Amalia Gkavea
''Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill 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.”
‘To be an artist, you need to exist in a world of silence.'
You are born on a beautiful, snowy Christmas day. You are a wonderful child, bright and curious and loving, but your father prefers sons. Your refuge -and the refuge of every one of us- is your mother. Your beloved mother who wants you to help her finish parts of her beautiful tapestries. It is here where you realize that Art is full of endless possibilities. It is here where you know that colours, textures, material are on the ready for you. Waiting.
And then, tragedy strikes. You have lost your support, the one you loved the most. You are desperately angry, and your escape is painting, giving an image to your fears so that they stop haunting you. Your father ignores your existence. It doesn't matter. Your mother has taught you to be strong. Nothing can beat you. You are determined to answer the call of your extraordinary gift. Fernand Léger, whose unique form of Cubism left its mark on Modern Art, believes in you. And you focus on sculpture. And the world is here.
New York. The Big Apple becomes a unique source of inspiration. The skyscrapers, the towers made of steel began their siren's song. Your work depicts a strange, beautiful darkness. The loss, the fears, the nightmares. You shock and disturb and magnetize. You create a means to give voice to our primal terrors, to the feeling of entrapment and disorientation. Your spiders weave a web around us, protecting and terrifying us. You are unique. You paved the way for female artists to express themselves in ways deemed ‘'unconventional'' by the society with its tiny brains and closed hearts.
Your name? Louise Bourgeois
“My knives are like a tongue - I love, I do not love, I hate. If you don't love me, I am ready to attack. I am a double-edged knife.”
Many thanks to Frances 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/
‘'I feel eager for autumn. The birds punctuate my year: time passes constantly but birds are the grammar of its passing, they give a rough working order to the months. I have my totems: the first singing chiffchaff at the beginning of spring and the first screeching swift at its end. The silencing of song at the end of summer; the disappearance of the swifts and the arrivals of autumn. The extra thrushes: the redwings gently whistling through the autumn night and the fieldfares clattering along fruit-laden hedgerows.''
Stephen Rutt creates a book that brings the breath of winter, the calmness of the freezing season, the very perfume of the icy trees and the Scottish nature in your living room. His love for the geese becomes an inspiration to overcome hardships and the insecurity of moving to a new place, and the changing of the seasons through the course of the various species of goose reflects the deep bond between Nature, her creatures and the human being through absolute respect, understanding and love.
Rutt paints with words. He writes about the significance of goose in Europe and China, through the history of our world's cultural heritage since geese provided the quill pens used to ‘'create'' the immortal works of Shakespeare. He refers to the legend of Juno's sacred geese and the invasion of the Gauls, taken from the records of Livy and I was delighted to see a reference to Penelope's dream of the princes as geese from Homer's The Odyssey.
This book is a natural treasure read in one sitting and cherished forever.
‘'October by calendar; deep into winter by spirit. I can only faintly see the first line of hills. The trees reduced to pale grey shadows, their shapes indistinct in the weather: I see a flock of geese again, swirling like static around the television aerials, descending down to the fields behind the houses.''
‘'November bleeds greyness into December. December's dampness begins to freeze. Fog spends several days cloaking the street, shrouding the graveyard over the road. I walk through it - an impromptu Gothic wonderland - and down to the footbridge over the river, visibility so low that I can't see either bend and it feels as if I am trapped in a cloche, my own bubble of the world, everything else dulled, hidden or gone. At night along the road, it is possible to see only the streetlamps and the way the freezing fog curves out from and defines their light, until it looks like a low-vaulted ceiling, the world a cloister of light strung up by each lamp post.''
Many thanks to Alison Menzies, Elliot & Thompson and Stephen Rutt for the ARC.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'A poet never sees ghosts.''
London, 1869. The metropolis is buzzing in its heyday. The glamorous Victorian court, the elegant literary circles, the world that changes. And right there, visible to all, yet unacknowledged by the elite, stands the underbelly. The polluted, dirty, dangerous city corners, the people in the margin, the ones who dwell in darkness because what choice do they have, really? Murders that seem inspired by Dante's Purgatory start taking place and Dante Gabriel Rossetti vanishes. Christina Rossetti, Robert Browning and Alfred Tennyson try to follow the leads and discover the answers, fighting their own demons along the way.
Matthew Pearl creates a literary mystery set in the most suitable city for a story like this one. London with its grey corners and great inequality. London with its cultural scene and the ghosts of the past. Dante's The Divine Comedy is cleverly used as a mysterious and dubious vehicle for the development of the story. Christina Rossetti's character is the driving force of the novel, her intellect and determination exert the proper magnetism to sustain the readers' interest.
However, the novel suffers from its own ambition, in my opinion. I felt that Browning and Tennyson were depicted in an almost pretentious way and Gabriel Rossetti was a rather colourless character. Although the chapters aren't especially long, at times I had the feeling that the writer was beating around the bush and the writing felt purposeless whereas the closure seemed rather convenient and, frankly, unoriginal. On the bright side, the depiction of the setting and the dialogue were quite satisfying.
So, an interesting novel that has numerous exciting and elegant moments to offer but in the end, I wouldn't call it ‘'memorable.'' Just one more historical novel which we have seen by the dozen of late.
‘'Life is a coin that I once shared, but which has now quite passed from my pocket into another's doubtless rightful enough. Only I desire no half farthing of its small change.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'It is terribly true, even if the truth does not comfort, that if you look at the moon for long enough night after night, as I have, you will see that the old cartoons are correct, that the moon is, in fact, laughing. But it is not laughing at us, we lonely humans, who are far too small and our lives far too fleeting for it to give us any notice at all.''
Lauren Groff needs no introductions. Following the modern classic Fates and Furies, a novel so unique, so raw, beautiful and honest, she gives us the short story collection Florida. Eleven stories mirroring every human feeling, eleven bottomless wells of the complexity and darkness of our relationships, our perceptions of the concepts of family, womanhood, love, memory and sadness. Eleven testimonies of characters confiding in the reader. Eleven courses of threat, caution and bravery, set in the very particular state of Florida. Eleven snapshots of daily life hiding extraordinary situations. For all emotions are indeed extraordinary.
‘'The neighbourhood goes dark as I walk, and a second neighbourhood unrolls atop the daytime one. We have few streetlights, and those I pass under make my shadow frolic; it lags behind me, gallops to my feet, gambols on ahead. The only other illumination is from the window in the howes I pass and the moon that orders me to look up, look up! Feral cats dart underfoot, bird-of-paradise flowers poke out of the shadows, smells are exhaled into the air: oak dust, slime mold, camphor.''
Ghosts and Empties: A woman goes for long walks every evening, observing the neighbours and the homeless, peering through the lit windows, contemplating on her own life.
‘'The silence was eerie because he remembered the lake as a dense tapestry of sound, the click and whirr of the sandhill cranes, the cicadas, the owls, the mysterious subhuman cries too distant to identify. He had wanted to connect with something, something he had lost, but it wasn't here.''
At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners: A moving story of a man fighting against his tyrannical father whose words seem to awake the darkness inside him. The story of the love and bond between a mother and her child, a tale of finding the light guided by your mother's legacy.
‘'The animal was torn between his hatred of children and his hatred of the wild storm outside.''
Dogs Go Wild: Two girls are abandoned in a remote island. A haunting story of childhood, abuse and the constant threat each woman faces on a daily basis from ‘'men'' who believe they own our bodies, our minds, our souls.
The Midnight Zone: A terrifying story of a family in a campsite. When a terrible accident takes place, it is the children that must protect their mother.
‘'This house is old. It has lived through other storms.''
Eyewall: As a terrible storm is raging outside, a woman's house is filled with the shadows of the past. Her dead husband, her father. A brilliant story of womanhood, marriage, love, devastation and new beginnings.
For the God of Love, For the Love of God: The tender story of the vacation of two families and a wonderful newcomer. A hymn to the fellowship and understanding between women, set in the sultry countryside.
Salvador: A woman spends her holidays in a Brazilian town and has to cope with the implications of a very strange and stormy night.
‘'Something has changed in the air; there's a lot of wind now, a sense of something lurking. The spirits of the dead, she'd think, if she were superstitious. The dark has thickened, and she hears music from the mansion down the road where every year the neighbours host an extravagant haunted house. She is alone, and no trick-or-treaters have wondered by in an hour, the white sandbags of candlelight have burned out, and the renters have all turned off their lights, pretending not to be home.''
Flower Hunters: It is Halloween. In a quiet suburb in Florida, a woman is sitting in her porch, her sons wandering around on a trick-or-treat effort. Her mind tries to cope with time and the changes it brings, the breaking of a dear friendship, the acute feeling of loneliness.
Above and Below: The ordeal of a young woman who made all the wrong choices and is now facing poverty and humiliation. A story that I read as a cautionary tale, a chronicle of lives destroyed by the fickle, pseudo-romantic idea of being a vagabond. Thank you, I'm all for anything bohemian, but I'll pass...
‘'Tell me. You think there are still good people in the world?Oh yes, he said. Billions. It's just that the bad ones make so much more noise.''
Snake Stones: A woman helps a girl in dire need and receives no kind word or even a simple ‘'thank you''. So, she contemplates on the presence of good and evil, of prejudice and racism, and the snakes in our minds.
Yport: The presence of Guy de Maupassant haunts a young mother. In beautiful, sensual France, she tries to enter his mind and, possibly, his stories. But in truth, I don't think she actually knows what she's looking for. This story is beautifully atmospheric but I found the woman's views raging to the extreme, projecting modern ‘'values'' to the past. It is not a conviction I follow or accept and my experience with the closure of the collection was less than stellar.
But it doesn't matter. Florida is brilliant. A literary wealth to be discovered beyond the storms, beyond the lair of snakes and the threat of the alligators in the dog days of summer, in the first days of autumn.
‘'The dead need nothing from us; the living take and take.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
The writer's views on The Exorcist are the epitome of idiocy. ‘'Dated''? ‘'Dragging''? ‘'Spinning head LESS convincing''? Are you for real? At least, learn to use the phrase ‘'in my opinion''!
This book is a horror made of grammatical and syntactic mistakes.
The Others had no place in the book. It is a horrible film, a cheap, boring imitation of the Sixth Sense. And while the abomination with the ever-wooden Kidman takes the spotlight, The Sixth Sense becomes a meagre ‘'honorary'' mention. And no, you idiot, no one could guess the closure.
The ‘'writer'' is trying to appear funny and clever. All he comes across as is someone who hasn't even finished primary school.
All in all, useless.
I thought that Poltergeists+Britain+Non-Fiction= Perfection.
How about no...
Such dry writing I needed two water bottles to make it through each chapter.
Piss-poor attempts to appear humorous.
Ridiculous descriptions of the phenomena. They were so ludicrous that a) managed to momentarily turn me into a doubter, and b) downgraded the subject to a bloody farce. Pun intended.
Publishers, you need to step up your game. Our eyeballs are NOT at your disposal!
‘'Teacher, I want to fly, but the ground keeps pulling me down.''
Korean Literature is rapidly flourishing thanks to a plethora of wonderful women whose work is finally presented to us through excellent translations. They are unique in connecting the daily reality to a hazy world that lies beneath the surface, resulting in an almost hallucinatory marriage that presents all the right challenges for the readers. Flowers of Mold captivates with its title and binds us to an array of stories that will hypnotize and confuse us in the finest manner possible. For what is a perfect read if not challenging?
Through daily situations, the working environment, the family, the educational process, characters of all ages, women and men discover that darkness is lurking. We, the readers, are faced with an almost overwhelming uncertainty developed within the heavy atmosphere of the ten stories. What could go wrong with a girl who wants to fly, a salesman who falls in love, a new neighbour who is as kind as can be? What could be of interest in the lives of ordinary people with ordinary jobs in ordinary situations?
In the ten stories that unite the surreal with the unsettling, the ordinary with the shock, the answer to these questions is one: everything!
Waxen Wings: A girl desires to fly and tries just about everything. Gymnastics, hang gliding, her life is full of orders and personal struggle. An extremely powerful story of the strength of the human spirit and the misfortunes that define our lives.
Nightmare: A young woman is put into grave danger by the filthy so-called ‘'workers'' hired by her father. Plagued by nightmares that veer between reality and hallucinations, she decides to take matters into her own hands and face the beasts.
The Retreat: A story of family obligations, ageing and drinking.
‘'According to him, my head's stuck in the clouds. That's why I'm always floating around in space, never touching solid ground.''
The Woman Next Door: One more heinous husband who looks down on his wife. A ‘'man'' who believes that any unmarried woman over twenty is a whore. One more woman who desperately needs to escape the mundane reality of a psychologically abusive marriage. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I'd rather die than find myself married in Korea or Japan or any other country in South-East Asia, excuse me.
‘'The power went out late last night, at ten past midnight. While people were still sleeping, the electrical appliances stopped working. The children who woke were cranky; they missed the hum of the refrigerator and the whir of the fan, sounds as comforting to them as a lullaby. Housewives who opened the refrigerator to prepare breakfast found blood dripping from the frozen pork they'd left to thaw, the meat turned a dark red.''
Flag: The strange findings on an electric pole lead back to a young man's dreams and disappointments.
Flowers of Mold: Is it possible to find beauty in the dirt? Is it possible for flowers to grow from rubbish?
Early Beans: This story of the fuss and mess between a man and a woman made absolutely no sense to me. I failed to see how this connected to the rest of the collection, it seemed the product of a different writer.
Onion: Possibly the darkest, strangest and most fascinating story in the collection. A tale where a woman who works in a daycare centre and a man who owns a restaurant try to make sense of the lot life threw in their way. Brilliant, mind-bending, disturbing.
‘'Not just anyone can become a magician's assistant. It only works between a father and daughter, brother and sister, or husband and wife. Or lovers.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Human existence so often calls for exploration through the imagination, through metaphors, images, narratives that give shape to emotions and conditions, to our sense of being and our struggles to survive and thrive. The supernatural and inexplicable, the selkie, the boggart, the mermaid, the Green Children and the fairies return then, tapping into a powerful sense of continuity from past into present and onwards into the future. For our everyday is not a disenchanted place, however loudly our commuter trains rattle along their tracks or however tall the tower blocks stand in the place where the trees once grew.'' Professor Carolyn Larrington
A beautiful, moving Introduction by Professor Carolyn Larrington is the rising of the curtain of this exciting collection. Some of the most unique authors of the Isles have gathered to give us their own interpretation of folk tales that were once lost in time. Their imagination created new versions of tales that speak about universal themes, relevant to women of every age and every era. Each story is weaved around a prominent woman, and we witness the relationship between lovers, sisters, mothers and daughters, or absolute strangers that bond over a common purpose. Friends, enemies, prejudices, motherhood, womanhood, death and rebirth spin a fervent dance.
‘'People suddenly found themselves reconnecting emotionally with the natural world, joyfully noticing bursting buds, heady scents of blossom and loud, unabashed birdsong in hedgerows, copses, parks and gardens. So too memory and imagination were kindled into fresh and vivid life as people roamed through places underwritten by history and tradition, reminded of fairies, house-elves, river deities, dwarfs, witches and werewolves whose existence cast a sidelong light across the country's green spaces.'' Professor Carolyn Larrington
So, let us travel to England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. Let us visit Yorkshire, London, Somerset, Norfolk, Cornwall, the Midlands, East Anglia, Orkney.
‘'The earth is soft and my boots sink in almost to the calves. The moat runs beneath the trees, here and there filled with murky water, here and there overcome with brambles and the roots of holly. The sound of the cars passing is cut off, as if they never were. I wait to feel something mystical, an oddity in my blood or bones. I am vulnerable to superstitions and fairy tales, the pockets of weirdness smattering the land.''
A Retelling by Daisy Johnson, based on The Green Children of Woolpit (Suffolk): A writer's journey from the folklore magic of the countryside to the noise of the city, from the familiar presences in her life to unexpected visitors/intruders, towards the retelling of a myth about strange children. I read this story three times. It felt very personal and once again, I marvelled at Johnson's great gift, the perfection of her words, the immediacy of her themes.
‘'You'll get used to the moors, Ash, and that east wind.''
‘'One December afternoon the sky changes colour - it curdles from thin blue to deep grey. The sky is bright and dark at the same time, like the light in a man's eyes the moment before he turns on you. The snow falls and falls and obliterates the road and then the moor and then the horizon.''
Sour Hall by Naomi Booth, based on Ay, We're Flittin' (Yorkshire): Two women try to adjust to the demands of a farm, the strange noises of the countryside and the potential presence of a boggart.
Rosheen by Irenosen Okijie, based on The Dauntless Girl (Norfolk): Possibly the creepiest first page I've ever read. Pure Gothic poetry! A girl of Trinidadian and Irish heritage comes to England from County Kerry. She finds work in a strange farm that hides much more than meets the eye.
‘'Oh, my darling wee fishie, no evil eyes for youYou don't need a daddy, I've love enough for two...''
‘'A house by the sea like this one is a beauty when the sun's out, but when storms come in it can be right scary. I don't mind telling that night was a scary one. Rain lashing, wind squealing, the sea reaching its black fingers up to my windows like I'd made it angry. Not unlike tonight, come to think of it.''
Between Sea and Sky by Kirsty Logan, based on The Great Silkie of Sule Skerrie (Orkney): It's Orkney. It's Kirsty Logan. It's bound to be perfect! A haunting, moving story of a brave, extraordinary mother and a very special offspring, set between the sea and the sky, lulled by the waves and the call of the seals...
The Panther's Tale by Mahsuda Snaith, based on Chillington House (Stafford): The beautiful tale of a panther taken to England, a wronged princess and a brave mother.
The Tale of Kathleen by Eimar McBride (County Galway): This one was bad. Incomprehensible, over-the-top, and tremendously unoriginal. But I am not surprised because as far as my experience with her work goes, McBride is an awful writer. I am still trying to get over the nightmare that was Strange Hotel.
The Sisters by Liv Little, based on Tavistock Square (London): This story started in a very promising way but soon became a snooze fest about the love troubles of two sisters and their girlfriend. Yes, that's right. Well, I am not interested in SUCH kind of stories.
The Dampness Is Spreading by Emma Glass, based on The Fairy Midwife (Wales): A captivating story of birth, motherhood and despair set in a maternity ward.
The Droll of the Mermaid by Natasha Carthew, based on The Mermaid and The Man of Cury: The story of a young man and a mermaid, the gift of healing and a curse. It had potential, but the writing and the uneven use of punctuation utterly ruined it for me.
‘'The wind is cooler and brisker up here, and it keens in her face and tugs her hair; the moor spreads around and below her, mottled purple green and gold for miles under the burnished sky, and on the far horizon a smudge of dark sea. From here the holloway is a caterpillar of greenery between the fields, their house a speck with glints for windows, the village a little grey ant's nest, nothing more.''
The Holloway by Imogen Hermes Gowar, based on Old Farmer Mole (Somerset): Can I say that a story like this is marvellous? A tale of abuse, of the worst male assertion over our bodies and our minds. And the firm belief and fight of the children to protect their mother. One more moment of perfection by a wonderful writer.
‘'I have found life but it does not belong to me. It grows all around and I am the dead tree. I'm standing here, stuck in the ground, standing for way too long. I will be here until the end of days, with the rain coming down and then rising up, swelling to my ankles and then my knees, the slowest death, not even by drowning. Here until the water breaks my skin down, until my bones soften and melt. And even then I will not be able to forgive myself.''
Many thanks to Virago and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Why were you born when the snow was falling? You should have come to theCuckoo's calling, Or when grapes are green inthe cluster, Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster For their far off flying From summer dying.Why did you die when theLambs were cropping? You should have died at theApples' dropping,When the grasshopper Comes to trouble,And the wheat-fields are Sodden stubble,And all winds go sighingFor sweet things dying.''Christina G. Rossetti, ‘'A Dirge''
Tight plot, extraordinary dynamics (and chemistry) between Strike and Robin, clever twists, fascinating depiction of the unique London atmosphere. My only issue was the overly ‘'long'' dialogue and the disgusting character of Rochelle. Ι skipped most of her interactions, I can't stand witnessing English being brutally raped...
On to the next one...
>‘'This was the hour when he found London most lovable; the working day over, her pub windows were warm and jewel-like, her streets thrummed with life, and the indefatigable permanence of her aged buildings, softened by the street lights, became strangely reassuring. We have seen plenty like you, they seemed to murmur soothingly, as he limped along Oxford Street carrying a boxed-up camp bed. Seven and a half million hearts were beating in close proximity in this heaving old city, and many, after all, would be aching far worse than his. Walking wearily past closing shops, while the heavens turned indigo above him, Strike found solace in vastness and anonymity.''
‘'It rained for two days straight. The trees howled in the back garden and angry rain lashed against the windows. Kand realised for the first time that he had locked himself on an island of his own making. He waited impatiently for the rain to stop, for mourning to come ‘Look, Sir Limp. This is my father. Our father. Remember this face, okay?' Kang only had the tumour to talk to. He was reduced to talking to that troublemaker, the thief eating away at him.''
Kang Dae-su returns to Cherry Hill, the place of his childhood. Having been diagnosed with a brain tumour, he wants isolation and peace and quiet. Yet, this will prove to be impossible. There is a fixed plan on the development of the neighbourhood and they don't really care about Kang's wishes. What is going on with Cherry Hill? Who is the owner and who the intruder? And why does everyone seem to have a key and self-proclaimed right to his property?
Sun-mi Hwang creates a story that is quirky, whimsical, elegantly funny and poignant. There is an acute need to protect the sense of ownership and individualism within a close-knit community. That's all Kang needs in his constant struggle with the unwelcome, malicious visitor. And ‘'intruders'' are seen in various forms and incidents. But are they intruders or good omens that try to help Kang out of his sadness?
Most of the characters in this charming novel end in a surprising manner, and even though the tone is often playful, the heart of the story is dark. There are many uncomfortable truths beneath the surface and the novel is strong in interesting characters and a multitude of tales -within- the tale, the personal stories of the people Kang meets are fascinating. The issues faced by mixed-race children, a strange old lady and her sweet granddaughter, Park's daily efforts to satisfy Kang, a rather difficult boss.
In elegant humour and deep tenderness, Kang's bittersweet reflections on life, relationships and the potential futility of it all are moving. A troubled childhood and the need to prove that we rule our fate. The old enmities that return when we least expect them. Parenthood and growing up without a mother. Loneliness and the ‘'duty'' of mingling with the neighbours when the only thing you want is to be left alone. Not to mention the cats, hens, and cockerels. And unattended gardens.
As the cherry blossoms symbolize purity and beauty in Korean tradition, so Kang's story becomes a passage to a hopeful future. And you are going to fall in love with the chapter Little Girl Asks Why which reminded me of Oscar Wilde's The Selfish Giant.
Beautiful, moving Author's Note by Sun-mi Hwang.
‘'Angels who forgot that heaven exists. Old angels who forgot where they're supposed to go. Who forgot their wings.''
Many thanks to Abacus and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Society conspires against her from early infancy. Her brain is steadily filled with plaster until it sets. ‘'If you're not married by the time you're twenty-five, you'll have good reason to be ashamed'', ‘'if you laugh, you won't look dignified'', ‘'if your face betrays your feelings, you'll look coarse'', ‘'if you mention the existence of a single body hair, you're repulsive'', ‘'if a boy kisses you on the cheek in public, you're a whore'', ‘'if you enjoy eating, you're a pig'', ‘'if you take pleasure in sleeping, you're no better than a cow'', and so on.''
Amélie finds an ambitious job as an interpreter in a Japanese company in Tokyo. Soon, her dreams are thwarted. It doesn't matter whether she has spent most of her childhood in Japan. Her coworkers only ‘'see'' her European heritage, constantly abusing her with the phrase, ‘'You, Westerners''. And Amélie descends, beaten by the jealousy and vicious rules of people locked in their own ridiculous microcosm.
Nothomb's novel is shuttering, cruel, viciously sarcastic. And extremely brave. She throws away political correctness and exposes the cruelty of a significant majority in a stupid and futile clash between two parts of the world. But is it really that? Or is it really about the bottomless evil and cruelty to break the spirit of a young idealist, an act committed by people who refuse to accept change? This isn't about countries. It is about the working environment mentality and we all have been there. And do they achieve their goals? Or does Amélie actually become stronger by turning their game against the cruel ‘'occupants'' of the company? I think this depends on each reader's perception of the story.
I loved her honesty and acuteness. Having read extensively on Japan and being very familiar with Japanese Literature, Nothomb describes - in a stronger and intentionally exaggerated manner- the exact same mentality that can be found in a plethora of novels by Japanese writers. Do we honestly believe that prejudices and cruelty go only one way? Here, we meet a cast of hideous men and oppressed women that find the chance to exact revenge on the ‘'new face''. Women who are taught not to show their intelligence because it is only marriage that matters. And if you can't get married, at least work hard. Mori is the epitome of a deeply sad, unfortunate and beaten person that projects the violence she has received on what she views as an easy target. This is a world where you need a formal statement to prepare photocopies, where you are forbidden to show your excellence in a foreign language, where you have no right to protest as your personality is being raped again and again. This is a Nazi environment in the 90s.
Yeah, well, about the Nazi thing...
I will explore Nothomb's work with vivid enthusiasm. Speaking strictly for me, her sarcasm helped me through a novel full of humiliation and cruelty, a psychological rape, a crime against any trace of a basic human relationship. Let me tell you, I have faced a coworker like Mori, except I am no Amélie so she got what she deserved. But there are many Amélies in every country of the world, and this doesn't seem to change...
‘'Ancient Japanese protocol stipulated that the Emperor be addressed with ‘'fear and trembling''. I've always loved the expression, which so perfectly describes the way actions in Samurai films speak to their leader, their voices tremulous with almost superhuman reverence. So I put on the mask of terror and started to tremble.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.”
Jane Austen's first published novel is loved, widely loved. Yet, in the absence of a dashing figure like Darcy, it is a tiny fraction less adored than Pride and Prejudice. Let's face it, we are a little superficial at heart, it's natural, understandable and unavoidable. But for me, the power of Sense and Sensibility lies in the wonderful duality and antithesis that characterizes the work of our beloved Jane Austen, an antithesis that is found in the characters and the themes of her marvellous stories.
The unbreakable and intense relationships between sensibility, emotion, sympathy and passion, and sense, wisdom, clear thinking and moderation. Enthusiastic love and the hurtful decision to suppress your pain for the sake of your family. Two sisters, two worlds. So different, so alike. The beautiful, serene and yet tumultuous universe of Jane Austen.
P.S. Skip the awful 1995 film adaptation, indulge in the beautiful 2008 BBC version.
An Australian critic called Sense and Sensibility ‘'frivolous''. Why is there so much stupidity in this world and what can we do about it?
“The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!”
“Do not let the behaviour of others destroy your inner peace.”
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'Χρόνια και χρόνια ταξίδευε, σ'ανατολή και δύση. Γνώρισε χειμώνες λευκούς στης καταχνιάς τα ασημένια δάση, και φλογισμένα καλοκαίρα σε κήπους τροπικούς με χρυσοπλούμιστα πουλιά και πορφυρούς λωτούς. Οι νεράιδες του δειλινού τον μέθυσαν με τις πνοές τ' Απρίλη και οι αμαζόνες της νύχτας τον οδήγησαν βαθιά, πολύ βαθιά, τον γλυκοκοίμισαν στων αστεριών τους μαύρους κήπους.''
Δεκατρία μαγευτικά διηγήματα για μεγαλύτερα και...μεγάλα παιδιά από τον αγαπημένο μας Ευγένιο Τριβιζά. Ιστοριές σκοτεινές, παραμυθένιες, πικρές, νοσταλγικές με ήρωες και ηρωίδες που πιστεύουν, περιμένουν, αγαπούν. Κάποιοι βρίσκουν την ευτυχία, άλλοι χάνονται...
Η θυγατέρα του ήλιου περιμένει τον τροβαδούρο που χάνεται στο φως του φεγγαριού. Ένα μπερδεμένο αστέρι θυσιάζει μια μαργαρίτα που περιμένει τον αγαπημένο της ταξιδιώτη. Ένα στρειδάκι ερωτεύεται μια όμορφη γοργόνα. Ένα ροζ κεράκι στέκεται μάρτυρας των γενεθλίων και των χρόνων της Αλίνας. Η νεράιδα της λεύκας έχει προδωθεί από έναν σκληρό πρίγκιπα.
‘'Μεσάνυχτα. Στον ουρανό τον ήσυχο, το βαθυσκότεινο, θαμποσβήνουν δειλά, αχνόφωτα τα αστέρια σ'άπειρους μαγευτικούς συνδυασμούς, αμέτρητες εξωτικές, παραμυθένιες ζωγραφιές. Αστέρια πολλά. Μυριάδες αστέρια. Φαναράκια χρυσαφιά, που, με τις τοσοδούλικες τους λάμψεις, ζωγραφίζουν στα μενεξεδένια βελούδα γαλέρες, γιρλάντες, άτια και κάστρα και θεριά παράξενα.''
‘'Εκείνο το βράδυ, προτού πέσει στο κρεβάτι, πήρε τ'όμορφο κερί με το ρόδινο χρώμα, το πήρε και το φύλαξε στο κοκάλινο κουτί με τις χαλκομανίες και τα ξερά λουλούδια. Μισολιωμένο, με δίαφανα δάκρυα στολισμένο, βρέθηκε ανάμεσα σε θλιμμένους νάνους, χιονάτους κύκνους, σουβλομύτες μάγισσες, κρυστάλλινα κάστρα και μαγεμένες πασχαλιές.''
‘'Παράξενο που'ναι το ΄δασος τούτη τη νύχτα! Οι περικοκλάδες ίδια φίδια σαλεύουν, αλλάζουν οι κουφάλες μορφή, μοιάζουν στόματα ολάνοιχτα, απειλητικά...Σωπάσανε οι φυλλωσιές και κρύφτηκαν τ'αστέρια.''
΄Ενα ταπεινό πλήκτρο ερωτεύεται ένα όμορφο κορίτσι και γίνεται μάρτυρας της ζωής της. Το ρυάκι ερωτεύεται τον ήλιο αλλά το φεγγάρι έχει άλλη γνώμη. Ένας αγέλαστος πρίγκιπας θεραπεύεται από τη θυσία μιας κοινής θνητής. Η κόρη ενός φαροφύλακα πρέπει να δώσει το φώς της για να σώσει τις ζωές των ναυαγών. Ένα μικρό πουλάκι αγάπησε ένα ρόδο. Το φτω��ό αγόρι προσπαθεί να σώσει τη μητέρα του τη νύχτα τωνν Χριστουγέννων. Ένα σύννεφο θυσιάζεται για να σωσεί τον όμορφο μενεξέ.
Μην ανησυχείτε. Το βιβλίο είναι κατάλληλο για παιδιά 13 ετών. Δεν περιέχει τίποτα που δεν το γνωρίζουν ήδη, εκτός κι αν είστε του παλαιού κατηχητικού. Ηλίθια σχόλια από ηλίθιους ανθρώπους. Οσο για τα ενα και δυο αστέρια που είδα, πραγματικά το τι έχετε μέσα στο κεφάλι σας θα πρέπει να αποτελέσει αντικείμενο έρευνας. Η Δημουλίδου και η Μαντά σας περιμένουν. Αφήστε τον Τριβιζά στους άλλους.
‘'Ήμουν ένα από τα πλήκτρα, ολοκαίνουργιο, γυαλιστερό, με μια στάλα μουσική κρυμμένη στην κοκάλινη καρδιά μου. Όταν η εβένινη αυλαία σηκώθηκε απαλά, αντίκρισα πρώτη φορά τον κόσμο. Είδα τις ηλιαχτίδες να φιλούν τα διάφανα δάκρυα του πολυέλαιου και να γελόυν με χίλια χρώματα, μια δασκάλα με γκρίζα μαλλιά, μια παιδούλα με τριανταφυλλί φουστάνι να σκύβουν πάνω μου, και πίσω απ'τα μενεξένια στόρια είδα να ζωγραφίζονται αχνά πυράκανθοι, χρυσόμηλα και γιασεμιά.''
‘'Συλλογισμένος ο πρίγκιπας Τσι-Τσι-Μαμ, αυριανός αυτοκράτορας της Κίνας, με κίτρινους δράκους το βυσσινί του κιμονό, βαδίζει αργά, κάτω από έναν ουρανό μουντό, στους παραμελημένους κήπους των ανακτόρων. Γυμνά μαύρα κλώνια, σχισμένα φαναράκια, λίμνες ξέχειλες κρυσταλλιασμένα δάκρυα, απόμακροι αντίλαλοι από παλιές γιορτές λησμονημένες.''
‘'Η μικρή βεράντα σκαρφαλωμένη στον τελευταίο όροφο της πολυκατοικίας και η πολυκατοικία σκαρφαλωμένη στα πιο ψηλά σημεία του λόφου και ο λόφος έχει στα πόδια του όλο το Λεκανοπέδιο. Και η Έλλη Κωλέτη έχει δικό της το μικρό διαμέρισμα με τη μικρή βεράντα και έτσι μπορεί να βλέπει, όποτε θέλει και με όποιες καιρικές συνθήκες, την πόλη να αλλάζει χρώματα, να ξυπνά, να κοιμάτοι, να διασκεδάζει, να πονά, να σκοτώνει, να γεννά, να ερωτεύεται, να αμφισβητεί, να υποτάσσεται, να πεθαίνει και να ανασταίνεται.''
Σε μία από τις πιο όμορφες δημιουργίες της σύγχρονης Ελληνικής Λογοτεχνίας, ο αγαπημένος Μάνος Κοντολέων μας χαρίζει ένα ύμνο στο Θέατρο, την πίστη του ανθρώπου στις δικές του δυνάμεις και την αποφασιστικότητα του, στην Αθήνα που τόσο αγαπάμε κι άλλο τόσο περιφρονούμε άδικα, στην εκπαίδευση και τη δύναμη της μόρφωσης. Και πάνω απ'όλα στην αγάπη. Τον όμορφα τρομακτικό τυφώνα που παρασύρει τα πάντα...
‘'Το απόβραδο της Μεγάλης Τρίτης έχει τη γλύκα ενός μεγαλοβδομαδιάτικου δειλινού. Νυχτώνει. Οι σκιές έχουν ολότελα εισχωρήσει μέσα στο χώρο και η Έλλη Κωλέτη διαλέγει από όλες τις σκοτεινές γωνιές την πιο σκοτεινή. Ακουμπά την πλάτη της στον τοίχο και η ματιάτης προσπαθεί να διακρίνει μέσα στο ημίφως τις παρουσίες προσώπων που μέχρι και χτες ανάσαιναν εδώ μέσα. Προσώπων που τα πάθη τα έχουν γεννήσει, προσώπων που έχουν βουτηχτεί στο αίμα, προσώπων που αμφισβητούσαν τους νόμους των ανθρώπων και τόλμησαν να πάρουν στα δικά τους χέρια τη νέμεση. Ποιον εκείνα τιμωρούν και ποιος είχε αποφασίσει τη δικιά τους τιμωρία;''
‘'Ποτέ μου δε θ'αφήσω, αν με νικήσουν,Να με χλευάσουν άθλια οι εχθροί μου...''Ηλέκτρα
‘'After a long trudge over a misty moor, you arrive at the crest of a hill and pause for breath by an oak tree. Initials have been etched into the bark by others who have stood here. Lovers. Friends. Mourners. Your eye follows a drystone wall down to the valley below, where a river meanders through a meadow; a Civil War battle took place there, one so bloody that the water ran red for a week. You smell smoke. Hear the crackle of burning wood. A crow flies out from the spire of a derelict church just visible above the trees. Bells begin to toll but you know there have been no bells in that church tower for decades.''
A superb introductory chapter paves the way for an exciting reading experience. From 19th-century urban landscape legends (Jack the Ripper, Spring-Heeled Jack, body snatchers and the rise of Spiritualism), we enter a chronicle of the numerous ways Britain has changed over the centuries. Lore, the unofficial and much more accurate and objective form of History, lies in songs and nursery rhymes, legends of dark alleys, witch huts, shadowy forms seen in battle-torn fields, ghostly music and voices. But what of the lore we constantly create within the hearts of our modern cities?
‘'We have the same instinct to seek patterns in the chaos. We still yearn to make sense of the mystery of existence. We still tell stories to help us process the world. We still have an emotional attachment to places and objects. These impulses have not died beneath the concrete and tarmac of the modern world, any more than they did beneath the iron and brick of the industrial revolution.''
Modern folklore is well-hidden in our contemporary urban reality where legends and myths coexist with our seemingly mundane routine as we make our way through our personal and professional lives. In this book, we travel to Hull, Manchester, Bristol, Glasgow, Birmingham and London.
Through the mysterious, fascinating Scarfolk craziness and the haunting children running around the pylons in Stocksbridge. The secrets of Glasgow and the mystery of urban geomancy. The folklore of roundabouts and crossroads, the haunted estates, the spectral nuns and monks and the faces in the windows. The mystery and danger of the underpasses, flyovers and intersections and their role in the development of urban culture. The strange magnetism of abandoned industrial sites and the sadness of car parks and multistoreys. The pain and agony that remain hidden behind the silent walls of abandoned hospitals.
I loved the 70s and 80s references and the writer's passion and dedication to his theme. His words paint an eloquent and enticing background to the experiences he narrates and the writing is very engaging. You won't be bored, not even for a moment. However, there were a couple of issues that felt problematic to me.
A woman was supposedly possessed by a demon named Pazuzu? Is this an attempt for the writer to appear smart? I fear all credibility can be thrown out of the window. Unfortunately, pun intended.
A certain interviewee's convictions were highly problematic, even unacceptable. I mean, ‘'pride in being part of the drug underculture?'' Since when do drugs consist a form of ‘'culture''? Or any reason to be proud of? This brings me to the constant references of ‘'boozing''. Being drunk is nothing to be proud of. It is hideous and dangerous.
So, there were many, many moments of beauty in this book but the attitude of the writer in what I consider sensitive issues diminished my enjoyment. Despite my personal dissatisfaction, you definitely need to try your luck with this book if only for the superb descriptions of the scenery and a world that may already be beyond our grasp.
‘'Witches, ghosts and demons have not been entirely banished to legend- they haunt our homes, shops, hospitals and roads. The churches, forbidden woods and haunted mansions that were once the stuff of our dreams and nightmares have now been replaced in our imaginations by industrial estates, power stations and factories.''
Many thanks to Allison Menzies, Elliot & Thompson and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'The cafe's name was Funiculi Funicula. It had become famous, with long queues each day, an account of time-travelling. But it wasn't possible to find anyone who had actually gone back in time, because of the extremely annoying rules that had to be followed. The first rule was: ‘'The only people you can meet while in the past are those who have visited the cafe.'' This would usually defeat the purpose of going back. Another rule was: ‘'There is nothing you can do while in the past that will change the present.'' The cafe was asked why that rule existed, but their only comment was that they didn't know.''
In a basement, somewhere in a busy neighbourhood in Tokyo, there is a special cafe that will allow you to travel back in time. And in the future under certain circumstances. But it isn't your run-on-the mill time-travelling. No. You need to follow a set of important rules. You can't meet any person you want. You cannot alter the present. You have to sit in a particular seat and you must never move from it while in the past. And there is a limit. You must say what you have to say before the coffee gets cold. Or else you will become a ghost in the corner.
So, many would wonder. Why bother to drink the special brew if you can't alter the present? What's the use? Well, let's listen to the stories of the five characters (yes, five, but you need to read the book to discover the fifth...) who travelled back and forth in time to settle their unfinished business.
The Lovers: A young woman falls in love with a young man. So far, so good. But when he decides to accept a job in New York, she realizes that there are certain things that need to be said.
Husband and Wife: A husband who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's and a wife who tries to live with the fact that he will soon forget her existence. A letter that needs to find its destination before it's too late.
The Sisters: Two sisters who loved one another had to go their separate ways when the eldest decided to distance herself from the family business and form her own path. When tragic circumstances arise, travelling in the past and a change of heart may be the only remedy.
Mother and Child: A woman travels to the future to meet her unborn daughter in the most moving moment of the book.
This tender, sensitive novel isn't about time-travelling as many have come to know it from ridiculous ‘'books'' that violate all sense of quality. It isn't about being ‘'married with children as some have stated. It is a story about feelings, about people like you and me, about love and regret and the sadness caused not by the lack of change but by missing the opportunity to unburden your soul. Sometimes you don't need to change the past or alter the future. Sometimes all you need is to finally say what was left unsaid...
‘'But Kazu still goes on believing that, no matter what difficulties people face, they will always have the strength to overcome them. It just takes heart. And if the chair can change someone's heart, it clearly has its purpose.But with her cool expression, she will just say, ‘Drink the coffee before it gets cold.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
Σε αντίθεση με τους σκοτεινούς μύθους της υπόλοιπης Ευρώπης, οι δικές μας ιστορίες δείχνουν οτι μάλλον δεν τρομάζουμε και τόσο εύκολα. Τα πλάσματα της νύχτας είναι εκεί, αλλά δεν μπορούν να κάνουν και πολλά πράγματα, εγκλωβισμένα σε μια δυστυχισμένη ύπαρξη ηλιθιότητας κι ανικανότητας. Μέχρι και ο κύριος Διάβολος τα βρίσκει σκούρα με τους απογόνους του Οδυσσέα.
Αυτό για να μην ξεχνιόμαστε...
Φαντάσματα που προστατεύουν τα κοπάδια τη νύχτα, όμορφες ασπροντυμένες κοπέλες, επικίνδυνες στρίγγλες. Οι αγαπημένοι Δροσουλίτες. Ήρωες ναυτικοί που κατευθύνονται στα ταραγμένα νερά της Μπαρμπαριάς. Τελώνια και σοφές μάγισσες. Τοκογλύφοι που τιμωρούνται για τα εγκλήματα τους στην αιωνιότητα. Βρικόλακες που αναζητούν έναν πιο...φιλόξενο τόπο. Ιερείς που νικούν την περιπλανώμενη Πανούκλα. Σοφές και γενναίες κοπέλες που νικούν τον Βραχνά.
Είτε μεσημέρι είτε νύχτα, τα οποιαδήποτε στοιχειά δεν έχουν και μεγάλη τύχη...
Θυμάμαι πολύ καλά το πατρικό της μητέρας μου. Εκεί πέρασα τα πιο όμορφα χρόνια της παιδικής μου ηλικίας. Όμορφα και μυστηριώδη μέσα σε μια πανέμορφη αυλή με δεκάδες γάτες, πηγάδι και συκιές. Η αγαπημένη μου γιαγιά έτρεφε απίστευτο πάθος για τις κάθε είδους υπερφυσικές ιστορίες και τη θυμάμαι να είναι ιδιαίτερα προσεκτικοί με τη συκιά και τον ίσκιο της κατά τη διάρκεια των μεσημεριανών ωρών. Βλέπετε, ακόμη και σε μια από τις τελευταίες μονοκατοικίες στη δεκαετία του 90, η μαγεία της παλιάς εποχής δεν είχε χαθεί...
Σε αυτή τη χαριτωμένη συλλογή από λαογραφικούς μύθους της νεοελληνικής παράδοσης μας, συναντάμε απερίσκεπτους νεαρούς, εύκολα θύματα για τις όμορφες κι επικίνδυνες νεράιδες που το μόνο που θέλουν είναι να χορεύουν ανενόχλητες τις ώρες του μεσημεριού. Μα αν τους πάρουν το μαντήλι; Τότε τα πράγματα είναι δύσκολα για τα υπερφυσικά πλάσματα που καταδικάζονται να παντρευτούν έναν άξεστο θνητό. Συναντάμε και ριψοκίνδυνα παλικάρια, πρόθυμα να θυσιάσουν τη ζωή τους στον κόσμο των βαρετών ανθρώπων. Σοφές κυράδες που προσπαθούν να προστατέψουν τους αδιάκριτους ανθρώπους που θεωρούν ότι κάθε πλάσμα πρέπει να γίνει δικό τους και λυράρηδες μαγεύονται από το τραγούδι ενός κόσμου μακρινού.
Σε κάμπους, πυκνά δάση, κάτω από τον ίσκιο των αιωνόβιων δέντρων, σε καστανιές, καρυδιές και ιτιές, οι μεσημεριανές ώρες υπνωτίζουν και καλούν τους άπληστους θνητούς.
Where to begin with this nightmare?
The approach to each location and its legends is so epidermic and superficial, described in outrageously cheesy, pseudo-literary terms. Thank God for the beautiful illustrations by Amy Grimes.
Her take on King Arthur, his myth and significance is superficial and dismissive. ‘'No evidence that he existed''? Have you even read anything on Arthurian legends and its era? Have you bothered to read the briefest article by contemporary Historians? Obviously not. Your opinion isn't relevant, ‘'writer''. You are here for presentation, don't burden us with your obvious ignorance.
The presentation of the legend behind the Old-New Synagogue in Prague was loaded with mistakes. Thankfully, she got the Golem myth right. Surprising.
‘'Hell'' is NOT a term to refer to the Underworld of Greek Mythology. The concept of Hell appeared much later. It is really frustrating when writers are too lazy to perform a basic research and I find anyone's limited knowledge of Classic Mythologies unacceptable. 1) What the bleeping Hell were you taught at school? 2) What the bleeping Hell did you read when you were young? 3) How much of an idiot are you? And the Elysian Fields wasn't another neighbourhood in Hades.
Jesus!
‘'The'' Mani to refer to a location in Greece? Seriously?
‘'Ideas about the Greek heroic era''? Lady, you couldn't even begin to know what ‘'heroic'' means, spare us your ridiculous irony and read some Churchill. ‘'Humans who were obsessed with death''? Better ‘'obsessed'' than ‘'uneducated and all-around heathen'' which is obviously where you personally come from, ‘'writer''!
‘'Evidence of a semi-mythical kingdom that might never have been.''
Does than EVEN make sense? God in Heaven, the writing is mind-blowingly awful!
...and she managed to butcher the story of Odysseus and Polyphemus. Even Wikipedia is more accurate.
And she doesn't like Stonehenge! What a pity, I'm sure the aeons-old gloriously beautiful rocks are deeply hurt by you.
A ‘'mass graves''...Well done, writer and editor. You got a medal.
Comment on the totalitarian, barbaric, Hell-on- Earth world of North Korea: ‘'South Korea's antagonistic neighbour.''
What the actual fuck?
So much irony and sarcasm throughout. If you don't respect your subject why are you even here? Poor attempts to appear humorous is the plague of today's Non-Fiction, especially the kind that comes from Britain. You are not funny, you are ridiculous.
Whatever little useful information there may have been was lost in the labyrinth of atrocious writing, ridiculous sarcasm and a plethora of inaccuracies. Literary Places and Hidden Places by the same ‘'writer'' were on my list. After having gone through this ordeal, I wouldn't get them on my hands if they were the last books on Earth.
P.S.Jesus Christ, enough with the Netflix references! Not all of us watch this drivel of low-quality aimed to turn the masses' brains into jelly!
ARC from White Lion Publishing and NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
“All of us, or nearly all of us, have at one time or another had the desire and the impulse to commit murder.”
Everything can happen when we're on holidays. We meet new people, we are free from our daily routine, we fall in love and we can possibly commit a murder or two. Think of a number of Christie's most popular mysteries. You will find that holidays offer the ideal backdrop for a large cast of characters, passions that flourish and feelings that become disclosed, things that get stolen.
In the volume edited by Martin Edwards, we find fourteen stories, set in various places, with a number of twists and turns, memorable motives and a wonderful sense of setting.
“It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-coloured, with an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as its sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife.”
The Adventure of the Devil's Foot by Arthur Conan Doyle. A fascinating incident of impossible deaths, Cornwall and Sherlock Holmes.
A Schoolmaster Abroad by E.W.Hornung.A surprising mystery set in Switzerland.
Murder! by Arnold Bennett. The story of a murder of passion, set in a seaside resort on the Channel coast.
The Murder on the Golf Links by M.McDonnell Bodkin. A confused young woman, a sad suitor, a strange father. Set in a luxurious golf hotel.
The Finger of Stone by G.K.Chesterton. Three young men try to decipher the murder of a very special man. Set in France.
The Vanishing of Mrs Fraser by Basil Thompson. The strange adventure of a young woman whose mother vanishes from a hotel in Paris. Strange motives, and a thoroughly unreliable narrator.
A Mystery of the Sand - Hills by R. Austin Freeman. A pile of clothes prompts the question: was the man drowned or was it a hideous murder? Set in a seaside resort in Britain.
The Hazel Ice by H.C.Bailey. A story of disappearances, cultural differences and marriage, set in the Austrian Alps.
Razor Edge by Anthony Berkeley. A body in a cove and a distorted wife.
Holiday Task by Leo Bruce. A strange murder set in Normandy.
A Posteriori by Helen Simpson. A provocative, uncomfortable story of an Englishwoman in Paris.
Where Is Mr Manetot? by Phyllis Bentley. A story of whispers, rainfall and a very alluring woman.
The House of Screams by Gerald Findler. A supernatural mystery of a miserable marriage and a brother's duty, set in a dark manor in Cumberland.
Cousin Once Removed by Michael Gilbert. Let's face it, cousins can be quite irritating, demanding and parasitic. A farm mystery set in Cumberland.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'I used to think life was like a book: you turn the first page, and there's the next, and as you go on turning page after page eventually you reach the last one. But life is nothing like a story in a book. There may be words, and the pages may be numbered, but there is no plot. There may be an ending, but there is no end.''
Our journey starts in a park near Ueno Station as Tokyo is preparing to host the 2020 Olympics. A voice is heard above the buzzing streets of the metropolis, a voice whispering of misfortune, failed hopes, injustice and death. A voice from a ghost for Kazu is dead, one of the many hopeless residents of the park. Now, he becomes our guide to the stormy history of Japan through the ages, the social unrest, the changes and the expectation of an uncertain future.
‘'I was always lost at a point in the past which never could go anywhere now it had gone, but has time ended? Has it just stopped? Will it someday rewind and start again? Or will I be shut out from time for eternity? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.''
Kazu is desperate for a sense of existence. He has been struggling with the ordeals that Fate and humans threw in his way and now he doesn't know whether he even belongs with the dead. Eavesdropping the daily conversations of the visitors of the park, observing the homeless, he returns to the land of the living and his own life. Linked to the Imperial family through a series of random events, he comments on the futility of being a servant of the state and takes us on a journey within the disputes and changes that shaped the history of Japan. In a park where every tree has a plastic tag attached to its trunk, he is reminded of the fact that everything belongs to the Emperor. What a title, though, in a world where every ‘'empire'' has fallen to pieces!
‘'One cannot tell when or where each rose is blooming, whether it is in a garden or a flowerpot; whether it is sunny, or cloudy, or raining; whether it is morning, or noon, or night, whether it is spring, or summer, or autumn.''
Kazu has physically lost all sense of the world around him, yet his perception is more acute than ever. His memories are a tapestry of poverty and struggle in a country that has fallen apart due to its actions during the Second World War and the atrocities it has committed. Hit by the constant rain that reminds him of the ultimate nightmare, the loss of his son, the rituals of death performed in a society chocked by industrialization and the dark presence of nuclear power plants. The roses have lost their colours and their perfume and moments of cruelty are always present.
Hidden behind a beautiful, powerful front cover, lies a bitter observation of a society that has changed, a society that is supposed to have learnt from the past. But has it? To what result? And to what end?
‘'We all have an enormity of time, too big for one person to deal with, and we live, and we die.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘'To be brave cheerily, to be patient with a glad heart, to stand the agonies of thirst with laughter and song, to walk beside death for months and never be sad – that's the spirit that makes courage worth having.''
Ernest was born in Kilkea, County Kildare in 1874. Even though he lived in a beautiful land of green and blue and gold, he wanted to travel far and wide and explore the world. He even dug a hole in the yeard, aiming to reach the other side of our planet. When he joined the merchant navy, he had the chance to take part in two expeditions, trying to reach the South Pole. Fascinated and unhindered by Amundsen's success, he decided to cross Antarctica from sea to sea.
In August 1914, Endurance sailed to Antarctica. 28 men and 69 dogs headed to the land of ice and mystery. Stories, games and sports were the means to overcome the great difficulties of the journey to the unknown. When the ship was damaged by the breaking of the ice, Ernest and his men understood that their hopes relied on their lifeboats. In seven days, they had reached Elephant Island, and the flame was rekindled. Ernest managed to lead his men to safety through his courage, strength and undiminished optimism.
One more brilliant and moving addition to the beautiful series.
‘'Difficulties are just things to overcome, after all.''
Many thanks to Frances 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
Και τι μάθαμε σε αυτό το βιβλίο, αγαπητά μου μέλη της βιβλιοκοινότητας μας (ή όπως αλλιώς θέλετε να το ονομάσετε)
Μάθαμε πως οι βδελυροί (!) Έλληνες του Βυζαντίου έφεραν τον Χριστιανισμό στη Βουλγαρία με αμείλικτη βία. Ναι, οι Βούλγαροι ήταν αρνάκια, ως γνωστόν...
Μάθαμε ότι δεν πρέπει να είμαστε περήφανοι ως Έλληνες για το Βυζάντιο, επειδή δεν ήταν εξ ολοκλήρου Ελληνικό. (!)
Μάθαμε ότι ο Βλαντ Τέπες δολοφονούσε αθώα γυναικόπαιδα γιατί δεν είχε με τι άλλο να ασχοληθεί ο άμοιρος. Μάθαμε οτι δεν προσέφερε τίποτα στην Ευρώπη, όπως το να σταματήσει την επέλαση των Οθωμανων ας πούμε.
Μάθαμε ότι ο Bram Stoker ήταν... διαταραγμένος.
Μάθαμε ότι πρέπει να αναβιώσει η παγανιστικη θρησκεία σε Σερβία, Βουλγαρία, κτλ. γιατί αν δε θυσιάζουμε κατσίκες και λοιπά αμνοερίφια και δεν προσευχόμαστε σε κορμούς δέντρων, ποία αξία έχει η ύπαρξή μας, βεβαίως βεβαίως.
Μάθαμε ότι η Ιερά Εξέταση και το κυνήγι μαγισσών μάλλον επινοήθηκε στην Κροατία. Μα τέτοια μανία πχια;
Μάθαμε ότι για όλα φταίνε οι Άγγλοι. Ποια “όλα”; Δεν έχει σημασία, μη ρωτάμε άσχετα πράγματα, θα θυμώσει ο κύριος Στάμκος, η απίστευτη αυθεντία της Ιστορίας και μέγας Βαλκανιολόγος, ο οποίος δε σταματά να μας υπενθυμίζει την εξαντλητική, ενδελεχή, λεπτομερή, αισθαντική, κι όποιο άλλο θηλυκό επίθετο θέλετε να χρησιμοποιήσετε) έρευνα του πάνω στους άξεστους, βίαιους, εθνικιστές, κολλημένους με το αιματοβαμμένο παρελθόν τους λαούς των Βαλκανίων.
Μάθαμε ότι ο θεός Περούν ήταν το αντίπαλον δέος του Δία στη Σλαβικη Μυθολογία, αλλά δεν ήταν ο πρώτος τη τάξει θεός στο εν λόγω πάνθεον, γιατί όπως ξέρουμε ο Δίας δεν ήταν ο αρχηγός των θεών στην Ελληνική Μυθολογία. Όχι βέβαια, εννοείται. Βγάλτε άκρη μόνοι σας κι εξηγήστε μου να ξέρω. Μην τα μαθαίνω λάθος, ντροπή.
Μάθαμε ότι οι Ορθόδοξοι Χριστιανοί (και μετά και οι υπόλοιποι Χριστιανοί, μην παίρνουμε θάρρος... ) είμαστε....Ταλιμπαν.
Μάθαμε ότι η Αγία Σοφία δεν είναι... ακριβώς ελληνική...
Μάθαμε ότι δύο “συγγραφείς” δημιούργησαν έναν απίστευτο λίβελο για τις δυο χώρες που εκπροσωπούν, τη Σερβία και την Ελλάδα.
Άσχετο, αλλά θα το γράψω. Ο σύντροφός μου είναι Σέρβος με ελληνικές και κροατικες ρίζες. Η μητέρα του είναι Ιστορικός και Λαογραφος. Δεν ήξερε αν έπρεπε να κλάψει ή να γελάσει με αυτά που διάβασε.
Ούτε για κωλόχαρτο.