whatever anchor life offers

‘’But at night, if the phone rings and my father picks up, no one answers.’’

An Eye in the Throat: Narrated by a precociously bright two-year-old, this is the story of a single moment that leads to the collapse of a family. As is often the case in Schweblin’s fiction, every page holds layers of secrets, instincts, confessions, and quiet mysteries.

One of the saddest stories I’ve ever read—deeply memorable and quietly haunting. A poignant study of a fractured bond between father and son.

‘’And you two?’’, he asked. ‘’What do you do to keep from getting bored?’’

My sister said, ‘’We sneak into other people’s houses.’’

The Woman from Atlantida: The visit of a client takes the narrator back to a summer of her childhood when she and her sister encountered mysterious characters such as a woman poet who seems to be coming from a different time. The story of an unsettling summer, of sisterhood, loneliness and addictions, of the kindness of children, the isolation that comes with age, and the moments of disaster that always find us unaware.

A Visit from the Chief: Unfortunately, this story fell flat for me and made little sense. It follows a troubled 60-year-old woman who can’t seem to decide whether she loves her daughter or resents her, while her mother and another elderly woman engage in bizarre antics at a hospice. Add a repulsive male character to the mix, and you’re left with a disappointing, disjointed narrative.

A weak and confusing ending to an otherwise haunting and incisive collection.

Despite its uneven conclusion, Good and Evil and Other Stories confirms once again Samanta Schweblin’s mastery of the short story form. Her writing is precise, eerie, and emotionally complex—never offering easy answers, but always provoking thought. These stories linger long after the last page, unsettling in the best possible way. For readers drawn to quiet horror, psychological unease, and the emotional fissures of ordinary life, this collection is well worth reading.

‘’Why don’t you talk to me?’’, asked the woman. ‘’Why don’t you ask me things?’’

Many thanks to Pan Macmillan and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

‘’They were at once victims and murderers, companions and enemies, two hybrid beings incapable of giving a name to their loyalties. They were excommunicated; two worshippers who could no longer pray in any church and whose god was a secret god, a private god whose name they didn’t even know.’’

There are different kinds of bravery.

The bravery of soldiers who went to war to liberate the world from oppression. The bravery of revolutionaries who broke the shackles around the wrists of their homeland. And then, the quieter, more perilous bravery of women—women who abandoned everything familiar to follow their heart, to chase a dream rooted in a strange kind of love. A love between strangers, tethered to opposite faiths, opposite worlds, is no romantic walk in the park. It is a war within a war—one that no one speaks of. And that kind of “love” often becomes a form of oppression all its own. When you can’t see it, you’re not brave. You’re either a fool or a willing blind who puts children in danger because you once had an itch to scratch.

When you follow a handsome soldier, when you leave France for Morocco in one of its most volatile moments, when your faith and your sense of self are stripped threadbare—how can you convince any reader that you still have a trace of reason left in your head?

Easily. You are in love. That’s all that matters.

That’s Mathilde’s story.

‘’In the evenings, when she’d been picked up from school, her mother’s car would drive along the country roads, the lights of the city would fade behind them, and they would enter an opaque, dangerous world. The car moved through darkness like someone entering a cave or sinking into quicksand. On moonless nights, they couldn’t even see the thick silhouettes of the cypresses or the haystacks. The blackness swallowed up everything. Aicha held her breath. She muttered Our Fathers, Hail Marys. She thought about Jesus, who had been through such terrible sufferings, and she repeated to herself: I could never do that.’’

From the very first page, the theme of loneliness and isolation becomes evident. Primarily seen through the eyes of the women -since men are the ones who wish to dictate everyone’s fates in the story - the remoteness of Amine’s farm becomes a metaphor for Mathilde’s own isolation. In a crucible of faiths and cultures, you are lonelier than ever. How can you not feel lonely when every circumstance may turn against you? You do good? You are viewed with suspicion. You do nothing? You are reviled, an accomplish, an enemy. How can you play the game when all hands have been dealt?

With isolation comes the question of belonging. An issue that has to be faced by Amine and Mathilde alike. For Amine, belonging is having a land you can call your own. A few acres that cannot be claimed by the colonisers nor by the rebels. But how can she belong? How can her children belong? The offspring of two faiths, two opposing cultures, two opposing nations? The answer may come through Aicha, the brilliant little girl of theirs. She shows that the world may bully you, but God is always there for you. And I find the fact that Amine wished his daughter to be raised as a Christian truly remarkable, despite his occasional tantrums. Aicha shows everyone that it is better to become a ‘fanatic Christian’ than a common whore. She shows that you don’t need to pretend, to become a coward to save your life. You stand by your faith. Yes, you make sacrifices when you follow your heart, but if you end up renouncing your principles, you pay the price. And the price might be your soul. Then you become weak, not brave. Is any man worth such a sacrifice? I can’t give you the answer, I’m afraid, but I KNOW that I would never renounce my faith even for pretention’s sake…

And what about the isolation you feel within your own country? Your land is conquered, divided and sold to the highest bidder, and you need to sweat and bleed for a few meters of soil you can call your own. You are forbidden to speak your own language, you have no right to buy a first-class ticket even if you have the money to because the ‘ladies’ don’t want their space to be contaminated by the natives.

And have you ever wondered why in every case of regimes, the women of the enemy are those who behave in the most oppressive, despicable way towards the other women? So much for female camaraderie, eh? However, the occupied aren’t dissuaded from buying slaves for their estate, so life walks in ever-lasting circles….To the French, you are a traitor. To the Moroccans, you are the enemy, and vice versa. Instead of serving the oath they have given, doctors resent children who are the fruit of the union between a Christian and a Muslim.

‘’So, all this time, they’d just pretended to stop being savages…’’

And this is how violence is bred. Mix it with gender bias, the natural tendency of Muslims to disrespect women (especially Christian women…) because hey, we can’t change what Muhammed decreed, right? You get a nuclear bomb. This is Mathilde’s life, ladies and gentlemen. But in Slimani’s beautiful story, not all Muslim men are pigs like the ones who attack women and children in their cars. Pigs who beat their sisters. She doesn’t shy away from mentioning the infernal treatment of Christians at the hands of Muslims, as she doesn’t shy away from exposing the racism of the Christian French colonialists towards the Muslim locals. In addition, Muslims are murdering Jews, they are attacking Christians. There is a fine line between fighting for freedom and becoming a butcher, and in the story -as in History - the line has been crossed irreversibly. Too many times. And yet, no one speaks. Out of fear? Out of hatred towards the Jews and the Christians? Who knows?

BUT! There are those of us who do speak and who refuse to keep silent. And that’s a story for another time…

‘’She’d have stuffed those words back down her throat. She’d have returned all those blows that she’d received throughout her life. As an insolent little girl, as a lustful teenager, as a disobedient wife, she’d been slapped and bullied many times by angry men who wanted to turn her into a respectable woman. Those two young women would have paid for the life of domestication that Mathilde had endured.’’

Mathilde and Amine’s relationship is complex, powerful, full of lust and violence, and love. Contradictions? Naturally! They are a couple formed by contradictions. That’s why I love both of them, even though they are actually two weird human beings. In Slimani’s writing, sensuality and sexuality are done right. Mathilde is a woman deeply connected to her sexuality and desires. Amine is a force of nature - in every way, let me tell you…- and it was strange because despite his occasional questionable actions, he is fascinating, intriguing and super sexy (and that’s me NOT being professional now…) However, can the fact that a man makes all hot inside and outside balance the silence? The cultural gap? How can a marriage survive on silence? On ferocity alone and hot sex? The fact that they love each other is undeniable. Theirs is a complex dynamic and the heart of this fascinating novel. Perhaps only two people who love each other with such force and violence can find common ground when they come from two utterly opposing worlds. In the end, when the world burns, they only have each other.

Yes, that’s me being sentimental. I regret nothing.

Slimani’s writing is astonishing. I have read all of her works but Adele and Lullaby, though good and memorable, can’t hold a candle to this novel, the first in a trilogy. Morocco jumps from the pages, the tensions, the cultural implications, the careful dialogue, the lively descriptions. She creates scenes where sensuality and violence mix in the most beautifully twisted kind of antithesis, and tranquil scenes of summer bliss amidst the flames. I can’t find a single, teeny-tiny fault in this novel. It is perfect.

In the end, in the era the story is set - during the 1950s - I felt there are two great questions: We have a land that hasn’t lost connection with its past, where you can relive almost Biblical scenes in every step. But what about the future? And what future can there be for two souls that love each other fiercely, but the gap between them seems like a deep chasm?

‘’That’s how things are.’’

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

Strange House by Uketsu opens with a compelling setup: a writer interested in the occult is invited by a friend—an architect named Kurihara—to investigate a strangely constructed home in Tokyo. The house is full of oddities: dead space, unnerving layouts, and a past that refuses to stay buried. As they explore its design and history, they encounter unsettling documents, cryptic floorplans, and a widow whose story deepens the mystery.

The novel’s strength lies in its atmosphere. The writing is eerie and disorienting by design, and the shifting timelines and layered perspectives create a sense of constant unease. It kept my interest throughout, especially during my long commutes—there’s something deeply engaging about the way the story slowly reveals itself, piece by piece.

Where it fell short for me was in the resolution. While the buildup is intriguing and the premise original, some of the final turns didn’t deliver the impact I was hoping for. The novel leans heavily into ambiguity, and though that will appeal to some readers, I found certain plot threads less satisfying than expected.

Still, Strange House is a distinctive and original work of psychological horror. Readers who appreciate open-ended narratives, experimental structure, and stories that blur the line between memory and reality will likely find it rewarding.

Many thanks to Pushkin Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.

Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.

I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.

Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

From Madagascar, Nubia, Egypt, Algeria, and beyond, this isn’t history wrapped in dry academia—it pulses with life, with setting, and with complexity.

The women portrayed here are not polished icons—they’re leaders. Some inspire awe, others provoke horror. I found myself deeply disturbed by the portrayal of the queen of Madagascar (Ranavalona I), whose reign was soaked in blood and torture, particularly in her persecution of Christians. Yet the narrative hesitates, offering lines like “whether she was right or wrong,” as if such barbarity lives in a grey zone. It doesn’t. And moral flexibility in the face of religious slaughter is something I find impossible to accept. You know, that moral flexibility that appears only when Christians are persecuted and slaughtered.

In contrast, Dahia al-Kahina, the Jewish queen of Algeria, stood out as a revelation. Her strength, intelligence, and resistance against Arab conquest stayed with me long after I finished the book. I could easily imagine her as the centre of a sweeping historical novel—and someone should definitely write it. It just shows how fierce Jewish women are when faced with the horror of Muslim barbarians.

Above all, I appreciated that Clark, for the most part, avoided the trend of turning these women into modern ideological symbols. She presents their triumphs, flaws, and legacies with elegance and restraint, allowing readers to think, react, and—importantly—judge.

A challenging, often powerful read that doesn’t always get it right—but never stops being compelling.

Many thanks to Pen & Sword History and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

This book hit me right where I live—the relentless, gnawing anxiety I’ve carried since I was a child. Gary Zimak doesn’t just offer prayers; he reaches deep into those dark places of hopelessness, despair, weariness, and fear that feel all too familiar. What moved me most was how he weaves Scripture through every page, linking God’s Word directly to those raw emotions that can otherwise feel so overwhelming and lonely.

For years, anxiety has been a shadow I couldn’t shake. But lately, with the help of my Bible study and devotional books like this one, I’ve started to reclaim my peace. Lord, Save Me! became a powerful companion on that journey—not because it promises quick fixes, but because it meets you exactly where you are, even in the middle of the storm.

I will be honest: a few devotionals felt a little light on faith—maybe because they’re written for those whose faith is fragile or distant. That’s not my place. My faith is strong, growing every day. And for me, this book reinforced that strength, reminding me again and again that Jesus is real, present, and ready to carry me through when the weight feels too heavy.

If you’re struggling with fear or anxiety, whether your faith is shaky or solid, Lord, Save Me! offers prayers and reflections that feel like a hand reaching out—steady, warm, and unwavering. It’s not just a book; it’s a lifeline. For me, it’s a reminder that even in the darkest moments, I’m not alone, and that peace is waiting when I lean into Jesus with everything I have.

Many thanks to Ave Maria Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

‘’Twilight, meanwhile, gave place to the first gathering night-the glow worms began to twinkle amid the darkness, and over a high cliff covered with fir trees, that rises out of the lake, gleamed the slender solitary crescent of the new moon. The time had passed away unobserved; but now the owls began to shriek, and the night-hawks burst, flapping their wings, from the covert.

Winter’s long darkness may be mystical and imposing, but summer is equally unsettling. Beneath its dazzling light lie long shadows and sultry evenings that coax even the cautious to lower their guard. Across Europe and beyond, folk calendars confirm this: on Walpurgisnacht, bonfires flare across Germanic hills to keep witches at bay; on Saint John’s Eve, Spaniards leap flames to ward off evil; Scandinavian Midsummer crowns lovers with flowers yet insists a maiden sleeping with seven wild herbs beneath her pillow will dream of her future husband; British folklore warns that foxgloves ring for fairies and that Stonehenge still hums with old blood-rites; and even Obon in Japan welcomes ancestral ghosts with lanterns floating down summer rivers. Such rituals remind us that the sunlit half of the year is as haunted as the dark.

Nothing underscores this better than actress Dulcie Gray’s tart reply to the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley: when he suggested sacrificing her at dawn in a Midsummer rite at Stonehenge, she dismissed him curtly, “I absolutely cannot—I don’t like getting up early.” In short, beneath the laughter and bright garlands, summer remains rich with unease, superstition, and the persistent whisper of things that stir in the light.

The First of May or Walburga’s Night (Caroline Pichler translated by R.P.Gillies):

An undoubtedly atmospheric tale of love, jealousy, obsession and witchcraft, set in a mystical spot of the Swiss Alps. Unfortunately, the language of the story has not aged well; the occasion of Walpurgisnacht wasn’t utilised, and the antagonist of the tale is much more interesting than the anaemic Alice.

The Suitable Surroundings (Ambrose Bierce): In an extremely cryptic story set in Cincinnati, a boy witnesses a man’s distress in the middle of a midsummer’s night, and we are offered a glimpse into the publishing industry and its hunger for horror stories. The ending is outrageously open for interpretation.

A Midsummer Night’s Marriage (J.Meade Falkner): Rich in Gothic atmosphere, this is a tale of travelling back in time in the haunting night of St. John’s Eve, of a doomed love and a broken man. It reminded me of an adult version of The Corpse Bride, a dance macabre between the land of the living and the realm of the dead and Protestant cruelty.

‘’The Spirit is me; I haunt this place!’’

The Looking Glass (Walter de la Mare): A garden that may be haunted becomes the meeting place of Alice and a strange elderly woman who seems to wait for her every afternoon. A very unsettling truth with a touch of Folk Horror and a moving closure…

Midsummer At Stonehenge (F.Britten Austin):

Arguably, the most common image associated with Midsummer’s Day is Stonehenge, one of the most mysterious and enticing wonders made by humans. This tale takes us back to the times of the Children of the Sun. A husband and a wife stand among the crowd that eagerly awaits the sun, enjoying the pleasures of early married life. A beautiful tale that pays homage to the people of the past who shaped History, some of them lost in the mists of time. A story rich in elegance, sensuality and spiritualism.

‘’For Hell has long claimed their hideous god. Long, long he dwelt among the hills, a brain-shattering vestige of an outworn age, but no longer his obscene talons clutch for the souls of living men, and his kingdom is a dead kingdom, peopled only by the ghosts of those who served him in his lifetimes and theirs.’’

The Black Stone (Robert E.Howard): Set in Hungary, this is the tale of an educated, inquisitive man who wants to verify the legends that surround a monolith taking place in Midsummer Night. Magyar Folklore is rather unique in Europe, and the monoliths are universally considered charged constructions. Here, its shadow speaks of barbarism and cruelty, and pure evil with one of the most hair-rising scenes of pagan orgies I have ever read.

‘’The dead may not - must not return!’’

The Withered Heart (G.G.Pendarves): This story paints not a warm, boisterous May but a May night of rain and cold and dark intentions. It is a dark tale of inherited malice and sin, of fighting against the corruption of your soul, of necromancy and pure evil, of the attraction between a spoiled woman and the intellectual who tries to resist his desire. A story that would give Poe a run for his money.

‘’It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said - for it was a night of divination, a night of lovers.’’

May Day Eve (Nick Joaquin): It is May Eve - a seductive, mystic night in which girls perform divinations in front of mirrors to see their future husbands. It is a night of saints and sinners, a night when instead of your husband, you see the Deceiver right behind you…What starts as a sultry Gothic love story acquires a bitter, even tragic aura in the end. Some people are better off away from each other…

The Sale of Midsummer (Joan Aiken): According to a legend, such is the beauty of Midsummer Village that it exists for just three days each year. Two young men set out to find the truth, but each villager provides their own version of the story.

As these tales unfold, each offers a glimpse into the long shadows cast by Midsummer’s light: some rich in folklore and dread, others burdened by dated prose or aimless eclecticism. Taken together, they reveal a landscape of rituals, fears, and desires that stretch across centuries and cultures — proof that under the summer sun, darkness finds countless ways to speak. Yet even as the stories vary in power, one constant remains: the heavy hand of the editor, eager to remind us of his supposed daring and broad-minded curation, while often revealing only his shallow contempt for faith and tradition.

Johnny Mains boasts of being “eclectic to a fault,” but what shines through instead is smugness and the hollow superiority of yet another patronizing atheist who uses his platform to cheapen and sneer at Christianity while hiding behind the guise of inclusive curation. His editorial comments reek of self-congratulation and a fundamental contempt for the intelligence of readers, as if we should applaud every hackneyed line simply because he declares himself a champion of the obscure. Let us be clear: reading thousands of books does not make you a better editor—it makes you an efficient consumer. True discernment comes from respecting your audience and knowing when to shut up about your own tired ideology.

‘’Below him shadows were lengthening second by second, creeping across moor and marsh and up the sides of hills like vast grey ghosts. Standing on the brow overlooking the precipitous south end, he could see vague stone pillars set in a circle immediately beneath. In daylight, no doubt they would look mundane enough, but here in twilight their very vagueness seemed to promise life: at any moment they might begin to shuffle and dance. A half-forgotten tale about madens changed into stones for dancing on the Sabbath came back to him.’’

Night on Roughtor (Donald R. Rawe): A Cornish tale of will o’the wisps, moaning winds in the moors, ghosts, enchanted hills, piskies, spriggans, and three very foolish young men.

‘’He didn’t finish. The words were torn away from him on the rising wind which moaned now with a harsh eerie voice of its own…sighing and creaking through furze, stunted bushes and round the monolith shapes emerging beast -like through the thick air.’’

Where Phantoms Stir (Mary Williams): I won’t forget this story soon. Starting with a haunting encounter of a troubled man and a strange young woman as the wind rises through the mist, it soon becomes a terrifying symphony of unholy contact between this world and the next, the innocent sacrifice and the works of the Evil One and its horrendous crowd. Atmospheric and tragic, and my favourite story in the collection.

Foxgloves (Susan Price): There is nothing more frightening than walking alone at night, especially on certain nights of the year. Even the streetlights seem to hide dark corners in an area steeped in legends told to you by your grandmother. A sinister take on the urban legend of the Vanishing Hitchhiker and the myth of Rusalka. This story is full of haunting nocturnal descriptions of nature and the neighbourhood streets that urge you to both be alert and let yourself become absorbed by the beauty in this darkness.

The Midsummer Emissary (Minagawa Hiroko, translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori): The story starts with a mysterious female voice whispering a message that makes no sense. Our young protagonist has visions of a mysterious dark haired woman and seems to be followed by an elderly lady. Each page gives birth to more and more questions in a very strange tale of omens, male prostitutes, sexuality and past secrets. I still can’t say I have fully grasped the purpose of the story, but it is weird. Essentially Japanese.

Heaven on Earth (Jenn Ashworth): A newly-married couple finds itself trapped in a tropical resort during the first wave of COVID. They are now the only guests, and their efforts to contact the British Embassy are to no avail. Despite the fact that they have one of the earthly paradises at their disposal, they become prey to forced inertia and the strange proximity that comes with quarantine, while the man is a typical example of the entitled British upper class. And when you realise what has actually happened, you stare speechless.

In the end, The Dead of Summer is a varied but often rewarding collection. Some stories shine with genuine atmosphere, strong folkloric roots, and unsettling imagery that lingers long after the last page. Others feel outdated or thin, but even then, they add texture to the broader picture of how humanity has wrestled with the long, haunted light of summer nights. For readers who appreciate folklore, ghost stories, and the lingering echo of the past in the present, this collection offers enough moments of true unease and subtle beauty to make it worth their time.

‘’ Midsummer's Eve too- an unlucky night to be out. It was one of the turning days of the year, according to his granny, like Halloween, Christmas Eve and May Day. They were the days when the year turned from winter to spring, from spring to summer, from summer to autumn and then to winter again. They were different from other days… more open. The nights were even more so. Ghosts walked on those nights that couldn't walk other nights. Things were seen on those nights that couldn't be seen on other nights. On those nights, magic worked. According to Granny.’’

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

‘’The remnants of a pagan past combined with Catholic faith and political conflict have rendered Ireland a bewitching land for those who wish to be initiated to its mysteries, marvels, wonders and horrors.’’

There’s something quietly magnetic about the way Irish storytelling leans into the mist—how it welcomes the uncanny, the haunted, the half-seen. Uncanny Ireland, edited by Maria Giakaniki, is a rich and atmospheric collection that does just that, drawing together strange tales from across time and place. The book is divided into six evocative sections—Folktales and Folk Beliefs, Myths and Legends Reimagined, Some Rural Ghosts and Uncanny Sounds, Gothic Chills, Strange and Dangerous Women, and Modern Horrors—each offering a different lens into Ireland’s darker imaginings. I was especially proud, as a Greek reader, to see this volume edited by a fellow Greek woman. There’s a quiet affinity, I think, between Irish and Greek storytelling—both steeped in myth, shaped by sorrow, and fiercely rooted in land and lore, even if our shores are miles apart.

‘’Open and let me in,’’ she called to the warder. ‘’I claim the protection of this holy place.’’

The Evil Eye (Lady Jane Wilde): Snippets written in the language of the Irish people, narrating true stories of omens, customs, and beliefs.

The Unquiet Dead (Lady Augusta Gregory): True cases of spectral encounters and the connection between our world and the next.

The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows (William Butler Yeats): A tale of the sidhe, of loss and death set during the Irish Confederate Wars.

A Legend of Barlagh Cave (Fitz James O’Brien): Celtic mythology is strongly imbued in the Irish tales. This is a story of love and despair.

The Monks of Saint Bride (Herminie Templeton Kavanagh): One of the most atmospheric tales in the collection, this is the legend of a curse in the name of love, and uncanny sounds echoing in an old abbey.

The Drowned Fisherman (Anna Maria Hall): The tragic fate of a fisherman who drowns, but the mystery and sorrow surrounding his death unravel deeper secrets within the tight-knit community. Hall weaves themes of loss, superstition, and human frailty with a poignant sensitivity to the harsh realities of rural life.

A Scrap of Irish Folklore (Rosa Mulholland): Fairy men are better than real men, no doubt about it.

The Strange Voice (Dora Sigerson Shorter): A love that withstands death as a young woman is determined to follow her shadowy lover.

The Wee Gray Woman (Ethna Carbery): One of the most haunting, moving, tragic stories. A tale of a doomed love, condemned by a young man's reluctance to acknowledge his love for a mysterious girl.

Tale of the Piper (Donn Byrne’): A piper's tune that may echo the Devil’s music.

The Last of Squire Ennismore (Charlotte Riddell): A fascinating tale of a seaside spectre and unlucky vessels.

The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh (Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu) : I can never connect to the stories of this writer. I just can't get the fascination with his stories which, for me, are the epitome of the sleeping pill.

“It is now the fall of the night. The last of the neighbours are hitting the road for home.”

The Watcher O’ The Dead (John Guinan):

A sad tale that makes use of the conviction that the last person to be buried must guard the graveyard and its souls.

The Sea's Dead (Katharine Tynan): My favourite story in the collection. The tale of a woman who may be a selkie and her undying love for her man.

Julia Cahill's Curse (George Moore): I am not sure what this story wanted to accomplish. Promiscuity is hardly the road to progress…Indifferent, idiotic.

The Return of Niav (Dorothy Macardle): An interesting take on the myth of the Changeling that briefly echoes the Children of Lir and a few of the most famous Irish myths.

The Back Drawing-Room (Elizabeth Bowen): A Christmas story in which one of the guests narrates an unsettling encounter in an abandoned estate.

The Raising of Elvira Tremlett (William Trevor): A boy finds solace in the company of a strange girl as domestic life becomes more and more difficult.

Encounter by Night (Mary Frances McHugh): A man who is trying to find shelter for the night stumbles upon a tragic event. Sad and shocking, set in Dublin.

A Ghost Story (Mary Beckett): A young married couple that seems unable to see eye to eye in practically everything is about to fall apart because of a haunted house and a TV.

Uncanny Ireland left me with a range of responses, which is something I value in a collection like this. A few stories stayed with me—The Sea’s Dead and The Wee Gray Woman in particular—while others felt forgettable or simply not for me. But that’s part of reading widely: letting yourself respond honestly, rather than expecting each piece to resonate in the same way. What I appreciated most was how rooted these stories are in place and memory—how they carry the weight of old beliefs, quiet heartbreaks, and things half-said. There’s something universal in that, even if the setting is deeply Irish. These stories may come from another time and place, but the feelings they stir—longing, fear, wonder—are instantly familiar. While Uncanny Ireland offers many moments of atmospheric richness and haunting storytelling, it didn’t consistently maintain that immersive quality for me throughout. A few stories truly stood out and lingered, but others felt less compelling or just didn’t resonate. By my usual standards, when I find myself wavering between 4 and 5 stars, it’s a clear sign to lean toward 4—honesty in ratings matters to me. This collection is well worth reading, especially for lovers of Irish folklore and uncanny tales, but it’s not without its uneven patches.

“The greys of the landscape deepened; the green - purple of the trees sunk into gulfs of black all around; a few poplars beyond the cabins stirred faintly in the sky, and the white-blossomed boughs of an alder-tree glimmering out of the deepest darkness down the vanished road, and suggested the hovering nearness, yet aloofness of a reserve of sympathetic and vigilant spirits.”

Many thanks to the British Library Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

“I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can't help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year. I feel I know you so well that I couldn't have known you better if we'd been friends for twenty years. You won't fail me, will you? Only two minutes, and you've made me happy forever. Yes, happy. Who knows, perhaps you've reconciled me with myself, resolved all my doubts.''

“It was an ordinary spring day in Istanbul, a long and leaden afternoon like so many others, when she discovered, with a hollowness in her stomach, that she was capable of killing someone.”

Can an attempted robbery and assault force your entire life to flash before your eyes? Can a Polaroid plunge you back into the year that shaped everything — your beliefs, your mistakes, your identity? In Three Daughters of Eve, the answer is a desperate, aching yes.

Elif Shafak needs no introduction, and in this novel, she weaves a tale made of a thousand vivid, interwoven threads. Set between Istanbul and Oxford, this is Peri’s story — a story about faith and doubt, love and loneliness, and what it means to hurt others, to be human, to seek happiness. Touching on the cruelty of the Ottoman past, brushed with an elegant note of Magical Realism, Peri narrates her very soul to us. Troubled, intelligent Peri. A true bookworm, caught between a nihilist father and a fundamentalist mother, with books as her only solace. A reader of people. A confused idealist. A quiet young woman who goes about her life troubling no one, longing to be left alone — a lover of hushed debates, having found her haven in Oxford.

Until love strikes. That elemental force before which we are all defenceless.

Through the beautiful character of Peri — can you tell I adored her? — we’re given the chance to view Istanbul and Oxford side by side, like an intricate lecture on Descartes (and yes, I loved that scene…). Turkey, as Shafak presents it, is a country trying to balance between two boats — East and West — and failing to remain steady in either. Her elegant, often wry political and social commentary sketches a chaotic city bowed under the weight of a chaotic culture.

‘We’ are the Christians. The Westerners. ‘They’ are the pious Muslims. Turkey, in this novel, appears as a lighter version of an Islamic State: a place devoid of respect for women, children, Christians, basic human rights — full of hostility, and yet curiously submissive toward the very tyrants it creates. A country clinging to both inferiority and superiority complexes, stranded in cultural limbo.

Oxford, by contrast, is confidence. Its culture is steeped in a past it has claimed and understood. Istanbul’s past is stained with blood, massacres, and inherited barbarity. And Shafak, to her credit, doesn’t shy away from making that point utterly, unflinchingly clear.

‘’It’s hard to break our chains when some of us love being shackled.’’

Peri embodies the quiet, persistent resistance of a woman in a country that punishes femininity with cruelty and control. She walks through Istanbul—the city of rapes—where life bends to men’s convenience. A place where husbands demand virginity tests, where women devour each other over dinner tables dressed as social gatherings. Turkey, with all its contradictions, has no place in Europe—not in this state. And yet, in this brutal landscape, Peri remains tender. Her first love, wild and devastating, offers a glimmer of salvation. In love, we are all defenceless, all innocent.

Mona, with her pious self-righteousness, is a brute dressed in liberal fabric. Shirin, an oversexualized caricature, is an exhausting echo of Western clichés. Neither holds a candle to Peri’s inner light. I almost wish they had never intruded upon the pages of such a soulful novel. And Azure—mysterious, magnetic, brilliant—who wouldn’t fall for him?

‘’Now I can see it clearly. When we fall in love, we turn the other person into our god - How dangerous is that? And when he doesn't love us back, we respond with anger, resentment, hatred. There’s something about love that resembles faith. It's a kind of blind trust, isn't it? The sweetest euphoria. The magic of connecting with a being beyond our limited, familiar selves. But if we get carried away by love-or by faith-it turns into a dogma,a fixation. The sweetness becomes sour. We suffer in the hands of the gods that we ourselves created.’’

Then Faith enters the game. The women who impose such tyranny on themselves, brainwashed by a twisted piety, faithful to an unapproachable God. How lucky we are to be Christian, because we doubt and believe. We erase and create. Not egoistic believers, but true seekers. That is who Peri is. Not someone who seeks psychics, but one who speaks directly to her God.

Through Safak, we witness attitudes that estrange women from their sacred places. Jesus elevated Woman; fundamentalist Muslims hate her very existence. Azur’s sharp debates on God expose atheists and fundamentalists as two sides of the same coin. Our faith is what keeps us from collapsing; it shelters us from absolute despair. We see God as Love when we love ourselves. Imagine how atheists and fundamentalists view themselves… And this is why, eventually, your downfall comes when you think you have what it takes to ‘decode’ God.

Three Daughters of Eve is one of those rare novels that stays with you long after you close the cover. It seeps into your mind and refuses to leave, leaving behind a swirl of anger, heartbreak, and awe. Elif Shafak doesn’t hand you easy answers or tidy endings. Instead, she drags you into the raw, tangled mess of faith, love, identity — and the cost they demand.

I can’t deny my frustration with Peri’s choices — how love blinded her, how she gave up so much, how she stumbled toward pain. And yet, I found pieces of myself in her — in her doubts, her fierce intelligence, her longing for something more. That flawed, messy humanity makes her unforgettable. This is a story that haunts you, challenges you, tears down what you thought you knew about belief and freedom, and forces you to face uncomfortable truths.

If I write best when I’m furious, then Three Daughters of Eve lit a fire inside me that won’t burn out. Reading it felt like staring into a mirror cracked by love and faith and loss. Even now, my thoughts keep returning to Peri — to the woman I admired, the woman I wanted to save, and the woman who was herself, no matter what.

And even as I struggle to find words worthy of its weight, this much is clear: this is a book to be felt with every fiber of your being, to be wrestled with long after the last page.

‘’She had taken her God - diary with her, into which she now wrote: The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me, Eckhart says. If I approach God with rigidity, Gold approaches me with rigidity. If I see God through love, God sees me through Love. My eye and God’s eye are One.’’

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

The Spiral Staircase began with all the right ingredients—an isolated manor, an air of creeping menace, and a sympathetic heroine in Helen. The early imagery was compelling, and the sense of a house gradually emptying was deliciously eerie. Unfortunately, the tension fizzled out midway, giving way to tiresome dialogue and domestic entanglements that diluted the suspense. By page 220, I found myself skipping ahead, unable to remain invested. While there’s merit in the premise and atmosphere, the narrative’s sluggish turn made it difficult to finish with enthusiasm.

Many thanks to Pushkin Vertigo and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

“Maybe I’m just blessed with encounters with kind people today.”

In the Ginza neighbourhood in Tokyo, there is a very special stationery shop. Aided by an extremely polite, serene owner, people are able to write their thoughts in a unique notebook and find that the words flow like a river. Whether you’re too shy to talk to the one you love, feel inadequate to write an obituary for the only woman you ever loved, or want to thank someone who helped you advance in the world, the Shihodo paper, notebooks, and stationery treasures are there to assist you.

And when this premise is combined with the long tradition of Japanese calligraphy, washi paper, pens, and trivia that will make any stationery lover melt, you expect a novel that will blow your mind, take you to Japan, and heal your heart all at once. Besides, any book lover is also a stationery lover, right?

Yeah… it did not happen.

“Then, what am I to you? Are you telling me what you really think or just being polite?”

The five characters whose stories unfold in the novel are given chapters named after stationery items. Themes of loss, first love, regrets over misguided choices are interwoven with reflections on Japanese social norms. The competitiveness, the famed politeness that hovers between insecurity and emotional dishonesty, the control-freak mentality that drains every chance to enjoy life, the pressure of a deeply patriarchal society—where men must be perfect husbands and fathers, and women must sacrifice their dreams for marital and maternal duties—it’s an oppressive atmosphere that is, frankly, difficult for a European woman to stomach.

“After all, handwritten characters have expressions. They have laughing faces, crying faces, angry faces, happy faces, kind faces… Your mood at the time will be expressed directly.”

Fountain Pen:

A young man, always neat and composed, hovering between dignity and docility, wants to write a letter to his grandmother—the woman who raised him and instilled in him a quiet strength after his mother abandoned him. Sometimes, what we need is for the words to pour out along with our tears. And then, much may change for the better.

A moving introduction to the world of Shihodo.

Organiser:

I’m sorry to say I did not appreciate this story. I have a firm aversion to escorts of any kind, and for me, prostitution isn’t only about physical contact. The woes of a young woman who chose the lure of easy money over using her Humanities degree left me utterly cold.

Notebooks:

Teenage love—we get it, we’ve all been there. But all this tearful pining (and I do mean a lot of tears) over a boy with the personality of a control-freak potato didn’t make for a compelling chapter.

Frankly? I was bored.

Postcards:

A businessman, long the epitome of the scoundrel, must write the obituary of his (first) ex-wife—the only woman he ever truly loved. A bit melodramatic, but tender. And yet again, the misogyny that permeates Japanese society becomes glaring.

I mean, “Men who make women cry will only produce daughters”? Really?

Memo Pads:

Why would I care about the complexities of tea and sushi if there’s no compelling story attached? Memo pads, the sorrows of a sushi chef, and I was bored to tears.

A chapter as flavourless as cold rice.

I loved learning about the different ways to say “Welcome” in Japanese. I loved the details about calligraphy, stationery paper, and washi tapes (which I adore, by the way), and the evocative way flavours and scents can trigger memory. But that’s about it.

Where was the whimsical atmosphere? Where were the interesting characters? The dialogue was atrocious—likely a result of the translation. How many “oh”s and “hmms” do we need?

Whimsical imagery and memorable characters are the backbone of Healing Fiction—alongside, of course, the emotional themes. But in this novel, the imagery is weak, and the characters are practically non-existent. Even the shop owner is a cardboard cutout, a pale imitation of figures from more successful works in the genre.

This novel promised to be a balm for the soul, a love letter to stationery, memory, and all the unspoken things we carry. Instead, it gave me tears, tropes, and sushi metaphors. The Shihodo Stationery Shop might help fictional clients put their feelings into words—but as a reader, I was left with nothing much to say beyond: what a wasted opportunity.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

‘’What will we do with this paper, sir? Why, we’ll write great books. We’ll grow up and never marry.’’

Emily Brontë wrote only one novel. Just one novel. One. This novel became the measure by which every book of the Gothic genre is rated. It became controversial due to the mistaken, feminist approach of the Meanads who declared Heathcliff “ a monster”. It is worshipped on the altar of the literary masterpieces by the lovers of literature who know HOW to read. Her novel became one of the best novels ever written. For me, it is THE best novel ever written.

And The Man in the Stone Cottage is undoubtedly the finest novel about the Brontë family.

The West Yorkshire setting reflects the emotional and thematic core of the novel, mirroring the solitude and elemental strength that define Emily Brontë. Emily remains faithful to the stones, the moonlight, and the cold winds—guardians of memory, bearing the voices of the dead. In contrast, Charlotte’s spirit longs to soar beyond the moors, drawn to the vitality of London and its intellectual allure. Yet, the novel continually returns us to Emily: her solitude, her mystery, her quiet defiance.

‘’Why don’t people leave me alone?’’

Many have wondered how Emily could portray such a powerful, dark, and intimate relationship without ever having known love herself. Stephanie Cowell imagines a Scottish shepherd who melts the frost around Emily’s heart and temporarily draws her away from the world she so fiercely clings to. Though Charlotte’s story occupies much of the narrative, it is Emily’s presence that dominates. She exists not only in her own story, but in her sister’s thoughts and ambitions. It is Emily’s feral, mystical energy that haunts the pages of this remarkable novel.

‘’Where did this story come from? She thought of leaves against a corner of the church, a homeless boy she had once seen wth huge, dark eyes. And there was than ancient book of poems, particularly the poem about a wanderer. He was exiled from all he loved and roamed the cold seas and walked the paths of exile, just like the man in the stone cottage who had aroused such strange feelings in her.’’

The writing is truly exquisite. We can hear the winds howling, the branches knocking on the windows, the church bells, the leaves under the boots. We can see the stone cottage, Haworth, the moss on the graves, the silence of the empty church. The dialogue is beautiful, rich and elegant, poetic and moving. When you are as familiar with Wuthering Heights as I am, you understand that Cowell’s work is full of subtle nods and literary echoes—Easter eggs that deepen the experience and draw a clearer emotional thread between the two works.

‘’Because,’’ she mumbled slowly, her fingers peeling the polished bannister, ‘’the poems are from the inside of me. What all of you see isn’t the real me; it’s a shadow. If I don’t hold on, what’s real will be taken from me. Who I really am would be thrown away.’’

I have the audacity to confess that I’ve always felt a deep connection with Emily. In her silence, I saw my own aversion to the empty exchanges and performative interactions that fill our daily lives. In her rage, I recognised my own frustration. In her fierce privacy, I saw my own unwillingness to expose the intimate details of my life, because it’s nobody’s business.

After reading Stephanie Cowell’s novel, that connection felt even more profound. I felt it in my core—as if, through these pages, Emily had shared her deepest secrets with me. And now, I love her even more. This little heathen who wrote wonders…

‘’Ancient drystone walls ran far into the distance on the Yorkshire moor, and now last autumn’s heather and grass were covered with a light frost. A red grouse cackled from a wall and leaped into the air.’’

Lyrical and melancholic, sacred and bittersweet, this beautiful novel is a treasure for anyone who adores Emily Brontë. And for those unfamiliar with the Brontë family, it may spark a deeper curiosity, prompting them to explore the sisters’ works and extraordinary lives. If I sound opinionated—or even elitist—it’s only because years of encountering misreadings and shallow commentary about Emily Brontë have made me unapologetic. I can’t wait to own a physical copy of this book and place it among my most treasured volumes.

‘’We have always been here, they murmured. We are more real than you are. We are more real than he is, your man in his stone cottage, and he is dangerously real.

Live for us alone.

I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always. Take any form, drive me mad, only do not leave me in this dark alone where I cannot find you. I cannot live without my life! I cannot die without my soul.’’

Many thanks to Regal House Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

Jesus Listens for Christmas offers a beautiful glimpse into a devotional that feels both timely and timeless. Sarah Young's signature warmth and reverence come through once again in this holiday edition of her beloved Jesus Listens series.

This Christmas devotional is thoughtfully structured, with daily readings that begin in late November and lead up to the New Year. Each prayerful entry is written in a first-person conversational style that invites the reader to connect with Jesus in a personal, reflective way. The themes of hope, peace, joy, and light resonate deeply, especially in a season where spiritual reflection can be both needed and overlooked amid the busyness.

What sets this edition apart is its gentle focus on the heart of the Christmas story—God’s love made manifest. There is a balance of scripture, prayer, and meditation that creates a calming rhythm to each day. Whether used in solitude or shared as a family reading, it encourages mindful presence and gratitude.

The book is a wonderful gift, and a treasure for the family while the various activities and suggested reading make it a true Christmassy companion.

Highly recommended for anyone looking to slow down and focus on the spiritual richness of the Christmas season. Jesus Listens for Christmas is a comforting and inspiring companion for Advent and beyond.

Many thanks to Tommy Nelson and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

Despite being a bit repetitive at times and overlooking the fact that the language is occasionally too informal, these devotionals are an immense help to sustain your peace of mind and aid your prayers when the times are rougher than rough.

Many thanks to Barbour Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review

‘’A smoky blackness swallows up the mustard path. There is a bite in the room and the bullish wind seems like a living, breathing, angry entity.’’

God, in His unfathomable wisdom, created the Day and the Night. One cannot exist without the other. And though most of us grow apprehensive, even nervous, once the sun sets — even I, who adore the tranquillity of darkness — try living in a country where daylight is constant through summer. It’s excruciating.

Night hides a different universe in its folds. And this beautiful book serves as our guide into that realm: a poignant, mystical journey through the shadows and their lurkers, human or otherwise.

Starting on the Normandy coast, Arifa Akbar narrates a tale about the isolated island during the dark hours, the rural night, ushering us into the deep feeling of insecurity that permeates every woman's evening walk. Echoing Charles Dickens's insomniac wanderings, she takes us into a 24-hour play in the West End and reminisces on her father's slow surrendering to dementia. She talks about the unsettling phenomenon of ‘’sun-downing’’ and the hospitals at night.

‘’I can’t remember when I first stopped sleeping soundly.’’

Somnambulism and Van Gogh’s torment. Murakami’s dreamlike narratives and Moshfegh’s hallucinatory novels become vessels for Akbar’s most intimate thread: the story of her sister’s mental health struggles and eventual death.

She writes of night terrors — or was the room truly haunted? — of strange female figures glimpsed on Waterloo Bridge or crouched outside a bedroom door. And all the while, ghostly presences drift through the pages: Virginia Woolf, Anaïs Nin, Dorothy Wordsworth, and the tortured brilliance of Sarah Kane. Even Goya’s Black Paintings loom in the dark, a visual chorus of anguish and shadow.

Sex workers in Amsterdam, BDSM clubs in Berlin, dancers in Lahore. Night tours in Whitechapel, immigrant workers in London’s nightly markets. Like a contemporary Edward Hopper, Arifa Akbar draws the portrait of Night and, especially, the portraits of the creatures - whatever their origin - that inhabit it. A book unlike anything I have ever read.

‘’I rushed downstairs, to the kitchen, whose window overlooks the building's many little allotments. It is a black mirror, reflecting my face back at me. There are shadows here too. Has the ghost woman pattered down the stairs with me? I eat quickly before racing back upstairs. When I pass the corner, I feel its filled vacancy. I know it is my imagination that gives the darkness its freighted quality. And yet I remain scared. The woman is someone I carry with me now, and I place her here every time I pass. It is a story I keep telling myself. A decision to fill the darkness with something over nothing.’’

Many thanks to Sceptre and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

Tessa is struggling to come to terms with her beloved grandma's death while trying to convince her parents not to give up on the summer camp Nana created, bringing joy to the hearts of children. An enigmatic puppeteer arrives with enticing puppets and haunting stories, a woman who speaks in riddles and covert threats. And children start disappearing. And new puppets are being created. And new stories are being conceived and narrated...As the fairy lights cast a magic aura on the summer nights, secrets must lie hidden.

Like hidden strings...

A modern fable, a fairytale for the modern era, set in a saltry summer when the nights are short but no less threatening. A story to be told under the twinkling lights in hushed voices, a tale as old as time itself.

The character of Liza was fascinating beyond words. Unfortunately, Tessa is given the short end of the stick, and her character is the average naive teenager of today's YA nonsense. In addition, the dialogue is almost lifeless, and the writing itself is lacklustre at best. Thank God for the haunting story, the dark tales and the short length of the novel.

Many thanks to North Star Editions and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

The writer wrote a book to convince everyone and their mother that women are 'subordinate' to men in church and family. What does he mean? Well, it doesn't take much effort to understand that he distorts God and Jesus' teachings to communicate his misogyny. Pure trash. I didn't make it past the first chapter and I am disgusted that such libel gets the chance to be published.

London, 1928. Egyptomania is at its peak. A mummy, the real mummy of a Pharaoh, is brought to the capital, and the public goes wild. Two bookshops compete to hold the ‘mummy night’, but it is Lucy, the owner of the ‘losing side’, who finds herself amid a whirlwind as strange notes appear and bodies pile. As if this wasn’t enough, Lucy has to deal with an utterly obnoxious mother and irritating suitors and the obvious attraction towards a fascinating Inspector.

Best mystery I’ve read in a long time and that’s an understatement!

Treading more than carefully since we are talking about a murder mystery, the setting is absolutely perfect! Foggy London, with its mysterious alleys and the Londoners’ fascination with all things occult and paranormal, with its rich ‘benefactors’ who waste money on stealing treasures from other countries instead of aiding the ones in need, becomes a character in itself. The writing and the interactions between the characters are seamless, engaging, and the elegance of the era permeates the novel. The story itself had me guessing until the last page. Each time I thought I had figured things out, I found myself hopelessly wrong. And we are not talking about gimmicks, twists and turns and herrings, but about a truly perfect plot that needs no cheap tricks.

Lucy is the factor that turns an excellent book into a triumph. She is perfection personified. Smart, kind, the perfect boss and the perfect example of putting others in their place without offending them. She is the epitome of the British female sleuth and one of the finest heroines in this quintessentially British genre. All the characters are rounded and tangible enough to be believable, but I admit I have a soft spot for the Inspector. He is dreamy, and no, I refuse to remain professional at this point, thank you very much!

As a Greek, I couldn’t help but wince every time the British Museum was mentioned, and I applaud the writer’s stance on filling your shelves with stolen goods. It just doesn’t work, people! Don’t do it!

Long story short, you need this book in your life, and I need another 776729 novels with Lucy Darkwether as the heroine. And the Inspector, obviously…

Many thanks to Hodder & Stoughton and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

A comprehensive, poignant and, at times, moving commentary on the Gospel of St.Mark, possibly the most concise and somewhat enigmatic of the Four Gospels.

Divided into chapters dedicated to specific verses, the writer starts with introductions that draw parallels to our era and our modern thoughts and perceptions, continuing with extracts from Mark and analysing the meaning of the passages as relating to the Past (the time of Jesus' earthly ministry) and our Present.

Ending with moving devotionals and enriched with questions that provide food for thought and give you plenty of material for your prayer journal, this book is a valuable guide to the Christian's study of a rather unique Gospel, regardless of denomination. (I am Greek Orthodox.)

Many thanks to HarperChristian Resources and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

"A matter of simple biology."

Yes, this is an actual sentence that can be found in this book and is uttered by a 600AD woman...

Do you want to see one of the finest characters The Bard created reduced to being an obnoxious, evil, sex-crazed psycho slut who cares only for herself?

Do you want to see Hamlet turned into one of the most indifferent characters you will ever read?

Do you want to read about the vilification of Christianity and the glorification of the pagans?

The only characters that retain a scrap of decency and bravery are Flora and Mairi.

Becoming a man does NOT make you a "strong woman", it makes you an idiot.

My life has been a hot mess lately. Health issues, work problems, financial difficulties, broken relationships. I have never felt so many moments during which I want to give up all and simply disappear. What sustains me in the middle of an ocean of troubles, blows from every corner and non-existent support by people I thought were friends? My faith. It gives me strength to take a deep breath every day, to foster a secret hope that everything will become whole again.

This little book is a true treasure for every Christian women despite denominations. I am Greek Orthodox and yet, I find great comfort reading Catholic devotionals and testimonies. They speak to our fragile humanity, deepening the connection between a believer and Our Lord, testifying to His most human moments.

I read blessings during my commute to work. God knows I need them... Written in powerful, flowing, direct and calming language, they made me feel a little safer, a little less desperate. I have copied pages and pages from the volume in my Bible to comfort me and sustain me along with my own prayers. Because the only thing that makes my life beautiful at this moment is the connection to the presence of Our Lord Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary. They never fail you.

Humans ALWAYS do.

Many thanks to Our Daily Bread Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

‘’Not everyone alive in that winter night, and the following day when chaos erupted, would live to see the flowers return, or the warmth of summer, or enjoy the fruits of the harvest that followed. But that is always so. Men and women live with a heart-deep uncertainty every morning when they wake. It is why they go to war, why they write poems, fall in and out of love, plan thefts on dark nights, or try to forestall them. Why they pray. Or refuse to pray.

It is the uncertainty that shapes and defines our lives. The tears of the world, a longing for joy. Or even just safety. Just that.’’

A land plagued by endless war. A poet bearing the weight of a broken world. Two women—headstrong, intelligent, fiercely loyal. A maiden leading an army. A god of justice, echoing the spiritual reverence of Christian belief. Guy Gavriel Kay’s new novel is a thing to behold: intimate and epic, brutal and beautiful, in every way.

‘’Sometimes we retain the quiet moments that come in the midst of chaos, or after it. The city, my city, in the night. Our lives, written on the dark.’’

Epic and moving, without the vast scope of places and characters of previous novels, his new book is focused on Orane and a handful of characters, allowing the reader to breathe and concentrate on the themes that form the heart of the story. It explores war and its endless, torturous consequences: sorrow, famine, enmity. Poems that speak of valour cannot conceal the scorched earth left behind. Guy Gavriel Kay paints a fascinating imagery of the Dance of Death, perpetually defining the fates of countries and their people. And the endless cycle, the snake eating its tail.

‘’Usually there are no headstones for the dead of a battlefield. Sometimes a mound is raised.

What we know, or decide we know, of the past needs to be judiciously weighed and measured. It rarely is. We have our allegiences, even when centuries have gone by, season after season, year after year after year.’’

The observant, educated reader will notice the parallels between the story of Orane and the Hundred Years War—especially Jeanne d’Arc, the battle of Agincourt, and the fascinating ways in which history has been woven into this work of fiction. At the centre is Thierry, a character who is earthy, relatable, and direct—someone readers can easily connect with and care about. He’s supported by two intriguing, enchanting women, who add further depth to the narrative.

‘’It seems to me that most moments in a life can be called interludes; following something, preceding something. Carrying us forward, with our needs and nature and desires, as we move through our time. It also seems to me that it is foolish to try to comprehend all that happens to us, let alone understand the world.’’

As the two moons—first seen in the mystical A Song for Arbonne—rise once more, the fate of a land unfolds. Men and women struggle for justice, for meaning, for survival, in a brilliant work of literary art from a true master of the craft.

‘’There was still blood on the ancient stones. Rain would wash it away in due course. It had done that before. The moon, rising, shone down upon the arched bridge and the river, and the stars did. In the teachings of that time and place, Jad of the sun was in the darkness below, battling demons to protect his children, as he did every night since the world had been made, and remade, and remade.’’

Many thanks to Hodder & Stoughton and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/