Amalia Gkavea
‘'When the dark days of winter seem to have gone on forever, the first sign of spring refreshes our souls. It is a promise that winter will not last forever and that warm and fertile days will come again soon. Even through snow, the daffodils will push their heads up with a startling flash of green and yellow against the otherwise unbroken glare of winter's white.''
As February arrives, it is time to reflect on the winter that is slowly heading towards its end and the spring that will be with us before we even realise it. As the days become warmer and the light lasts a little bit longer, we have the chance to reflect and decide.
This lovely little book is a quiet meditation on the role and influence of Brigid in the Celtic tradition and her (ingenious) transformation from a Celtic goddess to a Christian Saint. The protector of poetry, inspiration, the refuge of women, the comfort of the farmers. She who protects the hearth and the crops with crosses and corn dollies.
We learn about the Februalia and the orgiastic Lupercalia honouring Romulus and Remus, the mythical founders of Rome. The Native American traditional celebrations and ceremonies, the ancient Egyptian customs honouring the goddess Renenunet who protected the mothers fighting during the birth of their children before we are transported to our times and the special, even quirky, Groundhog Day, the beautiful celebrations of Mardi Gras and the mysticism of Candlemass.
And as tiny flowers begin to push through the snow, we are more than ready to prepare for the rejuvenation of Spring and the excitement of a more carefree Summer...
‘'Imbolc is the light at the end of the tunnel, the birth of the new spring. It is a small light, like a candle seen in the distance because spring is still some distance away. It makes it only right to celebrate Imbolc with candles rather than torches of the blazing balefires that will mark our summer celebrations.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'I have no name. The travelling folk have neither name, nor master. When I die, no stone will be laid. No flowers will be scattered. When I die, I will become a thousand creatures: beetles, worms. And so I shall travel on, for ever, till the End of the Worlds. This is the fate of the travelling folk. We would not have it otherwise.''
When Love comes, it comes uninvited, unnoticed, silently. It asks no one's permission, it falls like thunder, it strikes like an earthquake. And if we are fortunate, we might have a chance to survive and tell the tale. When a girl of the Travelling Folk of the mountains, the forests and the moors falls in love with a human, she walks straight into the trap we call ‘'Love''. It will soon become certain that her heart will break for humans are treacherous and vile. And then, the long path of Revenge must be followed.
‘'Today I am a nightingale at your bedroom window. My song is sweeter than honey, and yet you do not hear me. Instead, you sit in your chamber and read from a book bound in red leather, and sometimes you sigh and look outside, but you cannot see me, nor do you know how eagerly I watch you from my stony perch.''
Instead of tiring you (as I am, surely), you will allow me to share two paragraphs that brought me to tears...
‘'Ι shall bing my love with the cry of a snowy owl in the darkness. I shall bind him with nightshade, and the collarbone of a moon hare. I shall bind him in a sheet made from stars and thistledown, and sleep with him for a thousand years, until the seas are nothing but sand, and the mountains are nothing but ocean.''
‘'But I shall never be as you are. When I have my freedom back, I shall travel into the air. I shall become a thousand seeds of dandelion and firewood, of ragwort and of thistle, alder and yew. And I shall take root wherever I fall, in your gardens and on your graves. And if you cut me, I shall grow and multiply a thousand fold.''
A beautiful tale of love, determination and revenge. The tireless effort of a unique girl to find herself and understand the world of Old and the world of the humans, linked forever in their beauty and turbulence. A tale for the Hunter's Moon and the beginning of darkness, for the Wolf Moon and its cold, for the Crow Moon, magical and unpredictable, for the Milk Moon of serenity, peace and growth. A fable for All Hallows' Eve and the spirits that still walk, for St Lucy's gift of Light and Hope, for Christmastide, for St Brigid's offerings and St Mark's night of omens.
A tale for the ones who loved and the ones who were betrayed. For those who dare.
‘'Cast not a clout until May be out, for on that day, I shall dance on your grave, and soar like a lark above you. On that day, you shall know my name, which is known only to the dead. And on that day, I shall be free, and the sky will ring with my laughter.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Or she'd hear a rooster crow in the middle of the night and remember - but who had told her? that at that hour of the night a rooster's crow was a sign that someone was going to die.''
Mariana Enriquez's stories are merciless. They are brutal, raw, savage. They haunt you, they violate your mind and your soul. They are full of terrors, despair, obsession. Ghosts are desperate. Humans are cruel. Teenage dreams are burnt, children are threatened, women and men find themselves in limbo. This is the marriage of the macabre, the lyrical, the violent. This is a cry and a howl. A dance of demons staring into our souls. And it is magnificent.
Angelita Unearthed: When a young girl discovers a few small bones in her grandma's backyard, she has no idea that a very persistent baby ghost has been unearthed. A very creepy, yet tender story.
Our Lady of the Quarry: A story of obsession, deadly jealousy and witchcraft. Eerie, visceral, sad.
The Cart: When a homeless man is horribly mistreated by the residents of a small neighbourhood, a terrible curse falls on their heads.
The Well: A girl destroys her life through her obsession with curses, spells and omens. A tragic story, rich in South American Folklore. Brilliant!
Rambla Triste: I don't want to comment on this story. It painted Barcelona and its tourists in terrible colours and the children's ghosts subplot didn't really work for me.
The Lookout: The Lady Upstairs resides in an old hotel in a seaside town that is a magnet for tourists. The Lady Upstairs doesn't care about them. The Lady Upstairs has been searching for the One and Elina, haunted by a nightmarish past, seems the perfect candidate. You will remember this story for a long time...
Where Are You, Dear Heart?:A young woman falls desperately in love with the beating of hearts. A terrifying combination of pleasure and pain, a story that is raw, sensual and lyrical.
Meat: A rock star's suicide drives two dedicated fans to commit heinous actions in order to ‘'keep'' him with them forever. Αn extraordinary story of devotion, obsession and sheer madness.
No Birthdays or Baptisms: A strange film-maker records videos requested by people whose motives range from shady to downright criminal. When a mother asks him to record her daughter who is plagued by a dark presence, he will need to reconsider his ‘'vocation''. I don't know how to describe this story. It was extremely bleak, violent even but it is one that has stuck in my mind ever since.
Kids Who Come Back: A young woman who works in the social services responsible for the cases of missing children becomes personally involved in the case of a teenage girl and the strange circumstances of her disappearance. And then, missing children start coming back as if time had frozen for them.
The Dangers of Smoking In Bed: The sad thoughts of a lonely woman prompted by a sudden death and a nocturnal butterfly.
Back When We Talked to the Dead: The silly game with an Ouija board goes horribly wrong for a girl who desperately searches for her missing parents.
If Mariana Enriquez doesn't win the International Booker Prize (which will probably happen since everything is about promotions and politics these days...), I shall be mad to the High Heavens...
‘'Yes, desperate people stayed at the hotel. Yes, she'd heard them mutter death wishes and she'd bestowed on them dreams of terrible childhoods and forgotten pain. But none had been ready. And it was a lie that time didn't pass for being like her. She was tired. She longed for each summer to be the last, and she spent more and more time in the lookout tower, where she could barely hear the whisper of the living, which she knew how to imitate so weill, but could not comprehend.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'I have run from that summer, tried to forget its hazy pleasures and its tragedies, how it ended, how things fell apart. I have trusted the years to fade my memories and destroyed those photographs, never to be looked at again.''
‘'There are no answers to be found from this house, from the fields, the woods and the river, even if my dreams are searching for them.''
The arrival of a friend from her youth takes Ruth back to the last summer of innocence and the haunting memories of the Phelia Girls who idolised Pre-Raphaelite models and spent their days by the water, trying to turn their dreams into reality. Faced with the secrets of the past, Ruth has to cope with her own self. Maeve, her seventeen-year-old daughter, has to cross her own path to adulthood, recovering from a terrible stroke of Fate, discovering the first beatings of her heart and her desires for the future. But our children are always burdened by our own past sins...
‘'And the lightning strike cracked down and a roar of wind came straight towards us, every branch creaking and the leaves heaving like rough seas.''
Jane Healey's writing is incredibly beautiful! I'll say that right away because my review cannot possibly do justice to the beauty of this novel and the less I say the better. The setting, the story, the atmosphere are exceptional. A sleepy hamlet during the last days of a seemingly idyllic summer haunts the characters years after and provides the eternal question: Can we escape the past? Blessed are those who have found the peace to drive every evil of the past away! And what of the hours of solitude we crave when everyone demands too much of us?
‘'And they see me quietly reading', she said, ‘but they don't know that in my head I'm dancing with satyrs or following Achilles on the battlefield as he cuts men left and right in violent rage for Patroclus, or that I'm the Sphinx in Thebes demanding Oedipus answer my riddles.''
The story is rich in symbols. Ophelia and Persephone, the young women who were led astray or so they'd have us believe. Water and flowers, the symbols of life and rejuvenation. Death and Rebirth. Nature is hiding its own secrets well. Art and Literature make our souls flourish, they liberate us when others try to hold us down and lead us astray. Freedom and independence, the bond between children and parents. The expectations of others that are not ours to fulfil. Love and guilt and regret. All these eternal - allow me the adjective - themes are depicted through a tense atmosphere where summer laziness makes feelings go wild, taking over our lives, wed to a deep sensuality and a threatening setting. Storms are brewing underneath the surface. Shakespearean references are abundant and poignant, the scenes of the Ophelia Girls are true poetry, storm imagery and breathtaking nightly sequences create an impeccable canvas.
‘'There's something terrifying about being awake alone in a dark house, something thrilling. No one watching you but the walls and the empty rooms and the pictures, the mirrors reflecting a shadowy second self.''
Each character has a special path to follow. I adored Maeve, her passion, her determination, her courage. Stuart and Camille, controversial figures, remained a beautiful mystery to me, enticing and one to ponder on. Alex, on the other hand, was an ox and Ruth didn't manage to find a way into my heart. Her views, her behaviour, and her hysterics were a bit out of hand for my personal taste.
This issue aside - a personal opinion, naturally - The Ophelia Girls is a breathtakingly beautiful (yes, I know I've used the word already...) novel, lyrical and haunting, difficult, demanding, whimsical. It is the summer of innocence and the autumn of our disillusionment.
‘'Soon. Soon I'll be gone, I'll be far away where no one knows me, where I can start again with no watchful eyes and no expectations.''
Many thanks to Haughton Mifflin Harcourt and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
I mean...
A horrible family is gathered for Christmas. A stupid father, an alcoholic mother, a son that knows nothing except DVDs, CDs, and i4s, and two daughters whose brains don't even form ONE brain.
The woes of being in a city where everyone wants to sleep with everyone, where young women want to be ‘'actresses'' and end up being something very different, where men prey on victims in shops.
Pain killers, ghostwriters, assistants and Jack Kerouac. Unbelievably bad... At this point, I decided to give this collection one more chance.
But!
Marriage troubles of Hollywood producers.
No.
I've got quite an obnoxious, personal idea of the concept we call ‘'Literature'' and I am proud of it. This is NOT Literature.
Horrible. In my opinion.
Many thanks to Penguin Random House UK and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
‘'For as far as he could, there was only night. Ghostly light seeped from a room downstairs onto the silver of lawn. Starlight touched on the endless sweep of moor, like another sea unrolling from the line of cliffs brooding above black waves and distant headlands. There was no sign of human habitation: no distant lights, no street-lamps, no cars, no ships or lighthouse beacons: nothing.''
Shady figures, threatening atmosphere, secrets, shapeshifters, shadows. Crows, grey colours, Birds, clouds. Interesting background but this isn't enough to create a striking collection.
The Maiden Flight of McCauley's Bellerophon: A guide in the Museum of American Aviation and Aerospace wants to recreate the legendary flight of an aircraft that supposedly crashed in 1901. His motive is his love for an old flame that is about to burn out. I must admit that I was bored to tears with this story.
Near Zennor: Mainly set in Penzance, this is a wonderfully eerie story of a widower who discovers a disturbing connection in his wife's past. Ancient stones, mysterious lights in the moor, bogs, scary children's books, a potential child molester, a girl's obsession, a dark past, all set in Cornwall. This story deserves to become a novel.
Hungerford Bridge: Two old friends witness a miracle one London afternoon.
The Far Shore: A magical story of a former ballet dancer who decides to spend a few days in a friend's camp, trying to come to terms with the fact that age is suddenly upon him, and a mysterious boy. A tale of winter, birches and crows. Those who are familiar with the Finnish legend of the River of Tuoni will recognise the references. Beautiful.
‘'You do not want to make rocks angry, Justin.'' She wasn't kidding, either. She looked pissed off. ‘'Because rocks have a very, very long memory.''
Winter's Wife: A teenage boy narrates the story of a woman from Iceland who followed her husband n Maine to live in an abandoned school bus. A terrific story of Icelandic folklore, the survival of the forests, and retribution. Vala is a character you'll remember for a long time.
Cruel Up North: A woman is wandering in a city during the early morning. Mystical and cryptic.
Summerteeth: A story of obsession, love and Art.
The Return of the Fire Witch: The adventures of a witch in a fairy tale land. I can't say I enjoyed this story. It seemed naive and at the same time utterly incomprehensible.
Uncle Lou: A young woman narrates the story of her very special uncle, a man that adores travelling, Moroccan style and night. A tender story set in Hampstead, a beautiful example of Magical Realism done right.
Errantry: A strange mixture of a shadowy figure, action films and third-rate actors. Not for me.
So, a rather mixed result, this one. There were a few truly beautiful moments but nothing spectacular for readers who have read a humongous amount of Short Stories and Magical Realism. For me, this was not a memorable collection. Not ‘'frightening'' and hardly ‘'haunting.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'As people stare off into the curved horizon, disappearing as a watery pathway to the unknown, they dream of far-off shores and distant lands.''
Water is life. The seas, the rivers, the lakes have always been crucial for the survival of all species. It is only natural that humans have been attracted to the mysteries of water, creating myths and legends to understand the cast universe that lies underwater. Even today, the sea is our main choice for care-free moments and the rivers retain a unique, almost mystical, fascination in our minds with their special - and sometimes eerie - atmosphere. From creatures and deities to sacred landmarks and mysterious incidents, the Folklore of seas, rivers and lakes is an endless source of excitement. Dee Dee Chainey and Willow Winsham are here to guide us on this journey.
‘'We have looked upon the face of the spirits of our waters, and while they might look different - from Mami Wata to Poseidon, from the fossegrim to the naiads - their role in our lives is the same. They aid us when we are lost. They offer us healing. We plead and bargain with them for their gifts and blessings. Humans everywhere look to the water and see the possibilities it holds in its depths. It is cathartic, cleansing and majestic, with a power to consume all; a regenerative, a force that ebbs and flows like time, with the power to give life or take it away.''
From Coleridge's haunting The Rime of the Ancient Mariner to the myth of Atargatis. The most beautiful, moving narration of Andersen's The Little Mermaid. The Sirens of Homer, the Selkies of the Northern Seas, and the African Mami Wata. Learn how to summon a Selkie lover (brilliant!) and find out about the frightening results of the steel factory in Taranto. Comfort the priestess Io, persecuted by Hera. Meet the Mesopotamian Tiamat, the Leviathan of the Jewish tradition, the Nordic Jörmungandr and the Kraken, Scylla and Charybdis from The Odyssey.
Travel to underwater realms and legendary kingdoms. Read about the Breton kingdom of Ys, the moving tale of Urashima and the Palace of the Dragon King. Encounter powerful deities of the sea. Sedna, the Inuit Mother of the Sea, Arnaguagsaq from Greenland, Iemanjua whose origins can be found in the Yoruba tradition. Learn about mysteries and superstitions. Uncover the legends of The Flying Dutchman, the Mary Celeste, the Caleuche and the Bermuda Triangle. Read the tales of smugglers and their crimes that inspired Du Maurier's masterpiece Jamaica Inn.
Wander by the banks of sacred rivers and mysterious lakes, with the deities, the spirits, the mythical creatures. The Acheron and the Styx, the gates of Hades. The moving legend of St Christopher who carried the Saviour on his shoulders. The Arthurian myth of the Lady of the Lake and Excalibur. Maria Enganxa, the water hag of Majorca, Lorelei of the Rhine, the legends of Father Thames, the myth of Oba. Melusine, the Naiads, the Anguane of Italy, the Fenettes of France, the Fossegrim of Norway, the Bean - Nighe of Scotland.
Kelpies and water horses, the Loch Ness monster, the swamps of New Orleans and their secrets, the bog lights pointing the way. Sacred and frightening wells, from the terrifying myths of Malta to the Clootie wells of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, and naturally, the Legend of the Fountain of Youth,
Perfection! Dee Dee Chainey and #FolkloreThrusday, you make our days brighter!
‘'Dare you delve further, reach tentatively beneath the dark swell, to see what you might find? Pirate treasures await you, yet take care when your fingers dip into the deep blackness that their tips don't brush against steely scales lurking under the surface. And don't forget: when you do dare to peer below the dancing waves, always listen well for the siren's call...''
Many thanks to Pavillion Books, Dee Dee Chainey and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Some of the houses in the neighbourhood I passed through were still closed up - proof that their owners hadn't yet returned from summer vacation - but there were flowers in the gardens. Flowers blooming in untended gardens, all by themselves. You could sense everywhere, much more than in Paris, the sort of languid stretching and immobility characteristic of plants in the fall. There were fewer red roses than pale -pink ones - red roses, despite their more pronounced colour and their stronger scent, don't last as long. They seem to wear themselves out. Maybe it's the colour that wears out the roses.''
Two sisters meet in a garden in Ville- d'Avray on a Sunday afternoon. Dusk is falling, another summer is ending, another autumn is getting ready to arrive. In the peace and quiet shared by the two women, the revelation of Claire Marie's relationship with a mysterious man acquires a different meaning than we would normally expect. Even though it ended years ago, we are taken in the heart of a brief journey that is all about discovery and honesty. After all, this is what Sundays are made of...
‘'Life's like that: you make a valiant effort to carry your dreams, yours or those of others.''
‘'On Sundays you think about life.''
There is a strange ‘'feeling'' on a Sunday afternoon. Personally, I've never liked Sundays. Whether bleak or sad, uncertain or indifferent, I feel as if Sundays have always passed me by. In this novel - which is more beautiful than any words can describe - Dominique Barbéris perfectly captures the uncertainty and confessional aura of a Sunday afternoon in Ville- d'Avray, in the suburbs of Paris. There are the melancholic echoes of Chekhov, the bleakness of the British moors, Jane Eyre's devotion and adventurous spirit. There are afternoons reminiscing of a troubled childhood in the shadow of an insufferable mother who worshipped bloody homework. Otherwise, ‘'you'll end up being a cashier.'' There is rain and windows. Lights seen through the people's houses. There is silence. The promise and threat hidden in the dusk. There is the strong bond between sisters and the mystery of an uncertain relationship with a man you know nothing about.
The hazy late-season atmosphere is brilliantly depicted. I could feel the autumnal change while I was reading in the heart of April. It made me even more nostalgic of those beautiful early-fall afternoons. And it is peculiar but I saw traces of myself in the character of Claire Marie. Her habit of observing other people's houses, her staring out of the window, her fascination with lamps during dusk, her long walks, her silence.
I wanted to live inside this book. I cannot praise it enough. The beauty, the nostalgia, the melancholy, the quiet, the simplicity and elegance make you grateful for being alive and blessed to read such literary marvels, such works that are made of whatever our souls are made of.
‘'On the avenue that bordered the park, the streetlamps would come on one by one; we liked the way those lights, magnified by the foggy mist, shone in the night; we could feel their chilly poetry, but on the way back we'd walk ‘'as though we were walking on eggshells'', with a strange pang in our hearts. We knew what the rest of the evening would be like.''
Many thanks to Other Press and Edelweiss for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
DNF 40%
I really, really wanted to love this one. I adored Gods of Jade and Sorrow, and I thought I'd enjoy The Beautiful Ones too, but the abominable, insufferable character of Valerie and the love troubles and woes didn't actually help. It is with great sorrow that I give up on it. I just can't bring myself to turn the pages and read further. I hope I'll have better luck with Mexican Gothic.
Many thanks to Tor Books and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
‘'Dogs always believe that they belong to Others (whom they consider to be, for unknown reasons enduring right up to our day, better than they are). The Others are not always convinced that they are not themselves Dogs. Still, though, Dogs are Others and Others are Dogs. The one thing that actually distinguishes them from each other, now and again (and something that justifies singling them out for participants in this story), is the level of their (as numerous personages are wont to say, and learned ones at that) social adaptation. What nonsense! What's this sort of thing supposed to mean to Dogs? Or especially to Others? Whatever - both the one group and the other suffocate in the same typical stinking mess that is life.''
Yugoslavia, 1970. In seemingly disjointed snippets, we enter the world of Lidia and her highly dysfunctional family in a block of flats inhabited by peculiar individuals that live in the margin of society, in Belgrade. Lidia tries to cope with a cruel mother who has left to live her own life, an ailing grandmother, and a brother whose mental and psychological issues create a suffocating maelstrom.
This book is a never-ending earthquake. The sheer madness and despair cannot be concealed by the satire and the childhood anecdotes. Told in a frenzy through torrential stream-of-consciousness chapters, Lidia comments on so many issues and the answer is always a choice between absolute havoc and an echoing void. Experiences and dreams are intertwined and we don't know what is real and what is fabricated. How can a problematic but strong bond between siblings make up for the absence of a positive maternal influence? How can you escape a vicious circle of sexual harassment, doubts and unapologetic self-destruction?
I've always believed that a country's literature is an accurate mirror of the soul of its people. Serbian Literature is brave, bold, fearless. I wish my Serbian was good enough so that I could read the original. Because the translation felt horribly out of place. My partner is Serbian. Belgrade is my second home, I travel in the White City at least twice every year and have done so for the past 5 - 6 years. I know it like the back of my hand. It is with absolute certainty that I tell you the translator doesn't have a clue. None at all. He uses expressions and colloquialisms that no Serbian (or Greek) would ever use. ‘'You drive me bonkers''? No. Or the use of ‘'like'' in every other sentence as if they were fifteen-year-old students in a Nickelodeon show. Absolutely not. It pains me to say that the translator's ignorance almost ruined the novel. Hence, the 4 stars. It would be unfair of me to grant it 3 stars because of one's horrifying incompetence and absolute lack of any sense of culture.
In any case, writers like Jovanović, provocative, heretic, risky, deliciously insolent are what modern Literature is made of. They galvanise us, helping us build the character of an equally risky, brave reader. If one can't face it, well... Šteta je!
My reviews can also be found on: https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'It's not that I need you to love me, but I need to suffer because you don't.''
I am a rather weird person. Strange things have the power to move me to the point of tears. The sweet purple and blue of the sky in the midst of concrete terraces, poetry married to orgiastic urbanism. There is a strange beauty in urban areas, after all. This collection brought back quiet memories of serene moments. Me sitting with a book in my grandma's beautiful garden with its trees and cats, not to mention an old well that had always perplexed me, the absence of sound in a summer noon when everyone tries to find a few moments of peace, the afternoon coffee, the humidity of a summer evening. This collection is the poetry of summer, the eroticism of our wishes, the doubts and the confessions.
It Could Have Been Me: What would our life be like if we could become the person we admire?
Love Me Tender: A woman spends her birthday contemplating her past and her marriage.
Fairground Magician: A story about extreme longing and obsession.
Zugzwang: Two sisters find themselves in the middle of a strange game of longing and fulfilment.
Aurora Borealis: A father who has experienced the most terrifying nightmare for a parent tries to find a way through absolute pain and takes us back to the day he lost everything.
Nosedive: How can you cope when your life is about to change forever?
Wanderings: A couple argues about their male cat. A story full of symbolism and the quiet solitude of a summer garden.
Pockets Full Of Stones: The pain of betrayal, the fight to carry on without the one your heart had chosen without asking you. It never does, does it?
Senka: The return of a brother prompts our narrator to reminisce on his family and his quiet wife. I adored this story.
Sky: The voice of an extra-terrestrial being that is on the verge of becoming an extremely incomplete human.
Ophelia, Get Thee to a Nunnery: A hilarious, yet poignant, exposition of the way women are often treated in Literature and Art. You are either a whore or a nun. If you are the one, deep down you wish you were the other. Men decide and you have no say. So...a nunnery.
Snickers: The whispers - or screams - of writing the perfect story, capturing the perfect idea.
Under the Guise of Highbrow Literature: A moving story of young love torn apart by circumstance, Literature, and reconciling with the past.
Do yourselves a favour and read this gem.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Today it's soundless. Jory knows loud seas and silent seas, heavy seas and mirror seas, seas where your boat feels like the last blink of humankind on a roll so determined and angry that you believe in what you don't believe in, such as the sea being that halfway thing between heaven and hell or whatever lies up there and whatever lurks down deep. A fisherman told him once about the sea having two faces.''
Cornwall, 1972. The three keepers of a formidable lighthouse vanish without a trace. The doors are locked. The table has been laid for dinner. The clocks have stopped at the same time. But Andrew, Bill and Vince are gone. 1992. A writer decides to write a book about the strange incident and conducts Helen, Jenny and Michelle, the women who were left behind. Their voices merge with the thoughts of the keepers and the truth - if there is an actual truth - is hidden behind the thick mist.
‘'The saying goes she makes a sound when the weather hits hard, like a woman crying, where the wind gets in between the rocks.''
Inspired by the actual incident that took place in 1900 in the Outer Hebrides, Emma Stonex creates a novel of superb atmosphere and tension. The reader has to discern the validity of multiple accounts, each narrator has a piece of the puzzle and brick upon brick of contradictory opinion. The story is built upon the powerful themes of loneliness, monotony, isolation. Eerie scenes and memories of the past compose a tale where nothing is what it seems. A storm may or may not have happened. A man is in love with someone else's wife and someone has committed a crime. The women have drifted apart, each one suspecting foul play against a husband. Whispers of hauntings and voices through the mists excite everyone's imagination. The quiet humming of Scarborough Fair accompanies a mother's grief...
In terms of atmosphere, this novel is top-notch. Perfect. But apart from Helen, Andrew and Bill, the characters felt problematic and I couldn't bring myself to ‘'listen'' to their call. I couldn't stand Jenny and I wasn't particularly interested in Pearl, Vince and Michelle's chapters, hence the 4 stars. In my opinion, the characterization fell flat, as if it was sacrificed on the altar of mystery and eeriness.
This is a heavily-hyped novel and I agree 100%. Had the characters been more appealing (in my opinion), this would have been one of my reading highlights of the year.
‘'The moon pale - eyes through the window. Weird moon. Weird thoughts. Moons out here so bright it hurts. Against everything else they're brighter than they should be. Imagining the moon is the sun and the whole world turned inside out.''
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/
A fascinating guide to the customs, beliefs and tradition of Russia. Through engaging writing, Elizabeth Warner takes us on a journey to the traditions related to life, work, witchcraft and Death. Rich in customs that still survive, aided by the lenient attitude of the Orthodox Church towards the gods of the old - in stark contrast to the persecutions and murders committed by the Catholic Church - Russian tradition demonstrates a vast wealth of myths and legends.
Myths of gods and goddesses and their influence on the way the Russian people perceived Nature and daily life, retaining a significant part of it even when Christianity reached the land. I always love reading about Maslenitsa. We learn about the sanctity with which the Elements were approached, evident in the significance of the Domovoy, the protector of the family.
But not every creature is a protector. Demonic figures like the Leshy, the Vodyanoy, and the Rusalka (another one I adore) were always there to cause terror in people's hearts. Traditions related to Death is also a major part of people's life. The spirits of our loved ones that died a peaceful death, the troubled souls of the ones whose life was cut short in a rather violent manner, the customs related to burial and the journey of the soul to Heaven or to Hell, our efforts to communicate with the Other Side have provided ample material for the birth of exciting (and rather dark) legends and myths. And it goes without saying that Witchcraft cannot be far away from every community of the past (and the present, don't let ourselves be fooled by the modern times...)
This was my first choice from The Legendary Past series and I can't wait to get my hands on the rest of the volumes.
No doubt a journey to the past is always exciting. Tracing the origins of eleven extinct creatures and how they disappeared is an experience in itself and this book is full of undoubtedly useful information, enriched with beautiful artwork.
But.
I am a peculiar reader, I know. My attention to the overall ‘'tone'' of the writer is unwavering to the point of stubbornness and I was thoroughly disappointed. It goes without saying that this is strictly my personal opinion. The writer comes across as dismissive of everyone and everything, including his own self. He doesn't like tourists, cyclists, pedestrians. He moans and moans and moans over himself and a strange fate. Overdramatic over a visit in Oxford, repetitive of the fact that he was so different from his classmates, repetitive over his favourite books that were so unusual, repetitive over life's miseries, stressing how boring life and habits actually are. Moreover, there is scarcely any information on the significance of each creature in the local traditions but that's a detail, really.
Also, he compares the adoration of the dodo to Jesus.
I mean, what?
I am sorry but this attitude is NOT compatible with me and my reading preferences.
Many thanks to Alison Menzies and Leaping Hare Press for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
‘'None of it touches me. It's nothing but water and dust. You're nothing but bonedust and water. Good. More useful to me in the end.I'm the child who's been buried in leaves. The leaves rot down: here I am.''
Four people meet in Scotland under peculiar circumstances. An elderly director who has lost his heart, a troubled young woman, an enigmatic librarian/canteen-keeper and an extraordinary 12-year-old girl searching for her mother. How can one person alter the lives of many? How can they save them? And how do we repay the help we have received? There are no easy answers to these questions. But we can read this book and try to understand.
‘'February. The first bee hits the window glass. The light starts to push back, stark in the cold. But birdsong rounds the day, the first and last thing as the light comes and goes. Even in the dark the air tastes different. In the light from the streetlight the branches of the bare trees are lit with rain. Something has changed. No matter how cold it is that rain is not winter rain any more. The days lengthen. That's where the word Lent comes from''
Richard, Florence, Brit and Alda find themselves in the setting of a contemporary Pericles, in a tragedy enriched with the symbolism of the Spring, the rebirth and the rejuvenation of Hope. But is there any Hope, really? In stark and lyrical language, with Scotland at its heart, the novel is a raw commentary on the immigration crisis and Brexit, the daily life that has to go on in an environment of tension and uncertainty. But I'm not here to talk about politics. I never discuss such issues online, among absolute strangers. My opinions are my own and nobody's business. I am interested in human relationships, this is what I always look for in a novel and Ali Smith excels in that field. With Florence as our mysterious guide and the sad voice of Richard, we become part of a story about loss, reconciliation with the past, and how to cope with a threatening present that is draining, how to look for justice and dignity.
‘'If you rise at dawn in a clear sky, and during the month of March, they say you can catch a bag of air so intoxicated with the essence of spring that when it is distilled and prepared, it will produce an oil of gold, remedy enough to heal all ointments.''
It's not just the story that makes Spring special but also the beautiful tidbits that elevate the novel. The beautiful character of Paddy, the enticing, cryptic Alda, the wisdom of Florence. The harrowing descriptions of the Troubles, the beautiful homage to Katherine Mansfield and Rainer Maria Rilke. The poignant observations on the absurd fashion and worry that every word we use may end up being offensive as dictated by the Twitter mob that launches crusades, hidden behind a screen and a (probably) dirty keyboard. The Highland traditions, the scenes from Candlemass, the story of St Brigid, the awakening of March, the dance of the Maidens, the echoes of the Jacobite Rising.
I can only imagine the perfection that Summer and Autumn are going to be...
‘'What's under your road surface now?What's under your house's foundations?What's warping your doors?What's giving your world the fresh colours?What's the key to the song of the bird? What's forming the beak in the egg?What's sending the thinnest of green shoots through that rock so the rock starts to split?''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Every step you take in Britain treads on the past. A street now filled with shops and houses might once have been a royal palace. An anonymous farmer's field glimpsed from a car window might have been borne witness to the last gasps of a bloody battle, an event so terrible the people swore it could never be forgotten. An eroded mound under a stand of trees might have been the holy of holies, a sacred place worth travelling weeks to reach, for generations of ancient people. In the landscape and in overlooked museum cabinets, archaeological treasures of profound complexity wait to be noticed. When you stop and look, magic happens.''
This book is an exciting journey to the mysteries of the past. Through breathtaking photos and vivid descriptions, we enter the realm of mystery in an ancient, mystical land. Pictish stones with inscriptions that have never been deciphered, the peculiar energy and dark past of Glastonbury Tor, the Green Man and his strange relatives. The creepy hooded figures on Hadrian's Wall, the provocative Sheela Na Gig a.k.a the Naked Lady in A Church, the Cerne Abbas Giant, the cult of the Mother Goddesses that was lost into oblivion and so much more.
Walk in the ruins of the people of a very distant past. Stand on coronation stones. Marvel at beautiful jewellery and tales of power and decadence. Feel the haunting energy of Dartmoor, dance with witches and lost deities. For the past is never far away and this book is the finest time machine.
Many thanks to Frances Lincoln and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Every wildfire, I feel safe and I don't feel safe. I care and I don't care and this is my California. From the concrete walk of the courtyard, I count the ants in twos as they rush across the tops of my shoes, two, four, six, dozens, hundreds, too many to possible all know where they're going. There's nothing out here for them, just sidewalk cracks, lifeless plants leaning against the walls, cheap patio furniture, my neighbour's ashtray, the low- hanging loneliness heavy in the air. I wonder what the ants know that I don't.''
Sheila's life is a minefield waiting to explode. Unable to keep a steady job, with minuscule social interaction, carrying the enormous burden of guilt over her relationship with her mother, haunted by the absence of her father. Until two deaths change everything. Two deaths, a shoebox full of letters dating back to the 50s, a kind neighbour and his twelve-year-old daughter.
‘'My mother always hated cooking onions, so the smell is not nostalgic for me. It's not a smell of home. It's a smell of somewhere else, something else, someone else. It's a smell of longing. It's a smell of lacking.''
Julia Dixon Evans writes about motherhood, fatherhood, and companionship. Yes, we want to be ‘'strong'' and ‘'independent'' and some of us believe that the fewer people the better (it works wonders for someone's sanity...) but absolute loneliness seldom solved any problems. This story is an ode to complex relationships, the bond between parents and children, the poisoned thistle of unreciprocated love which can easily become a living Hell. All the doubts and fears, the enormous what-if that torments us all. Living without an aim, a purpose, existing in real-life limbo. And at the heart of it all, the bond between a teenage girl and a grown-up woman who has to open a door on the wall she has been carefully building all these years.
Seen through the eyes of an honest, direct character, a woman that is absolutely, totally messed-up in the most enticing, tangible way, this is a story set in lazy days and salty nights, full of that special quiet before the storm.
‘'O God, make speed to save us. O God, make haste to help us.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Have a long look, why don't you?''
Nell is unique, graced with a special kind of beauty. But the others cannot understand, they think she is an abomination, a cursed creature, lower than the low. When a circus comes to town, her father sees an opportunity to rid himself of a burden and sells her to Jasper, the man who aspires to be the greatest showman in the country. For Nell, this heinous ct actually opens the door to a new world. She finds a new family and freedom. But more often than not, the one who claims to have set us free is our greatest captor.
‘'In this age of wonder, epiphanies are born in the ecstasies of dreams and fevers.''
Following the beautiful The Doll Factory, Elizabeth Macneal excels again, creating a brilliant story in which History is seamlessly married to the Strange and the Oneiric. A tale where Light and Shadow coexist, set in the era of frenzy over circuses, curiosities and spiritualism, the age of doubt and progress. London is brilliantly seen in all its glory and filth. Wealth and poverty. The nobility parading its fat purse and the children dying in the streets, sick and emaciated, the ‘'all-conquering'' Victoria with her enormous petticoats and the young mothers and prostitutes wasting away, exploited and abused.
As Nell soars in the sky, Toby becomes a wonder, Pearl stands witness to the loss of innocence, Jasper fights with himself and memories of the Crimean War resurface, brutal and unforgiving. The demons of the past start dancing, opening the wounds that cannot be healed. The scenes that will remain in your memory are many, the writing is mesmerizing, the characterization is excellent. From our wonderful, wonderful Nell to the shadow of Dash, and I was happy to see a writer that didn't glorify Victoria and her cruel behaviour.
Life is made entirely out of our own choices, no matter the circumstances or the odds that may be against us. We decide, we act. The rest are empty excuses. Nell chooses and the closure is superb. Elizabeth Macneal's novel is a literary wonder, taking place in the Circus of Life. This IS Historical Fiction.
‘'We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our littlelifeIs rounded with a sleep.'' William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Act 4, Scene 1)
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/
‘'The Elves explained that this chain, called Gleipnir, was made from six ingredients:The sound of a cat's footstepsThe roots of a mountainThe beard of a womanThe sinews of a bearThe breath of a fishThe spittle of a bird.''
Isn't it wonderful how we see images in our minds? How we form them and give them shape and voice? From the face on the moon to the shapes in the clouds, and all those strange creatures, the offspring of our imagination (or are they...?) that have shaped our fears and warn us to be cautious, to respect what we cannot understand.
Which we don't but that is a discussion for another time.
Creatures known and obscure from America, Europe, Africa, Asia and Oceania. From Pegasus to Chimera, from Medusa to Fenrir, from Quetzalcoatl to Encantado and Zilant, from Ratatoskr to Anansi, from the Yeti to Anubis and Bastet, from Shenlong to Barong and Tanuki, travel around the world guided by a rather formidable company.
Amazing artwork, brilliantly written.
Many thanks to Laurence King Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
Η χειρότερη συλλογή που είχα την ατυχία να διαβάσω. Απαίσια, κακογραμμένα ‘'παραμύθια'' - τα οποία αρνούμαι να δεχτώ οτι αποτελούν μέρος της εθνικής μας παράδοσης- και Σταλινικός Πρόλογος, κομμουνιστικής προπραγάνδας. Για τη βιβλιοθήκη στους...Περισσούς θα είναι καλό. Για τη δική μου βιβλιοθήκη, λυπάμαι, δεν θα μπορέσουμε...
“Later, after sunset, when you return home, any pebble from the beach you place on your table is a statuette - a small Nike or Artemis's dog, and this one, on which a young man stood with wet feet at noon, is a Patroklus with shady shut eyelashes.”(Stones)' I'll go away' - she said - ‘ I'll go away. I can't go on; this wind ... ‘ He threw down the playing cards. Steps were heard on the stairs. The door opened. A scrap of light hit the floor. The woman picked the playing cards off the floor and handed them back to him - · with a gesture like someone returning after years. She then went to change the water of the flowers. But what she'd said buzzed around the room like a fly locked in its buzzing at the beginning of winter.”(Shadows of Movement) “Everything was fine. The clouds in the sky. The baby in the cradle. The window in the washed water glass. The tree in the room. The woman's apron on the chair. The words in the poem. And only a very shiny leaf stood out, and the key through a feather chain.”(Another Holiday)“Opposite the window, the big sunflowers. On the dirt road, dust from the passing horse. She stands there still waiting. Sad. The light reflecting on her face may be from the sunflowers opposite. And suddenly she flings up her arms, she chases the wind, she grabs the rider's straw hat, clutches it to her breast, she goes in and shuts the window.”(“Blowing”) “They killed the cock, the dove, the goat. With the blood they covered their shoulders, their necks, their faces. One turned to the wall and smeared his sex with blood. Then the three women standing in a corner, covered with white veils, uttered small cries as ifbeing slaughtered. The men, as if not hearing, were scribbling on the floor with a piece of chalk uncoiled snakes and ancient arrows. Outside, the drums rolled, their sound reaching the entire neighbourhood.”(Night Ritual”) “Sometimes words come almost by themselves, like leaves of trees -the invisible roots, the soil, the sun, the water have helped,old rotten leaves have also helped. Meanings can easily be attached like spider webs on leaves, or dust and drops of dew sparkling with wavering flashes. Under the leaves, a young girl is disembowelling her nude doll ; a drop falls on her hair; she lifts her head; she sees nothing; only the cold transparency of the drop is dissolved over her body.”(Dissolution) “Roots in the air; - two faces between them; the well was at the bottom of the garden - that's where they had thrown their rings one day; then they looked up, very high up, pretending not to see the old woman shitting in the empty flowerpot as she bit into the big apple.”(Reverse)
‘'We need to learn to love ourselves first, in all our glory and our imperfections.'' John Lennon
Liverpool, October 9th 1940. A boy is born as the world is thrown into the darkest pit of History. The Nazis are violating every corner of the planet and war has never shown an uglier, terrorizing face. But the boy of our story, John, will have nothing to do with war when he grows up, John will only sing for peace and unity. For understanding, hope and togetherness.
Along with Paul, George, and Ringo, John will initiate a revolution that will not be restricted to innovative sound and lyrics. They four Liverpudlians spread their wings and gave voice to the youth that craved to break the mould, to seek liberations from ages-old stereotypes and prejudices, and orders and empty papers.
When the time came for John, Paul, George and Ringo to follow separate paths, John spoke against the madness of the Vietnam War, one more page of shame in World History. He sang for freedom and peace, the peace we need to find within ourselves, the peace we need to share with each other. Some decided to cut him down, they decided he talked too much, he was a threat. But they failed. John became much more than a great musician. He became a legend, a symbol. He became one of those ‘'troublemakers'' the world will always need...
‘'Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.'' John Lennon
Many thanks to Francis Lincoln Children's Books and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“You're so calm and quiet, you never say. But there are things inside you. I see them sometimes, hiding in your eyes.”
“There followed a time when everything was dull. The things that had meant something lost importance, though they were still there, like bruises on the body that fade to hard lumps under the skin.”
‘'The more I loved him, the heavier my heart felt, until I was walking around with my back bent and my knees cracking from the weight of it.''
Twenty stories, twenty masterpieces by one of the finest writers of our times. Twenty gems of self-discovery, sexuality, disillusionment, loss, womanhood, youth, and love. Love above all. Love in all its wonderful, adventurous, exciting, shuttering, violent, exhausting, tragic, hopeful forms.
‘'The hearts just clipped in, and as long as you remembered to close yourself up tightly, then they could tick away for years. Decades, probably. The problems come when the hearts get old and scratched: shreds of past loves get caught in the dents, and they're tricky to rinse out. Even a wire brush won't do it.''
The Rental Heart: How many times can you rent and replace a heart? How many times can you salvage it when one disappointment follows another? Who says that mechanical hearts can't be broken?
‘'My castle is a mother, is a lover. Once upon a time, I say, and they follow my hooves inside the walls, and I close the door up tight behind them.''
Underskirts: Kirsty Logan creates the most memorable version of the legend of Countess Bathory I've ever read. A dark, haunting, sensual story of womanhood and obsession.
‘'Lauren sees Saint Felicity cradling the bones of her seven murdered sons, Saint Margaret of Antioch being swallowed by a dragon, Saint Mary of Oignies cutting off chunks of her own flesh. Then a gasp as a contraction hits and the world shrinks to the size of Hope's body. The inside, even smaller than the outside. This is all there is.''
A Skulk of Saints: A tender story of two women in love expecting a baby, a caravan and the saints that watch over us, carrying their own pain.
‘'When the dog starts barking, we know it's beginning. Or rather, ending.''
The Last 3,600 Seconds: A couple spends the last seconds before the end of the world on the roof of their house. If you want a truly poetic depiction of the Last Day, Kirsty Logan has you covered.
The Broken West: A daring story of the strange quest of two brothers in the Western cities of the USA and their complex relationship. Even the most controversial themes turn into treasures in Logan's hands.
Bibliophagy: A family man eats words, trying to converse with the moon. A brilliant, yet sad story of isolation and desperation.
Coin-Operated Boys: Paris, 19th century. Coin-operated young men are used to discourage annoying suitors. But Elodie falls in love with a mechanical boy and Claude, the aspiring beau, wants to win her hand no matter what. What do you have to sacrifice to win the affection of your heart's desire? Exquisite story with an absolutely perfect closure.
Girl #18: A young girl has died and her brother is trying to leave the island that is an ever-burning beacon of the tragic loss. But it is not easy to leave an island or a memory...
Una and Coll Are Not Friends: A girl with antlers and a boy with a tiger's tail. What can you do when your heart has a mind of its own? A sweet story of teenage, obnoxious love of the finest kind, set in mystical Skye.
‘'The graces are restless today. They pweet and muss, shuddering their wings so that the feathers stick out at defensive angles. I feel that restlessness too. When the sea us fractious like this - when it chutters and schwalks against the moorings, when it won't talk but only mumbles - it's difficult to think.''
The Gracekeeper: A Gravekeeper is trying to prepare for the Resting of her mother. A moving tale of the sea and the pain of losing your mother.
Sleeping Beauty: A terrifying retelling of the Sleeping Beauty tale, a story of abuse and the dangers girls have to deal with on a daily basis.
Witch: A sensual story with the legendary Baba Yaga as the symbol of independence and sexuality.
‘'That's right, my delicacy. And what must you care about?‘'Nothing. Only myself.''‘'When the time comes, you'll remember that, won't you? For the seas are no longer ice, but the wolves are no less hungry.''
All the Better to Eat You With: I adored this one. So short and so cryptic, so poignant and direct.
The Man From the Circus: A young woman, fed up with living in a place where cattle competitions are actually a thing, decides to follow the Man from the Circus and live the adventure. Beautiful and tender, possibly my favourite story in this outstanding collection.
Feeding: A couple lives in a new house, in an isolated place, trying to recover from the loss of their child. The woman tends to the garden but nothing grows while she and her husband are losing track of reality and of each other. A haunting story permeating an acute sense of loneliness.
‘'Someone will always be used but it won't be me.''
Momma Grows a Diamond: A young girl comes of age in her mother's brother. A story of being yourself, set in New Orleans.
‘'She spat out the bulbs - one, two; nineteen, twenty - in a runway from trees to shore. She spread herself out on the sand. A perfect starfish, a fallen body. An X, so he could find his way back.''
The Light Eater: I cried like a child reading this tale. A young woman eats lights to light up the way for her lost beloved. If this story isn't the definition of a masterpiece in exactly six paragraphs, I don't know what is.
Matryoshka: A princess has fallen in love with her maid. But a fateful night and a ball will change everything. A bitter story of unattainable love.
Origami: A woman develops a strange obsession with origami to overcome the loneliness caused by her husband's suspicious absence.
‘'Perhaps she is made of ghosts and glass now, the same as the palace. She fears that if she falls, she will scatter into smoke.''
Tiger Palace: A mystical fairytale of an empress living in an ivory palace, surrounded by a terrifying forest. But the walls tell their own stories and the palace needs feeding. When a traveller arrives, it is time for another tale to be written and the tigers to arrive...
Kirsty Logan has created stories that read like a windswept Scottish shore, like a lazy afternoon at the end of summer, like the rock and the lowering sky. Like the anticipation of falling in love. Like the despair of losing the one thing your heart desires...
‘'If I cannot fight the tigers, then I cannot win. The story cannot end.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'The young wanted to know what it was that called from the depth of the woods in the middle of the night, where babies came from, and where the dead went.''Basil Johnson
My grandmother used to say ‘'never answer to someone who calls your name.'' Ok, this may sound a bit improper but she wasn't referring to people (although I hardly talk to them anyway :) but to...what exactly? She never gave me a straight answer. She only repeated that if I found myself alone in a room and heard my name, I should never answer. Ever. And it goes without saying that things were serious, very serious if the same thing took place in a remote street or in a forest. Long story short, I took her warning seriously. This is why I was immediately attracted to Disembodied Voices.
Tim Marczenko searches for answers to the experience of being called by a voice without a body, a voice calling for help, or simply uttering your name, laughing...And waiting for you to answer back or step closer to discover the source of a voice that resembles the one of a family member or a friend. Stories of attempted abductions, of missing children that never returned. Teenagers that resisted the lure of the calling voice. But it isn't all darkness. There are moving accounts of voices that protected from danger. Angels? Deceased relatives? Benevolent spirits? Whatever they may be, this is one more proof that there are always two forces fighting each other over us. And no, I am not a sceptic. I have never been a sceptic. I will never be a sceptic. Because.
I was fascinated by the information on legends from all over the world on creatures and spirits lurking in the woods. Figures from Africa, Asia, America, Europe, targeting children and unaware wanderers. The narration of the myths and the witnesses' encounters are very vivid and atmospheric and I found myself looking over my shoulders on a few occasions.
However, the writer's personal account almost broke the deal for me. He came across as dramatic, a tad self-righteous and very fond of film cliches. The information on folklore and mythology and the accounts of people who have experienced the phenomenon of disembodied voices were interesting enough to make this a great book for the lovers of the supernatural. The writer's attitude and his woes left me cold...
Many thanks to Schiffer Publishing and Edelweiss for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/