Amalia Gkavea
” That's usually the case. The ones we want to see do not come in the hours when we think of them and when we expect them the most, and they appear at some point when we are farthest from them with our thoughts. And our joy because of seeing them again needs time to rise from the bottom, where it is suppressed, and appear on the surface ... ”
“With people who become close to us, we usually forget all those details of the first contact with them; it seems to us that we have always known them and that they have always been with us. From all that, sometimes only an unrelated image emerges in the memory. ”
“If you want to know what a state and its administration are like, and what their future is like, just look to find out how many honest and innocent people there are in prisons in that country, and how many criminals and criminals are at large. ”
A poignant chronicle created by Ryoko Sekiguchi who experiences the terrible events of the 2011 Fukushima disaster and the bitter aftermath from an agonizing distance.
Living in Paris, she narrates her feelings and thoughts during the period of crisis. In direct, clear, sharp writing, she entrusts us with her agony over the repercussions of the disaster and the future of her family in Japan, her discussions with Japanese friends living in France, her anger towards the ones whose actions led to an extreme death toll, her thoughts on the psychosynthesis and the very nature of what it means to be in the centre of a catastrophe, and the stereotypes regarding the stoicism and ‘‘calm'' of the Japanese people.
Without sugarcoating the state of things, without condemning or pointing the finger, she gives us a fascinating and thought-provoking memoir of one of the most important and terrifying moments of our century.
Κινήσαμε για μακρινό ταξίδικι η νύχτα φαρμακώνει τα φιλιά Μάνος Ελευθερίου
Ήτανε τα παλιά τα χρόνια, όταν οι άνθρωποι ακόμη ήξεραν να μπαίνουν ο ένας στα όνειρα του άλλου.''
Σε αυτές τις ιστορίες πηγαίνουμε σε εποχές με ταξίδια ατέλειωτα και μακρινά. Τα φιλιά είναι επικίνδυνα, η αγάπη κρύβει δράκους και συμφορές, οι Μοίρες ξεφτίζουν και οι ήρωες δεν μπορούν να νικήσουν το Μαύρο Καβαλάρη. Πηγαίνουμε σε επoχές ονείρων σκοτεινών, διαδρομών μυστικών και πράξεων γενναίων. Πηγαίνουμε σε εποχές που δε θα αντικρίσουμε ποτέ...
...μόνο στα ονειρά μας. Άν είμαστε τυχεροί...
''Ο ύπνος χωρίς όνειρα είναι βαρύς και λυπημένος.''
Η Κλέφτρα των Ονείρων: Ένας γενναίος γιός προσπαθεί να λύσει τα ξόρκια μιας μάγισσας που κλέβει και δηλητηριάζει τα όνειρα των ανθρώπων.
''Ο δράκος την είδε κι άρχισε να τρέχει καταπάνω της, έτοιμος να την καταβροχθίσει, να πιει και το δικό της αίμα, όπως των αδερφάδων της και τόσων κοριτσιών που αγάπησαν κι ο έρωτας τις στράγγιξε και στοίχειωσαν και γίναν δέντρα.''
Ο Δράκος που Άρπαξε την Αγάπη : Η μικρότερη κόρη της οικογένειας ξεκινά για να πείσει τις Μοίρες να αλλάξουν το ριζικό και να νικήσει το δράκο που κλέβει την αγάπη.
''Μη φοβάσαι. Θα ξαπλώσω στα πόδια σου για να φυλάω τα όνειρα σου.
Το Ελιξήριο της Ευτυχίας : Τρεις γιοί κινούν για μακρινό ταξίδι στους δρόμους που οδηγούν στο Ελιξήριο της Ευτυχίας, προτού φύγει ο αγαπημένος τους πατέρας.
Τρια υπέροχα παραμύθια με έντονες Βαλκανικές επιρροές και πανέμορφη εικονογράφηση.
'‘-Ονειρεύομαι.- ‘‘Ο κόσμος ονειρεύεται με κλειστά τα μάτια, όταν κοιμάται.-‘‘Εγώ προτιμώ να ονειρεύομαι μ'ανοιχτά τα μάτια''
‘'In short, there was nothing to do but accept it. Let our fears and beliefs settle around it. Red wind, red sun, red hurricane. That's when we start running. But block your ears and stuff your mouth, When you see the red man coming.''
The world has changed. Or so a man would have us believe. The Storm is coming, a force unknown and unutterable that will sweep everything away. The leader of an uncanny community ‘discards'' the ones cursed with the Red, people - mostly women - who are thought to be burdened with an evil too ferocious to be explained. Two siblings, Anna and Adam, are trying to survive like shadows, meeting during the dawn and the dusk, burdened and scarred by the disappearance of their mother. What can be worse? The world that approaches its end or the bitter knowledge that your mother has abandoned you?
‘'-What reds are weak reds?Crimson, carmine, scarlet, pace.What reds are hurtful reds?Vermillion, ruby.What reds are carnal?Cochineal, cerise and sanguine.''
This novel is one of the strangest, most atmospheric, enigmatic and utterly brilliant stories I've ever had the pleasure to encounter. Rainsford doesn't rely on the same-old dystopia tropes to drive her novel forward. She wants to puzzle and confuse us, she wants us to question every page we read. Is this a dystopic society or a community that has fallen victim to a cult leader's twisted ambitions? What is that Storm? How will it affect the characters? What happens to the women and children? And why is Red so threatening?
Red has always been the basis of a plethora of convictions, customs and legends. The colour of blood, of life and love and passion. The colour of revolution, of temptation, sin, and seduction. The colour of fire. Of menstruation and sex. And birth. There is a terrific, alluring feeling of danger and a deeply weird sense of sensuality throughout the story. The siblings have known no other member of the community close to their age. ‘'We're like the sun and the moon, passing one another in the sky'', and this is the very essence of the development of their characters. Adam is the sun, always trying to discover a crack, to shed light, to know the truth. Anna is like the moon. Secretive, mercurial, silent, wise and watchful. Two young adults that desire to be left alone by everyone, except their mother. But Eula left them long ago...
‘'I keep my fear here, in my right hand... Any time the fear gets too much I remind myself I can just cut my hand away.''
To say more about this book is to spoil the pleasure of uncovering every layer of the story and the unique process of unveiling thoughts you didn't know you have been keeping in your mind. This is my kind of book. The one that leaves you to ‘'fend'' for yourself, the one that makes you a better reader. The one that doesn't conform to the trash of our times.
‘'Fresh night, still and viscous.The trees only ever so often creaking and making me think of winter when they tighten and buckle within their cases of ice and snow. The whole wood loud with a neighing sound you might mistake for horses. The red wolves calling out. Whisper of a track that red deer leave behind. The woods and the gifts they give me. At the very bottoms of hills and at the very tops of trees. Kneeling in the stream and seeing my howl who always knows when and where to come for me.''
Many thanks to Doubleday and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/...
“I want to be God. I want to cause the sun and the moon to rise. I can't bear it when I see them rising and I haven't had anything to do with it. But if I were God, I could make it all happen. I could make them go backwards if I wanted. So go and tell the flounder I want to be God.''
A volume of retellings of the tales that became famous through the effort of the Grimm brothers. Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, the Twelve Dancing Princesses, Rapunzel are here along with more obscure - and more obscure interesting, I'd say- tales of princesses and witches, brave lads, wise animals, foolish kings, devils and spirits.
Do we need retellings when the original material is so loved and popular? It depends. I am in favour of a writer's new view on a classic tale as long as the heart of the story remains intact. In this case, Philip Pullman created versions that are gritty and sassy. However, there were issues that significantly diminished my overall impression of this effort.
Pullman's notes at the end of each tale may be considered “informative” by many readers. Not by me, though. Pullman frequently diminished other writers' versions or even the origins and the concepts of the stories themselves. I found this rude and unprofessional, to say the least. I mean, you are not exactly Shakespeare yourself, dear writer.
Overall, an average effort and a showcase of a writer's huge ego...
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“I suspect that God's plan, whatever it is, works on a scale too large to admit our mortal tribulations; that in a single lifetime, accidents and happenstance determine more than we care to admit; and that the best we can do is to try to align ourselves with what we feel is right and construct some meaning out of our confusion, and with grace and nerve play at each moment the hand that we're dealt.”
“When things are bad,” Axe said, walking next to me as we left the December meeting, “no one cares that ‘things could have been worse.”
‘'The houses across the street were silent and perhaps unoccupied at this time of day; she let her eyes move with the rhythm of the tune, from window to window along one floor. By gliding quickly across two windows, she could make one line of the tune fit one floor of windows, and then a quick breath and a drop down to the next floor; it had the same number of windows and the tune had the same number of beats and then th next floor and the next. She stopped suddenly when it seemed to her that the windowsill she had just passed had soundlessly crumpled and fallen into fine sand; when she looked back it was there as before but then it seemed to be the windowsill above and to the right, and finally a corner of the roof.'' Shirley Jackson, Pillar of Salt
New York. Forget about the city that never sleeps, the lights, the socialites, the glorious hotels and skyscrapers and whatnot. New York is the people that populate it, the stories that characterise every corner of the metropolis, the amalgamation of feelings and experiences that have created its atmosphere, its breath, its aura and the way it fascinates us. This is the heart of the beautiful collection dedicated to New York.
New York Nite Club by Jack Kerouac: The unique atmosphere of a New York club.
The Making of a New Yorker by O.Henry: The aspirations of a poet in the city of modern Art.
O City of Broken Dreams by John Cheever: A married couple travels to New York, prompted by a job opportunity. But the Big Apple has decided differently.
Pillar of Salt by Shirley Jackson: A young couple goes to New York for a two-week vacation. The experience appears exciting at first but soon, it becomes more and more uncanny, chaotic and claustrophobic. A masterpiece by Jackson.
Paul's Case by Willa Carther: The troubles of a high-school student.
Master Misery by Truman Capote: A young woman has come to New York to follow her dream. She meets a sympathetic clown and realises that her happiness depends on a strange figure that thwarts your dreams. A deeply sad allegory by a master of the Short Story.
A Cup of Gold by Edith Wharton: A story of fateful meetings, love, propriety. Many of us first ‘'met'' the literary New York through Wharton's novel The Age of Innocence and this one is a bright example of her unique style.
The Magic Barrell by Bernard Malamud: A young rabbi wants to marry and only the ideal woman will do. But this is a rather difficult task.
Social Error by Damon Rinyan: A story straight out the Guys and Dolls universe and a unique era in the history of the city.
Theft by Katherine Anne Porter: Prompted by a simple theft, the heroine of the story realises all she has lost. Loves, journeys, wasted moments, words left unsaid.
The Thistles in Sweden by William Maxwell: A beautiful, peaceful story about the daily life of a neighbourhood of brownstones and quirky families.
A Snowy Night on West Forty-Ninth Street by Maeve Brennan: The unique atmosphere of Broadway lights on a winter's night as a woman becomes our guide to the strange, vacant would-be members of the high-class society and the nightly New York that watches silently.
Sonny's Blues by James Baldwin: A moving story of the rift between two brothers, the loss of a child, the daily fight in an unforgiving world.
Children Are Bored on Sunday by Jean Stafford: A tender story of Art, feud and young love.
It's Six A.M. Do You Know Where You Are by Jay McInerney: An enigmatic story about a man stranded in a bar at an unlikely hour. A tale of confusion, trauma and disillusionment.
New York Day Women by Edwidge Danticat: A story about motherly rules and the very complex relationship between a family and a ferocious city.
Reference #388475848 - 5 by Amy Hempel: A letter of protest over a parking ticket becomes the means for a woman to pour out her soul and give voice to her repressed thoughts.
Negocios by Junot Diaz: The tumultuous story of an immigrant through the eyes of his son.
‘'I want what is fair. I don't want a fight. But the truth is I'm shaking - right now, writing this letter. My hand is shaking while I write. It's saying what I can't say - this is the way I say it.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
Είναι κρίμα ένα βιβλίο το οποίο μας δίνει πλούσιο κι ακριβές ιστορικό υλικό και κοινωνεί σωστά τους σπουδαίους θρύλους της χώρας μας, να βυθίζεται στον ναρκισισμό του συγγραφέα-ερευνητή (όπως μονίμως μας πληροφορεί). Απίστευτες ερασιτεχνικές επιδείξεις μελοδραματικής γραφής, υπερβολής (όπως οι γελοίες φωτογραφίες ‘'φυλακισμένων'' στο Λευκό Πύργο κι οι συνεχείς αναφορές σε φρίκη, αίμα, επιθανάτιες κραυγές, ξεραμένο αίμα, ξανά φρίκη, και πάλι φρίκη...) και περιγραφές που μοιάζουν βγαλμένες από τις δακρύβρεχτες σελίδες από το ‘'αγαπητό μου ημερολόγιο.''
Γενικότητες όπως ‘'κανείς δε γνωρίζει ότι...'' ή ‘'τα κάστρα αυτά είναι τα πιο ξεχωριστά της Ελλάδας/Ευρώπης/κόσμου/γαλαξία κτλ. Όχι και όχι. Όσο για τις απόψεις του περί ‘'ελληνικής αγριότητας σε βάρος των Τούρκων'', αυτά που θα είχα να πώ δεν θα άρμοζαν σε μια λογοτεχνική ιστοσελίδα. Άς πούμε μόνο οτι κατάλαβα πλήρως την καταγωγή του και τα πολιτικά του πιστεύω.
Υ.Γ. ‘'Ερευνητής'' που αγνοεί την ιστορία της Πελοποννήσου; Η γελειότητα έχει και τα όρια της.
‘'We are all mortal, and we will all die. One way of understanding our fascination with the end of the world is that such stories project our personal meeting onto the world. Just as we will each die, so the whole world will die at some point.''
Doomsday, Ragnarok, Judgement Day. We may name it differently but the result is the same. We are terrified and fascinated by the end of the world. A concept (or a reality?) that has inspired glorious myths and legends, paintings, songs, novels and films. Whether we view it under a religious, scientific or cultural microscope, we love talking about the end of the world that mirrors our own terror in the face of the inevitable.
‘'If a person can die, so can a people. If a life can end, so can a world. And so we speculate.''
Adam Roberts has written a fascinating book, rich in wit, spirited narration and utmost respect for every religion, culture and tradition. Writers, take heed! This is how you engage your readers without resorting to cringy smart-ass comments. He breaks down the various ways in which the end of the world has inspired cultural icons and convictions and the times when this ‘'end'' look quite tangible throughout History. The Apocalypse of St. John (gloriously kick-ass read) with the Four Horsemen (always loved them...), the wrath of the gods and Ragnarok of Norse culture.
‘'For the great day of his wrath is come and who shall be able to stand.'' Revelation 6:12 - 17
What can be more terrifying? The fact that the God (gods) we believe in is so angry with the mess we've made that he decides to deal with us once and for all or that we, ourselves, with or actions, our choices, our vices and greed are bound to be done with through climate change, our surest means to commit suicide? We don't need zombies/aliens/robots/ plagues/viruses/ angry supernatural beings. All our wars, all our decisions for profit and dubious fame are enough to cost lives, to destroy the environment. To end the world.
‘'What, if by day or night, a devil were to sneak in upon you, during your moment of loneliest loneliness and say to you : ‘'This life, as you now live it and have lived it, you will be compelled to live again, and again, and innumerable times again; and there will be nothing new in it, but every moment of suffering and every joy and every thought and lament and everything, whether small or great, you will return to as you live, all in the same succession and order - even this spider and this moonlight between the trees and this moment and your meeting here with me, myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again - and you with it, you mote of dust!'' Friedrich Nietzche, The Gay Science
‘'What matters is not that we will lose, but how we lose - and that we go down fighting. It degrades one's dignity, according to Norse culture, to whine about suffering or reverses. They are inevitable. What matters is not that they happen, but how much defiance we can face them with, both in life and in death.''
Many thanks to Alison Menzies, and Elliott & Thompson for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Thus, it was the strangeness of the night sky and the seasons that they loved and missed, the strangeness of fire and water, the strangeness they noted in each other.''
It is Christmas and there is magic in the air for children and adults. For the professor of our story, this is the time to discover the answer to a riddle that has been haunting him for far too long. The burial chamber of Newgrange, a site older than Stonehedge, older than the Pyramids, a secret place that fiercely protects its hidden treasures and its valuable ray of light. Guarding Newgrange, the spirits of the age of old are willing to catch a glimpse of the mortal world but they won't give up their secrets.
‘'We are spirits. We do not want to associate with the visible world.''
‘'He is a man alive in the world. He is capable of anything.''
Colm Tóibín creates a beautiful, atmospheric story about the shortest day, the longest night and the unbreakable bond between the present and the past, the world of the living and the land of the dead. The influence of History on our lives, the wisdom of our ancestors who were once ignorant mortals. In the burial chamber, mythical Ireland is given a vivid voice as the spirits of the past (dating back to the days of the legendary Cuchulain) are waiting for the light of the shortest day of the year.
The ceremonies and rituals of the pagan past that fascinates and mystifies us and the risk caused by today's need to know everything, refusing to understand that, sometimes, we all need to stay silent and listen carefully are perfectly joined in this wondrous story where respect and reverence open a small window to the past.
‘'The rays of sunshine that beamed into the chamber on the shortest day nourished them through the darkness of the year to come. The light appeared precisely on the winter solstice, as they had planned. It shone in the morning. Within a short time, all trace of it was gone. It made them feel that they still belonged to the world they had lost as the darkness folded around them once more''
Many thanks to Amazon Original Stories and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'A body always begins a story such as this. My body, her body; mine to be burned, hers razed by violent action; to be discovered along a remote trail of russet hills and yellow grass, beneath a rare, open sky. She will be laid in a cemetery that becomes a stop on a tourist bus or a destination undertaken on adolescent pilgrimages. I will be spread on the water, to sink to the bottom, or evaporated into the nether-history of the air.''
Barbara is dying. She is fighting cancer with her sister at her side. As her body is struggling in a desperate battle, her mind goes back to a turbulent and fascinating era. Prompted by a violent incident that results in the death of a woman from her past, Barbara reflects on a life full of challenges and hurdles. Her sister tries to understand the motives that led Barbara to the choices she made throughout her life.
Jane Rosenberg LaForge moves away from WWI and her beautiful novel The Hawkman and takes us on a journey to the 1970s, the era of doubt and reformation, social changes, challenges, the time when there was still hope for a new society. Within a very tender story, the writer weaves so many issues that are relevant to our time, themes that concern us all. The question of womanhood and the way women were - and still are - viewed as mothers and wives, and God forbid that we should ever desire to follow a career- originated life or choose to love a woman. God forbid that we should choose to ‘' disobey'' our parents and the orders of a narrow-minded society.
Motherhood and sisterhood define - for better or worse - our lives. The bond between the two sisters, two strong women with firm aspirations and convictions. Their relationship is put in jeopardy by the games of Fate and Fame, the mercurial force that calls s to sacrifice our feelings and integrity to ‘' make it'' to whatever ‘'City of Angels'' dictates our dreams. Dreams that are built on sand. And Death is watching. The inevitable outcome, whether by natural causes, by a terrible disease or by violence, the end is certain and calls for reflection.
A beautiful novel about love, aspirations, thwarted dreams, loss and the fight of the human spirit as two women try to make amends with the past and with each other.
‘'My life will dissolve and dissipate, spike like influenza when this is done. When a fever breaks, there is a sense of relief, of freedom from whatever pain there was. But my fever will not break this way.''
Many thanks to Jane Rosenberg LaForge and New Meridian Arts Press for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
'There have been too many stories in between, miracles and martyrdoms, too much blood spilt, too much ink. There was a war. There were a thousand wars. I knew a killer. I knew a hero. They might have been the same man.''‘
Leigh Bardugo opens one more portal to the exciting universe of the Grishaverse. This is The Istorii Sankt'ya, the Lives of Saints, created by Alina Starkov, narrating the tales of saints. Stories of beauty and death, violence and injustice, mercy and divine providence. Stories of heroines and heroes, of the violent mob and cunning demons.
Sankta Margaretha, the patron saint of thieves and lost children, who saved her people from a demon with the help of her beautiful jewels.
Sankta Anastasia, the patron saint of the sick, who saved her people with the drops of her own blood.
Sankt Kho, the patron saint of good intentions, and Sankta Neyar, the protector of blacksmiths.
Sankt Juris, the patron saint of the battle-weary, who protected the faithful soldiers from cold and starvation, with amaranth as his symbol.
Sankta Vasilka, the patron saint of unwed women.
Sankt Nikolai, the patron saint of sailors and lost causes.
Sankt Maradi, the protector of impossible love.
Sankt Demyan, the patron saint of the newly dead.
Sankta Mariya, the patron saint of those who are far from home.
Sankt Emerens, the patron saint of brewers and protector of the harvest.
Sankt Vladimir, the patron saint of the drowned and of unlikely achievements.
Sankt Grigori, the protector of doctors and musicians.
Sankt Valentin, the patron saint of snake charmers and the lonely.
‘'You can choose faith or you can choose fear. But only one will bring you what you long for.''
Sankt Petyr, the patron saint of archers.
Sankta Yeryin, the protector of hospitality.
Sankt Feliks, the protector of horticulture.
Sankt Lukin, the patron saint of politicians.
‘'I will die in the woods, a free woman in the company of the trees. Better than the pyre.''
Sankta Magda, the patron saint of abandoned women, and bakers.
Sankt Egmond, the protector of architects.
Sankta Ursula, the patron saint of those lost at sea.
Sankt Mattheus, the patron saint of those who love and care for animals.
‘'The orphans came to this magnificent place covered in dirt and lice, and those from the border towns arrived with ghosts in tow - memories of raids in the night, homes set to the torch, mothers and fathers gone suddenly silent and cold.''
Sankt Dimitri, the patron saint of scholars.
Sankt Gerasim, the patron saint of artists.
Sankta Alina, the patron saint of orphans and those with undiscovered gifts.
...and the Starless One, the mysterious, shadowy saint of the ones who seek salvation in the darkness.
‘'I wander now, lost among the shelves. My hand cramps around the pen. I gather dust. But someone has to set down the words, put them in the proper order. I am the library and the librarian, hoarding lives, a catalog for the faithful. Erase my name. Indelible is a word for stories.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'It was one of those spring mornings in March; the sky between the buildings was bright and blue and the city air, warmed by motors and a million breaths, had a freshness and a sense of excitement that can come only from a breeze starting somewhere in the country, far away, and moving into the city while everyone is asleep, to freshen the air for morning.''
In the universe of Shirley Jackson's stories, the reader is thrown into a vertigo of uneasiness that gradually escalates to dread and questions on the subconscious, mental health and a vague hint of the Occult. The atmosphere is always a surreal, mystical, witch and witty scenery where the characters try to balance between Reality and a hallucinatory world, living in a time of instability and uncertainty.
The Missing Girl: A young girl goes missing from a camp. However, as the search unfolds, we gradually realise that the missing girl may have nothing to do with camp. In fact, it questionable whether she exists at all...
Journey With a Lady: A young bow travels alone to visit his grandparents. A young woman comes to sit by him while a policeman is searching for a thief on the train. This is a moving story on the bond of a woman and a child, on recognising your mistakes and taking responsibility for your actions. I read a comment that claimed the story was boring. Question: How much of an idiot are you, actually? I mean, honestly!!
Nightmare: We all have experienced that one dream where we are walking alone and without purpose, somehow knowing that we are lost, trapped even, while crowds of passers-by suffocate us. In this story that reads like a rushing nightmare, a young woman who works in New York is walking in the avenues of the metropolis and realises that there is a strange contest. People need to find ‘'Miss X'' to win unimaginable trophies. The descriptions and clues change by the minute and our protagonist begins to suspect that ‘'Miss X'' might actually be her. The ending is enticing and flawless.
Beyond the uneasiness and the uncertainty lies the issue of the definition of the Modern Woman and her place in society and the big city. Do we succumb or do we use the facade of assimilation as a weapon? And can we actually defeat Fate and its harbingers?
‘'Miss X, find Miss X. She is walking in the city, she is walking alone.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Summer was drawing to a close, and I realised that the book was monstrous.''
Jorge Luis Borges, one of the most prominent Argentinian writers and one of the forefathers of Magical Realism, created stories where everything takes place in a superbly orchestrated, organized chaos. His world is one of mysteries, bookish cyphers and secrets, a blend of mystical tradition and the Occult. In sceneries made of hallucinatory landscapes, labyrinths, mirrors and gardens, philosophers, men of the law, artists enter dark corridors and strange libraries, stepping on the blurry line between the Real and the Fictional.
‘'From the rear of the secluded house within a lantern approached: a lantern that the trees sometimes striped and sometimes eclipsed, a paper lantern that had the form of a drum and the colour of the moon.''
The Garden of Forking Paths: A story set in WWI, of secret services, strange ancestors, and the unbroken sequence of Cause and Effect.
The Book of Sand: An infinite book, without a first or last page, without a story or characters, leads its unfortunate owner to despair.
The Circular Ruins: A story on the eternal circle of Fate, of our existence and our actions, and the literary immortality of the stories within the stories.
On Exactitude In Science: I doubt you'll ever read a more bewildering photograph.
‘'Of the many problems which exercised the reckless discernment of Lonnrot, none was so strange - so rigorously strange, shall we say - as the periodic series of bloody events which culminated at the villa of Treste-le- Roy, amid the ceaseless aroma of the eucalypti.''
Death and the Compass: A story weaved in Kabbala, Jewish tradition, detective puzzles and incarnation.
‘'A yellow, rounded moon defined two silent fountains in the melancholy garden. Lonnrot explored the house. Through anterooms and galleries he passed to duplicate patios, and time after time to the same patio [...] The house is not this large, he thought. Other things are making it seem longer: the dim light, the symmetry, the mirrors, so many years, my unfamiliarity, the loneliness.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Τhe monstrous thought came into my mind as I perused the fixed eyes and the saturnine face, that this was a spirit, not a man.''
Charles Dickens. The man who created the kind of Christmas we adore (well, those of us who aren't boring, obnoxious atheists that is...), the man who elevated the ghost story into the realm of Literature. The great writer, the great man who generously introduced the readers of his time to the reality of their city, who exposed the inequality and injustice inflicted on the weakest members of his society. But, now, we are here for the scary parts...This slim volume contains three spooky masterpieces created by the Master.
‘'Mistress secretly had great fear of meeting with the likeness of that face - we all had; but there was no such thing. The Madonna and Bambino, San Francisco, San Sebastiano, Venus, Santa Caterina, Angels, Brigands, Friars, Temples ay Sunset, Battles, White Horses, Forests, Apostles, Doges, all my old acquaintance many times repeated? - yes.''
To Be Read at Dusk: In a palazzo near Genoa, a young woman is visited by the figure of a handsome, mysterious man. What seems like a momentary haunting becomes a very tangible reality when the young man proves to be an actual, very mortal presence in her life. Where else could the legend of the doppelganger find rich ground than in an Italian palazzo, a place where Art meets Life and Life meets the world beyond? Italy is a unique country full of light, joy and singing and beauty. When dusk falls, however, something changes. Being of Italian descent, I've often walked the nightly alleys of Rome and Venice, Bologna, Florence and Naples. Shadows move at your side and the past is everywhere, the feeling powerful and very particular.
‘'What is its warning against?'', he said, ruminating, with his eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on me. ‘'What is the danger? Where is the danger? There is danger overhanging somewhere on the Line. Some dreadful calamity will happen. It is not to be doubted this third time, after what has gone before. But surely this is a cruel haunting of me. What can I do?''
The Signalman: We are all aware of countless legends associated with signalmen who try to warn against terrible accidents and apparitions that mirror impending catastrophe. In this atmospheric story, the narrator meets a distraught signalman, plagued by a figure who warns of danger, struggling to decipher the message and prevent disaster.
‘'A truthful traveller, who should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning it; but the same traveller, having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of thought, vision (so called), dream or other remarkable mental impressions, would hesitate considerably before he would own to it.''
The Trial For Murder: A man witnesses a rather unimpressive scene from his window. Two men about to engage in a fight before they walk away as suddenly as they appeared. Yet, it is their faces that turn the incident into a rather off-putting experience. Can a vision, a scene from the past, reveal the perpetrator of a crime? Dickens creates a moving story based on the ages-old conviction that victims return to reveal their murderers.
Doppelgangers, premonitions, visions, omens, messages from a world that is so far and yet so close to our own. Three little treasures by one of the greats.
‘'When you walk along a crowded street- at Frankfurt, Milan, London, Paris - and think that a passing stranger is like your friend Heinrich, and then that another passing stranger is like your friend Heinrich, and so begin to have a strange foreknowledge that presently you'll meet your friend Heinrich- which you do, though you believed him at Trieste - what do you call that?''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'When have I last looked onThe round green eyes and the long wavering bodiesOf the dark leopards of the moon?All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,For all their broom-sticks and their tears,Their angry tears, are gone. The holy centaurs of the hills are vanished;I have nothing but the embittered sun;Banished heroic mother moon and vanished,And now that I have come to fifty yearsI must endure the timid sun.'' W.B.Yeats, Lines Written In Dejection Minutes
Temptress. Lover. Wise Woman. Healer. Seductive. Frightening. Fearless. Fearsome. Satan's Bride. Daughter of Nature. Brave. Elusive. Menacing. Threatening. Lethal. Determined. Persecuted. Murdered. Immortal.
The Witch, the personification of fears and desires, the voice that stands against any attempt to silence the Woman's Mind, the one who heals and kills. All through the ages, through the changes of our societies, the Witch has remained there for us to admire, to hate, to fear, to understand, to exorcise. The archetypal figure of the women who refuse to yield and obey to the ignorant mob. The ‘'monster'' who takes and gives according to her will, the one who ignores the consequences and leads her own way.
From Greece to Ireland, from Haiti to Kongo, from Iceland to Italy, from Russia to Portugal, from Australia to America, these are myths of cunning tricks and dark spells. Of divine children, wronged princesses, nightmarish hags, misled men, cruel stepmothers, beautiful seductresses. Stories about the Providence lighting the world, stories about the evil awaiting in its lair. From Lilith to Hecate, Biddy Early and Baba Yaga, the Witch is always here...
‘'I love you with all my heart, but at the same time I always freeze if you are near me, and you nearly die of heat if I approach you! How shall we travel about together without being odious the one to the other?'' The Snow-Daughter and the Fire-Son (Iceland)
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“I thought I could start over, you see. But now I know you can never start over. Not really. You think you have control, but you are like a fly in somebody else's web. Sometimes I think that's why I like accounting. All day, you are only dealing with numbers. You add them, multiply them, and if you are careful, you will always have a solution. There's a sequence there. An order. With numbers, you can have control....”
“Winter came and the city [Chicago] turned monochrome – black trees against gray sky above white earth. Night now fell in midafternoon, especially when the snowstorms rolled in, boundless prairie storms that set the sky close to the ground, the city lights reflected against the clouds”
“Πόσο καιρό γνωριζόμαστε, Βέρα; Τέσσερις ώρες την πρώτη φορά, και μια τώρα, σύνολο πέντε ώρες.- αυτό είναι όλο κι όλο το βιογραφικό μας ως τώρα, όσο για το μέλλον μας ένας Θεός ξέρει. Και μέσα σε πέντε ώρες εσύ θες όλη την αλήθεια, όχι μια αλήθεια, την αλήθεια.”
Οδησσος, Παρασκευή βράδυ, σε μια αποβάθρα του λιμανιού. Η Σοβιετική Ένωση βρίσκεται στα τελευταία της. Έξω από ένα καφέ στο τελωνείο, ανάμεσα σε ετερόκλητους ήχους από Ρώσικη μουσική και ροκ, και στον απόηχο του Σοβιετικού εθνικού ύμνου, δύο άνθρωποι συναντιούνται. Εκείνος κι Εκείνη. Ανώνυμοι, λοιπόν; Φαινομενικά όχι. Εκείνος είναι ο Φεντια, εκείνη η Βέρα. Πώς, όμως ξέρουμε ότι είναι αλήθεια;
“Η πόλη είναι θλιβερή, ανόητη και βρώμικη... βουλιάζουμε εδώ πέρα.”
Οι ίδιοι οι χαρακτήρες δεν ξέρουν. Κι αν ξέρουν, αποκρύπτουν. Κι ίσως να αποκρύπτουν γιατί η ταυτότητά τους δεν έχει καμία σημασία. Αυτό που ψάχνουν είναι αυτό που μετρά. Τι ψάχνουν, λοιπόν; Προέρχονται από κατακερματισμενες οικογένειες, σε μια κοινωνία που όλοι στρέφονται εναντίον όλων. Εκεί που δεν έχεις το δικαίωμα να χωρίσεις, αν είσαι φτωχός. Εκεί που το διαβατήριο σου ορίζει την ίδια σου την ύπαρξη.
Η συζήτηση τους θυμίζει ένα ζευγάρι που κρύβει τα συναισθήματα του γιατί δεν μπορεί να τα διαχειριστεί. Γιατί φοβάται αυτό που συμβαίνει ή αυτό που μπορεί να συμβεί. Ο Αλεξάντρ Γκέλμαν αποτυπώνει γλαφυρά, συγκινητικά, σκληρά ένα διάλογο που κρύβει αλήθειες τις οποίες ο καθένας μας θα ερμηνεύσει διαφορετικά. Μέσα από το “ξεφλούδισμα” των δύο προσώπων, βλέπουμε το ξεγύμνωμα μιας εποχής, μιας κοινωνίας και πάνω απ' όλα της ανθρώπινης ανάγκης για συντροφιά. Και για το ψέμα. Και για την αλήθεια που θέλουμε να ακούσουμε κι εκείνη που δεν είμαστε ποτέ έτοιμοι να αντιμετωπίσουμε.
Πολλοί θα έκαναν μια πολιτική ή κοινωνική ανάγνωση του έργου. Εγώ αρκούμαι σε αυτό που άγγιξε τη δική μου ψυχή. Την κραυγή για αγάπη ή έστω για μία φευγαλέα κατανόηση. Μια στιγμή στην οποία όλοι έχουμε καταφύγει για τους δικούς μας λόγους κάποια στιγμή στη ζωή μας.
Υπέροχη μετάφραση από την εξαιρετική Μάγια Λυμπεροπουλου, ένα ακόμη διαμάντι από τις εκδόσεις Δωδώνη.
“Μπάλωνα την ψυχή μου. Κουρελάκια ζωής μέσα μου. Καταλαβαίνεις; Αποθηκεύω απελπισία.”
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‘'Books are part of how we understand ourselves. They shape our identities, even before we can read them. They accompany us throughout our lives. [...] They get tangled up in our relationships with parents, siblings, classmates, teachers, friends, lovers and children. They are part of how groups of people, and even nations, imagine and represent themselves. Books become meaningful objects in all sorts of ways: treasured possessions, talismans, bearers of significance. This book is about how that happens.''
There are readers who desire their books to look as immaculate as fresh snow. Others, like yours truly, want them to look lived in, with dog-eared pages and scribbles in the margins. We keep them in our bookcases as tokens of our personality, our knowledge, our convictions. We refuse to obey the rule of common sense and we accumulate them by the dozen, ending up with stacks scattered all over because free space is just an illusion. We fall in love with characters and storylines. Our first journey ‘'abroad'' probably took place through an exciting book.
We meet heroes and villains, people of the past who shaped our present. We find a way to escape from dark times and personal instability and insecurity. We became friends (and lovers...) with someone who shares our passion for the same books, we fight and refuse to ever speak again to the ones who offend our book choices. We marvel when we find a book with uncut pages, a glimpse into a world beyond our reach. We become as inquisitive as it gets when we visit a house with an impressive (or not) bookcase, our eyes and necks straining to browse through the titles.
We are the ones who can't get enough of bookish gifts. We are tormented by the question ‘'what will happen to my books after I am gone.'' We are terrified by the prospect that our children may not worship on the altar of Literature. We are the ones who delight in reading the phone book. Literally. We are the ones who smile at the mere thought of the word ‘'book.'' We are the ones who are granted a second and a third and a fourth life through the written word.
Is this the finest ‘'book-about-books'' I've ever read? The answer is a loud, triumphant YES!
Many thanks to Alison Menzies and Elliott & Thompson for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further afterwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.'' James Joyce - Dubliners
Even the people in countries where snow is daily reality get excited when they witness the first snowflake floating in the air. Now yours truly lives in Athens and every snowfall, however brief, is like second Christmas. Snow is one more of Mother Nature's gifts to us, a vision of superb beauty, a symbol for purity, innocence. A holy silence in the silent season that calls for contemplation and introspection before the rebirth of spring. Our actions, however, destroy us. The constant violation we inflict on Nature has made snow a scarcity. This is what we are only capable of. Disaster and ignorance.
Nancy Campbell's writing is tender, poetic and vivid. She guides us around the planet and introduces us to the lore and history of Snow, how it is viewed and revered, how it gave birth to tales and legends. The Sámi people stress the herders' relationship with their environment. The Japanese fear the legend of Yuki-onna, the deadly snow-woman. In Korea, the first snowfall of the year may bring your true love into your arms. In Greenland, the glaciers are threatened by our own iniquities. In Scotland and Wales, the beauty of the snow reflects the beauty of the language.
In Thailand, snow is just a legend, a ghost that may or may not have existed. In Spain, snow is associated with the Holy Virgin, Her Purity and Protection over us. In Hebrew legends, snow reflects the changing of the seasons, God's Providence. In Russia, the word sastrugi mirrors the sharp ridges of the snow, the horses galloping away in the tundra. In Latvia, the skylarks are associated with snow. Iceland and the Faroe Islands have a plethora of beautiful words about the serene gift. In the rich culture of the Cherokee, snow is bonded to God.
In France, snow becomes a menace in the form of avalanches. Finland glorifies the frost that reigns on tree branches. Denmark is the birthplace of the beautiful and cruel Snow Queen. Anaxagoras truly saw black snow and in Italy, the neviere was used to cool drinks. In the Netherlands, you will taste the yummy Hagelslag, in Estonia, we will travel over icy roads. The last unconquered mountain top, the residence of the gods, is calling from the Himalayas. In Lithuania, sniegas has played a vital role in the course of the beautiful Baltic country. In Ireland, James Joyce created some of the most poetic descriptions of the Winter's faithful, quiet companion.
This book is a dreamy journey in the eloquent silence of the falling snow and a moving cry to respect and protect Nature. Our Mother.
‘'He giveth snow like wool: he scattereth the hourfrost like ashes. He casteth forth his ice like morsels: who can stand before his cold? He sendeth out his word, and melteth them: he causeth his wind to blow, and the waters flow.'' Psalms 147: 16-18
'Will there be any real snow at all when the year 2049 arrives?''
Many thanks to Alison Menzies, Elliott & Thompson and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“The human louse somewhat resembles a tiny lobster, and he lives chiefly in your trousers. Short of burning all your clothes there is no known way of getting rid of him. Down the seams of your trousers he lays his glittering white eggs, like tiny grains of rice, which hatch out and breed families of thier own at horrible speed. I think pacifists might find it helpful to illustrate thier pamphlets with enlarged photographs of lice. Glory of war indeed! In war all solderies are lousy, at the least when it is warm enough. The men that fought at Verdun, at Waterloo, at Flodden, at Senlac, at Thermopylae - every one of them had lice crawling over his testicles.”
‘'Somewhere a tide is turning. In that place where no land can be seen, where horizon to horizon is spanned by shifting twinkling faithless water, a wave humps it back and turns over with a sigh, and sends its salted whispering to Mr Hancock's ear.''
London, 1785. Swiftly, we are let in two very different worlds that are about to be united under extraordinary circumstances. Mr Hancock, a moderately wealthy merchant, has acquired a marvellous creature. Angelica Neal is an accomplished courtesan that has come to admire his new possession. And what may that be? Well, a mermaid! And now, they are thrown into a series of dubious choices, chances and hopes in the opulent city and the peaceful countryside.
‘'We fill their minds even when we are far away. They fancy they see us even when they do not. They tell one another stories about us.''
Imogen Hermes Gowar creates a very special example of Historical Fiction. Beyond the magnificent depiction of 18th century London, beyond our vivid transportation to the world of the courtesans and the merchants, two professions that seem to look for wonders, taking every chance that comes their way, beyond the need for love, she connects the elusive legendary figure of the Mermaid to the ‘'icon'' of the beautiful, desired women. Both are sought after, tirelessly wanted. Once someone is fortunate enough to ‘'possess'' them - literally, mind you - they become creatures to be put in a cage for profit. The Mermaid brings money. The Woman brings earthly pleasure but must ‘'belong'' to one man only. Even if he is a scoundrel and a liar.
‘'A loss is not a void.''
Imogen Hermes Gowar populates her beautiful story with fascinating characters. Good and bad, most of them grey. Real, tangible, easy to identify in all societies. But the main duo is a true force. Angelica's spirit seems to mirror Hancock's calm and need for a life with meaning. Her unafraid attitude to stand for herself against men and women who want to exploit and diminish her reflects his decision to abandon his microcosm and see all anew. They both make mistakes - who doesn't? - and learn from them under the ever-watchful eye of the Mermaid.
The element of Magical Realism is cleverly and uniquely used to advance the story, walking side-by-side with very human, very familiar emotions and obstacles. And this is how an extraordinary novel is born.
‘'I am here; I am here; you are not alone. Here I am; I am grief, the living child of your suffering. I am the grief that sits within you; I am the grief that sits between you. You will bury me but I shall rise up.You will not know me, but I shall make myself known to you.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by name of Sleepy Hollow ... A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere.— Washington Irving, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
An exciting and atmospheric rendition of Irving's classic story. A young, opinionated and somewhat awkward tutor who comes to Tarry Town, New York, a Dutch settlement steeped in horror stories populated with ghosts and all kinds of restless spirits. But it is the hauntingly exciting figure of the Headless Horseman that takes the cake, wandering in the moonlit forests close to the old Church. Ichabod Crane has to fight a cocky suitor to win the hand of a landlord's daughter and this is the least of his troubles.
Through dark illustrations that scream ‘'American Gothic'' and spirited text, this version is a great companion to an autumn night as the countdown to this year's Halloween has started.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/