Amalia Gkavea

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.

‘’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/

“It was a wonderful night, the kind of night which is only possible when we are young.”

I approached White Nights with curiosity and an open mind, aware of its reputation as a delicate, melancholic tale of youthful longing and the human need for connection. Yet, despite its many admirers and the recent surge in popularity—fueled largely by BookTok influencers and endless tea reels—I found myself frustrated, detached, and frankly unimpressed.

The young man is dreamy to a fault—too naïve, too desperate, and far too ethereal to feel like a real person. He “protests too much,” as if clinging to an ideal of love rather than experiencing it. Nastenka, on the other hand, isn’t just a fragile, weeping girl—she’s a calculated manipulator wrapped in a pretty sob story. Her tears aren’t signs of weakness but weapons aimed to entangle the dreamer in her self-centred drama. She knew exactly what she was doing all along: milking his desperation for attention and comfort, then dropping him without a second thought. No innocence here—just cold, strategic emotional theatre. Together, they form one of the most exasperating “couples” in literature—two lonely souls wrapped up in their own emotional whirlwinds but lacking genuine chemistry or empathy.

Yet, I can’t deny that Dostoevsky’s novella strips the human soul bare in its reflections on loneliness, silence, and the pain of unfulfilled dreams. His insights into how deeply we understand others’ unhappiness when we ourselves are hurt are thoughtful and timeless. But these moments are few and far between, scattered amid dialogue that often feels juvenile and melodramatic, and a narrative tone that rarely sustains a believable atmosphere.

It’s no secret that White Nights has recently become a darling of social media, especially BookTok, where emotional intensity is sometimes mistaken for literary depth. I am sceptical of the frenzy—and honestly, it feels more like romanticising a lost innocence than engaging with a fully realized story. Who am I to judge Dostoyevsky, or the legions of wannabe influencers who have likely never read another book but flood the internet with vapid tea reels? But my frustration stands: this novella didn’t move me in the way so many claim.

Let’s be real. These two characters? They don’t need to be adored; they need a reality check. The dreamer is a pathetic mess—clinging to an idea of love like a drowning man to driftwood. He’s more a ghost than a person, lost in his own desperate fantasy, incapable of genuine connection.

Nastenka? She’s a minx of the highest order—a self-serving drama queen who weaponises her tears and vulnerability like a pro. She knows exactly what she’s doing: playing the dreamer for all he’s worth, soaking up attention and comfort without giving a damn in return. She treats him like a consolation prize, a warm body to fill the void while waiting for the “real” love to come back.

Their so-called “love story” is nothing more than a masterclass in emotional manipulation and self-absorption. They’re two lonely people caught in a circle of neediness and theatrical sadness, with zero chemistry and zero growth.

And yet, thanks to social media hype and BookTok’s obsession with manufactured emotional intensity, this tired, overwrought novella has been elevated to some kind of romantic ideal.

Here’s the truth: White Nights isn’t the soaring ode to love and loneliness it’s cracked up to be. It’s a theatrical farce dressed in the guise of a poignant tale, and if you want to read something genuinely moving, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

“And you regret that the momentary beauty faded so quickly, so irretrievably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain — you regret this because there was not time for you even to fall in love with her…”

In the end, White Nights is like watching a beautiful painting from a distance—there is technique and occasional tenderness, but the emotional pull never quite reaches me. It remains an important literary piece with meaningful themes, but for me, it was more an exercise in observation than immersion. I can appreciate its place in literature without sharing the hype that currently surrounds it.

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

“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/

“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/

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.

‘’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.

I have read hundreds of books on the Paranormal and hundreds of books on Irish Culture. This volume is one of the most informative, haunting, moving and scary reads I’ve ever had the pleasure to spend time with. Not only does it offer rare information on the contemporary perspectives of the paranormal in Ireland, but it also allows us to compare and contrast stories and phenomena in different cultures. What makes this book unique is that most of the incidents narrated took place between the mid-20th century and the early 2010s.

The Introduction (which is beyond brilliant, by the way) offers an interesting, thought-provoking comparison between British and Irish reactions to the Paranormal. What do we learn from this wonderful book? A multitude of views and experiences. The shadows of the Irish Revolution, the Troubles falling on hospitals, execution sites, even houses. The tragedy of the Great Famine. Haunted priories, abbeys, boarding schools. What I truly loved was the detail and the attention placed on experiences related to haunted houses, hotels, and inns (some of which had no bloody past to explain the phenomena). There is also a deep feeling of sadness permeating the accounts. Parents losing their children, visitations and omens of death, strange and menacing dark oddities, contemporary sightings of the Banshee and the ghost lights on the bogs. There is even an entertaining section of extraordinary phenomena recorded between the 12th century and the 16th century.

This book is pure perfection. From the atmospheric front cover to the vivid writing and the stories included, a haunting trip to Ireland has never been better!

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.

‘’We yearn to travel. There is something else that distinguishes us as a species; we are storytellers. We are known as Homo Sapiens - ‘wise man’ - thanks in no small part to our use of language to construct narratives. We love storytelling.’’

And when we cannot travel, books are there to guide us to a place away from our reality. Before I visited Prague and Seville, and Milan, and Rome, and Paris, and Moscow, and so many other places, I had seen their beauty with the eyes of the mind. I had visited them on a magic carpet called ‘Book’. Books are our first guides to places and wonders that we may never be fortunate enough to visit.

This volume maps a multitude of stories. Books that found their hearts in characters’ journeys of the body, the spirit and the soul…

We battle monsters with Odysseus, the most timeless of characters in World Literature, meet merchants in the company of Marco Polo, walk with the pilgrims to Canterbury, fight windmills defending Don Quixote. Walk from Edinburgh to London as a young woman is wrongfully accused, witness the struggles of the serfs in the Russian countryside, meet the legendary Vlad Tepes in the mystical land of Transylvania.

Follow Fernando Ossorio on a journey of a troubled soul in Toledo, let Virginia Woolf lead you on an adventure across the Atlantic, accompany Leopold Bloom through the streets of Dublin, see how Halldor Laxness officiates a marriage between Catholicism and the sagas of old.

What do we think of the motels and the endless road trip in Nabokov’s masterpiece of a young girl’s Western Odysseus to avenge her father in Portis’s True Grit? What happens when you cannot escape Soviet Moscow even by taking a train to a sleepy village? How would it feel to cross Europe during the Napoleonic Wars era as depicted in Winterson’s The Passion? Or China during the so-called ‘Cultural Revolution’?

From Suffolk to Australia, from Iceland to Taiwan, from Tokarczuk’s Flights to Maraini’s Train to Budapest, from Twain to Adichie’s Americanah and Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad, this is a treasure for those of us who are TRUE lovers of Literature.

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

In the pages of this lovely book, you will find selkies, banshees, leprechauns, changelings, mermaids. Giants, fairies, charmers, ang uisce, faerie cats and dogs, the pooka, the Headless Horseman, shapeshifters and sheerie - the well-known Jack o'Lanterns - are waiting for us in a unique journey within the heart of Ireland's folklore.

Masterfully written by Síne Quinn, beautifully illustrated by Dermott Flynn

Many thanks to Candlewick and Edelweiss 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.

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.

‘’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/

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.

Devotionals to see us through days of stress, anxiety and turbulence. Although the texts tend to be repetitive after a while, the desired tenderness and quietness come through the pages. My only 'serious' qualm is the translation of the Old and New Testament extracts. It would have been better for the editor to use the King James Edition because certain parts 'sound' extremely odd and modernised.

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

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/

Last year, my partner persuaded me to start appreciating the graphic novel. You see, Stephen King's The Dark Tower saga is his Bible, so the graphic novels of the series seemed to spring out of nowhere in my house. I still haven't read those but I found a new love for the genre and after a couple of really successful efforts, I was hooked. Now I try to find (and devour) quality graphic novels with a newly acquired confidence. This one seemed perfect. The Salem Trials is one of my favourite topics and Arthur Miller's The Crucible is one of my most beloved plays, the 1996 film version with Daniel Day-Lewis as John Proctor is one of the best films ever made and I had the fortune to watch the role revived by Richard Armitage at the Old Vic in 2014, a truly profound experience. So, my anticipation was immense.

What I found was an abomination in every sense of the word...

The ‘'writer'' creates an Author's Note to inform us that he has taken some ‘'liberties'' with the ‘'material'' (because according to him, History is ‘'material''). He goes on to compare himself to Arthur Miller and this continues for two paragraphs...So, imagine me reading this...Comparing yourself to Miller? We don't start well, dear ‘'writer''. In addition, the fact that you're warning me is worrying. Honest but worrying.

Sneak peek: (''Hey, Abigail. Wait up!'' If this isn't absolutely, totally faithful 1690's dialogue, I don't know what is...)

I won't tire you. Tell me if you had ever imagined that you would find the phrase ‘'it's so cute'' in the USA during the 1690s. No, I didn't think so. The illustrations are horrible. I mean, they are out of this world ugly, the depictions of the characters and the landscape are unnatural, tasteless. The violence approaches the boundaries of torture porn and there is an utterly absurd focus on sex. This is a violent adolescent's wet dream, not the story of the Salem Trials. With the pitiful excuse of bringing women's persecution over the centuries into focus, the ‘'writer'' creates a...thing that makes you wish you couldn't read. A horrible rendition, retelling, you name it, of a terrifying moment that produced a masterpiece.

Congratulations, ‘'writer''. You managed to turn a fascinating story into a bloodfest-ed, sex-crazed B-movie. You need some kind of a prize for this. NOT. It would be better if ignorants didn't touch what they cannot understand and respect. This was out of that man's (restricted) league and it showed. Horribly.

ARC from Europe Comics and NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

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

‘'The sky above Belgrade stretches from horizon to horizon, often tumultuous, but always beautiful. In winter, with its bright, cold and clear starry nights, in summer with its sudden showers. When it changes, becoming a thick, dark cloud that carries heavy rain and dirt from the valleys of Pannonia, aided by angry winds. In spring, the sky flourishes along with the earth and in autumn it is adorned with autumnal stars. The sky is always beautiful and generous, as if it's trying to compensate this strange city for all that are missing. As if it's trying to console it for all the things that are taking place without its will...''

Unfortunately, Rajka's life has nothing of the variety of the seasons or the beauty of the sky and the vividness of Sarajevo and Belgrade. The crisis before the First World War, the Great War itself, the persecution against the Serbian citizens in Bosnia make no difference at all. Even when forced to leave Sarajevo, she bears it all with a frightening and admirable combination of perseverance, serenity and determination. For all her life, her thoughts, her heart answer to one word: money. Burdened by a terrible misfortune due to her father's kind nature, Rajka is determined to live for herself. The problem is that she isn't actually alive and her obsession can only lead to one closure...

Rajka is not an evil person. I am surprised and appalled by many users' swift tendency to judge what they are obviously unable to understand. Raika is not evil or vile or a ‘'traitor''. This would make for a very naive, simplistic and misinformed reading of her character. Allow me to write a few observations in Greek because they are actually aimed at certain users from my homeland.

Αφήστε την τηλεόραση και διαβάζετε περισσότερο προσεκτικά ορισμένα βιβλία. Παρατηρήστε στους χαρακτήρες. Ζήστε τους. Η συγκεκριμένη ηρωίδα δεν είναι μια από τους χαρακτήρες στις τηλεοπτικές σειρές που έχετε προφανέστατα συνηθίσει να παρακολουθείτε. Δεν θέλει να παντρευτεί ούτε να πηδηχτεί κατα εικοσάδες. Είναι ‘'αντιπαθητικιά'' και καλά κάνει (...αν είναι δυνατόν τα ελληνικά ορισμένων, δηλαδή...) Κι αν ο Ivo Andrić δεν σας ‘'τραβάει'' το ενδιαφέρον με την πλοκή του, υπάρχει η Δημουλίδου κι ο τιτανοτεράστιος πολυτεχνίτης ‘‘καλλιτέχνης΄'‘Κρομμύδας ή όπως αλλιώς τον λένε κι η Μαντά. Άντε, λίγος σεβασμός δεν βλάπτει. Γυρίστε στα ‘'αστυνομικά'' σας και τα βιβλία με γυμνούς και γυμνές κι αφήστε την κλασική λογοτεχνία...Καθήστε και σκεφτείτε γιατί αυτός ο συγγραφέας έχει τιμηθεί με το βραβείο Nobel. Κάντε αναζήτηση στο Google για να μάθετε τι είναι αυτό. Κι αν στο δικό σας μυαλό το συνώνυμο της ποιότητας είναι ‘‘ελιτισμός'' (κα μάθετε να το γράφετε και σωστά, τουλάχιστον...) τότε ναί, υπάρχουμε και εμείς οι...ελιτιστές και είμαστε περήφανοι για αυτό. Άντε, πηγαίνετε να βγάλετε φωτογραφίες τα φλυτζάνια του καφέ και τις σοκολάτες Ιον για να είστε στη μόδα της αισχρής ‘‘βιβλιοκοινότητας'' που έχετε φτιάξει και παρατήστε μας. Περίμενα χρόνια να τα γράψω αυτά για μερικούς. Και ναί, είμαι ελιτίστρια. Ποτέ δεν το έκρυψα και είμαι περήφανη γι'αυτό. Κι αν εσείς πήρατε το πτυχίο με ‘‘7 και κάτι'', εμείς το πήραμε με 10. Γιατί μπορούσαμε. Κι εσύ που έχεις πρόβλημα με τους ‘‘κουλτουριάρηδες'' που ‘''εχουν μαζευτεί εδώ μέσα'' κοίτα να το συνηθίσεις...

Rajka is a terribly wounded, problematic soul that has decided to build a gigantic fortress between herself and what she perceives to be a threatening mob, willing to take advantage of her. Whether she is right or not is purely subjective, in my opinion. Speaking strictly for me, I'd say I agree with her with one exception. When your need to isolate yourself to pursue an endless source of wealth and security results in creating a prison for your heart and soul, then you are torturing yourself needlessly. No amount of money is worthy of such a terrible sacrifice.

Rajka does exactly that. She isn't a usurer or a leech. Instead, leeches are trying to drink her blood, making use of her naivety regarding relationships and the worms that are always there, waiting. She stays away from the gossip and the intrigues because she is so much better than the simple-minded girls whose only desire is to marry. However, she refuses to allow herself to live. This becomes worse and worse, reaching a level of absurd self-punishment. When a rightful disappointment originated by two of the aforementioned leeches strikes her during the later years, Rajka's course is already sealed. In the end, Andrić wants us to wonder: Was it all worth it? Such obsession and hardness? Was it worth all the millions of the world? The answer is a thundering ‘'no''.

In a book that I would consider as one of the immortal works in World Literature, the great Ivo Andrić takes us to the multicultural city of Sarajevo and the cosmopolitan Belgrade during the beginning of the 20th century, in the company of one of the most memorable heroines. As always, he comments on the social and political circumstances and demonstrates that certain disputes have roots firmly planted in the past, fed and watered by narrow-mindedness and greed and the people's wrong choices when they fall for loud, populist voices. But Rajka remains indifferent. Raike walks her own way, with her head held high and with a terrible stone inside that makes her steps heavier and heavier...

Life isn't black or white. And it certainly isn't pink and sugar-coated with female characters who only wish to get laid or married. Judging by the people's responses in most subjects on social media, Raija's thinking regarding the crowds was far from wrong...

‘'Steady again, she gazed around her room before she turned her eyes outside the window, in the autumnal sky and the naked branches of the trees that seemed to guard the horizon. Gathering her strength, as any human being who has received a frightful blow, she said to herself: so be it! ‘'

Extracts translated by my partner, taken from the Serbian edition.

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

  “Στο μεταξύ, κάτω στη γη ο βασιλιάς ήταν έξω φρενών. -Δε μου λες, σε παρακαλώ, ρώτησε τον καγκελάριο του, γιατί συνέχεια ψιχαλίζει καλοκαιριάτικα και γιατί οι χαρταετοί μού φεύγουνε από το χέρι και γιατί γίνεται ολική έκλειψη του ήλιου κάθε φορά που γδύνομαι τσίτσιδος και πάω να κάνω ηλιοθεραπεία, άσε που έχω κουφαθεί από τις βροντές.”

Στο βασίλειο της Παμφαγίας, Ο Φυρδης Μιγδης είναι ο προσωπικός φωτογράφος του Τετραπαχου του Τέταρτου. Ενός γκρινιάρη, αμόρφωτου βλάκα, κλασικό παράδειγμα τυράννου. Όμως ο φωτογράφος μας δεν αντέχει άλλη τρέλα και φεύγει με το αερόστατο του παππού του για τα σύννεφα. Απίθανα ευτράπελα συμβαίνουν όταν οι φωτογραφίες του αλλάζουν τα καιρικά φαινόμενα και ο Μεγαλειότατος αρχίζει να αναρωτιέται.

Ένα υπέροχο παραμύθι για το τι μπορούν να κάνουν δυο σύννεφα, ένας χαρταετός, Ο ήλιος, το φεγγάρι,η αστραπή κι ένας ιπποπόταμος.

Εξαιρετικός Ευγένιος Τριβιζας, υπέροχη εικονογράφηση από την Βαλλυ Λιαπη.