Amalia Gkavea

The writer's attitude is dreadful. I wonder, if you dismiss everything as ‘‘superstition'' if you view the believers in magic and the otherworld as potential criminals and idiots, if you look down on ‘‘folklorists'' and treat them as a synonym to lunatics, why bother? Why did you have to write an entire book about it: And by ‘‘write'' I mean shove a million bits of information in messy, holier-than-thou attitude and constant reminders of your extensive research. Not to mention the fact that you can't decide whether magic exists, whether it is evil, whether black magic is EVERYWHERE around us (because this is what the writer believes and it is laughable)

Also ‘'modern'' Britain? More like Victorian Britain.

Your stupidity is showing and it's ridiculous. I pity this man's students.

“Only his own death came between him and his grave. Resigned, he listened to the drop, thick, heavy, exact, as it dripped in the other world, in the mistaken and absurd world of rational creatures.''

In twenty-six stories from Eyes of a Blue Dog, Big Mama's Funeral, and The Incredible and Sad Tale of lnnocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother, the greatness of Gabriel García Márquez is confirmed once again. Stories of communities torn apart by dispute, poverty and superstition. Stories of communities brought together by hope and love and the daily struggle to survive. Towns where angels with gigantic wings roam free, demons spread their stink which the perfume of roses cannot disguise, women are either revered figures or seductresses that search for an escape from a bleak reality. Either way, it is women that hold the strings to the puppet show of a paranoid world.

‘'Every day I try to remember the phrase with which I am to find you,'' I said. ‘'Now I don't think I'll forget it tomorrow. Still, I've always said the same thing and when I wake up I've always forgotten what the words I can find you with are.'' Eyes of A Blue Dog

It would be impossible to choose my favourite stories in the array of crumbling towns, and dirty harbours. In the company of fairs, civil servants and officials, shady encounters and enterprises and otherworldly women. In the nights of August, with its melancholy and strange magnetism, all things are possible. ‘'I remembered the August nights in whose wondrous silence nothing could be heard except the millenary sound that the earth makes as it spins on its rusty, unoiled axis. Suddenly I felt overcome by an overwhelming sadness.''

‘'Since it's Sunday and it's stopped raining, I think I'll take a bouquet of roses to my grave.''

Birds are breaking windows, invading houses only to die inside. In the August heat, the deserted streets, unwashed because of the droughts, are suffocating the pedestrians with the stench of death. What does the troubled priest actually see around him? The Wandering Jew or the Devil himself? Blind women try to warn others with their vision but who believes them? Wives ask to be buried alive, and a town is visited by the travelling show of the woman who was turned into a spider for having disobeyed her parents. The isolated, ruined towns have lost their multicoloured glory, eaten away by the vicious sun and the cruel sea. And there is no mercy in store for the residents.

''If we find each other sometimes, put your ear to my ribs when I sleep on the left side and you'll hear me echoing.''

Eyes of a Blue Dog: A sensual, haunting, mesmerizing elegy of a relationship in a dream.

Someone Has Been Disarranging These Roses: Who is the ghost? Who is dead? Who is alive? A tale of loneliness, isolation, sanctity and sacred roses.

Monologue of Isabel Watching It Rain in Macondo: The desire for rain becomes an unimaginable terror for the community of Macondo. A story that represents the unique, lyrical voice of Márquez.

The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and Her heartless Grandmother: One of the most powerful, cruel, raw stories by Márquez. How much does innocence cost in a community that cannot find its way through the darkness?

Every passage written by Márquez is a revelation of the power of Literature. Its magic, its lyrical voice, its mesmerizing quality to carry you in dark worlds into your soul. In a site that supposedly promotes reading, it is astonishing to see many ‘'readers'' dismissing Márquez on the grounds of ‘'magical realism'' and being ‘'incomprehensible''. How about you try a little more?

‘'The angel was the only one who took no part in his own act. He spent his time trying to get comfortable in his borrowed nest, befuddled by the hellish heat of the oil lamps and sacramental candles that had been placed along the wire.''

‘'She's done a lot of travelling'', Mr Herbert said. ‘'She's carrying behind the flowers from all the seas of the world.''

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

‘'Why was everyone dying? They had all been so alive just yesterday.''

Yoko Ogawa creates a dark wonder of sadness, loneliness and unsettling desires in Revenge, a collection of eleven seemingly disconnected stories. However, as is always the case with Ogawa's work, nothing is as it seems and the tales are written in a ‘' matryoshka'' style. Each story is connected to the previous one via a characteristic feature. You will discover the clues as you go along the way, as pain, oblivion and death are standing by, watching you.

What makes Revenge stand out is the seamless way in which brief scenes of daily life, vivid and sharp and tender and melancholic are intertwined with the strange themes of the stories. Paragraphs like these invite you to Ogawa's world.

‘'Families and tourists strolled through the square, enjoying the weekend. Squeaky sounds could be heard from a man off in the corner, who was twisting balloon animals. A circle of children watched him, entranced. Nearby, a woman sat on a bench knitting. Somewhere a horn sounded. A flock of pigeons burst into the air, and startled a baby who began to cry. The mother hurried over to gather the child in her arms.''

‘'Where had it all come from? Outside, the world lay under a blanket of white, just as my uncle had said. The air was still, and large snowflakes drifted out of the night sky. The street was empty, and the car that had been lurking near the entrance had disappeared. I walked gingerly over the unmarked snow. When I turned to look back, the window was dark.''

Afternoon in the Bakery: A woman buys a strawberry cake every year for her son's birthday. But the boy died twelve years ago...

Fruit Juice: A young woman tries to reconcile with her estranged father, with the help of a classmate.

Old Mrs J: The haunting story of a writer and an old lady who is very fond of kiwis. And strangely-shaped carrots.

The Little Dustman: A man is stuck in the metro due to technical issues, as he tries to be on time for her step-mother's funeral. A tale of family, tigers and Brahms.

Lab Coats: Two young women work in the morgue. Their job requires them to empty the pockets of the lab coats of the deceased.

Sewing for the Heart: A young woman has a strange order for a bag maker. She needs a special bag for her heart.

Welcome to the Museum of Torture: A young woman is fascinated by the Museum of Torture. Perhaps, too fascinated...

The Man Who Sold Braces: A young man reminiscences of his uncle, a strange man hiding a few dark secrets.

The Last Hour of the Bengal Tiger: The haunting tale of a dying tiger.

Tomatoes and the Full Moon: A moving story of a strange woman and bitter memories. And what is the link between the full moon and tomatoes?

Poison Plants: The saddest story in the collection. A woman who has been fighting a chronic illness befriends a young man who becomes her sole support. But will it last?

It's Yoko Ogawa. Just read it.

‘'Everyone I know has died. My past is full of ghosts.''

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

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

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

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

Εξαιρετικός Ευγένιος Τριβιζας, υπέροχη εικονογράφηση από την Βαλλυ Λιαπη.

 “Γύρω από τη μεγάλη αρένα το πλήθος περίμενε ανυπόμονο. Οι δουλτσινεες έκαναν αέρα με τις βεντάλιες τους. Οι μικροπωλητές πουλούσαν ηλιόσπορους, φιστίκια και ποπ κορν. Οι πικαντορ χοροπηδούσαν κι έκαναν επικύψεις για να είναι σε φόρμα, ενώ οι τορεαντορ έστριβαν τα τσιγκελωτα μουστάκια τους και καμάρωναν, όπως τα χρυσά σιριτια και τα χρυσά κουμπιά τους αστραποβολουσαν κι έλαμπαν στις ηλιαχτίδες.”

Στην Ισπεπονια, Ο διάσημος ταυρομάχος Ελ Πεπολδο ντε Θαλουθας ντε Βερεγγας ντε Βεράντας ετοιμάζεται για την επόμενη αναμέτρηση. Στο μυαλό του, η όμορφη δονια Ροζιτα Ντολόρες Μαμασιτα Μασουλιτα με τα εβενινα μαλλιά. Όμως, η μέρα του αλλάζει όταν δέχεται μια απρόσμενη επίσκεψη από την Αμαλασουνθα, μια απελπισμένη αγελαδίτσα.

Μια πανέμορφη ιστορία από τον εθνικό μας θησαυρό, Ευγένιο Τριβιζά, μέρος του υπέροχου κόσμου των Ιστοριών από το Νησί των Πυροτεχνημάτων. Ένα παραμύθι για το πως μπορούμε να αναγνωρίσουμε τα λάθη μας, να βρούμε την καλοσύνη μέσα μας και να αλλάξουμε τα πάντα, καθώς και μια εύστοχη, ευγενική κριτική για το αποτρόπαιο “εθιμο” των ταυρομαχιων.

Υπέροχη εικονογράφηση από τον Νίκο Μαρουλακη.

‘'By the time the party came to an end, it was already becoming cloudy, but there was no wind. Not a single leaf was moving on the trees. I couldn't sense any life at all. It was as if a film had stopped, as if time had stopped. It was an uncomfortable atmosphere, not the atmosphere of an ordinary day.'' Sayomi Shito

Friday, 11 March 2011. A 9.1 earthquake strikes Japan, 70km east of the Oshika Peninsula of Tohoku. Its duration? 6 minutes. It was the most powerful earthquake ever in the country, triggering severe tsunami waves. The result? 15, 899 deaths, 6, 157 injured, 2, 529 people missing. It caused nuclear accidents in the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant and reminded us that we are the tiniest specks of dust when Nature decides to confront us. This exceptional book by Richard Lloyd Parry describes the aftermath of the nightmare, centred around the tragic loss of 74 children and 10 teachers of the Okawa Elementary School.

‘'Do you know the number of missing children in each class, Headmaster? Without looking at that piece of paper. You don't, do you? You have to look at your piece of paper. Our kids - are they just a piece of paper? You don't remember any of their faces, do you?''

From the very start of his chronicle, Lloyd Parry makes the readers feel as if they're actually experiencing every step of the terrifying disaster. The descriptions of how he experienced the earthquake in Tokyo are extremely vivid and frightening. We have constant earthquakes here in Greece, and as a resident of Athens, I have experienced quite a few strong ones, but I can never get used to the phenomenon. I simply can't. To go through an incident of this magnitude and duration is unimaginable. However, the actual terror and despair come later, in the aftermath of the disaster and the victims of the tsunami.

‘'-Itte kimasu.''‘'-Itte rasshai.''

How can one describe the agony of the parents who didn't know their children's whereabouts? Their unimaginable pain? Their despair of not having bodies to bury and find some form of closure? It is often unbearable to read. From the strange quietness experienced by the mothers, preceding the nightmare, to the frantic search in the mud and debris, the reader is required to have a strong stomach. Where children are concerned, every sense of detachment simply vanishes. Yet, the way the writer narrates the experiences is sensitive, careful and deeply respectful. There is no shock-mongering, no vulgarity. Everything is handled with the utmost care and sincerity, but still, it is impossible not to yield in the face of the horror. A horror caused by nature and humans alike in a nightmarish fellowship, because of the negligence, the criminal incompetence that cost the lives of children and the ordeal of waiting for your son and daughter to be washed ashore in whatever condition...Japan was the last country I'd expect this to happen, but it did, and this shows us that no one is immune to wrong decisions and stupidity.

‘'[Tohoku] is associated with an impenetrable regional dialect, a quality of eeriness and an archaic spirituality that are exotic even to the modern Japanese. In the north, there are secret Buddhist cults, and old temples where the corpses of former priests are displayed as leering mummies. There is a sisterhood of blind shamanesses who gather once a year at a volcano called Mount Fear, the traditional entrance to the underworld.''

Stories of children's bodies shedding tears of blood. Priests who exorcised the spirits of the ones who met a tragic death and chose to reside in the bodies of the living, in search of a connection with our world and, possible, with a sense of justice. Hauntings were reported in the towns, at home, on the beaches. Young and old spirits, silhouettes covered in mud. Frightening dreams, unsettling feelings, possessions, dark figures, disembodied eyes. Lloyd Parry narrates the otherwordly experiences, the spiritualistic history of Tohoku, the destroyed graveyards, temples and household altars, the presence of the gaki, the hungry ghosts of the vast Japanese tradition. These parts of the book make it so unique, so powerful and one of those works that haunt you and stay with you forever.

Along with the chronicle of the disaster, the writer inserts facts about his gradual familiarization with Japanese culture and daily life, the patriarchy that is present even in the aftermath of terror, the political games of power. It is a dark journey for the reader, you will walk down the path with a heavy heart but it is a route we need to follow to understand how insignificant we are against Mother Nature, to change our ways, to start thinking clearly. Or just start THINKING, because it seems we are incapable of even that...

‘'Once the water has retreated, how much did you have left? [...] When you've got the truth in your hand, what are you going to do with it?''

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

‘'It is the start of another day, the time when the world wakes up and the cogs of society begin to move. I am one of those cogs, going round and round. I have become a functioning part of the world, rotating in the time of day called morning.''

Keiko has been working in the same convenience store in Tokyo for eighteen years. She is not interested in finding a new job, she doesn't particularly want to hang out with her few acquaintances, and having a family of her own or even a relationship has never crossed her mind. And even though her family loves her, they are afraid she's not going to ‘'make it'' in the ‘'real world''. Whatever that means, anyway. Keiko needs instructions so as not to be ‘'different''. Working in the Hiromachi Station Smile Mart allows her to function under an umbrella of specific patterns of behaviour. When a (disgusting to the core) young man comes to work in the store, he unwittingly provides Keiko with the chance to understand that the problem lies with the others, not herself.

‘'From now on, we existed only in the service of the convenience store.''

Sayaka Murata creates a superb story, set in a vivid urban setting, in the heart of Tokyo. Within the boundaries of the store, we understand that rules dictating what to wear, how to speak, how to smile need to be obeyed. So there is no room for individuality, and there are limited opportunities to advance. And that's fine. Let's face it, most jobs are the same. We can't just walk right into our classrooms, our private practices, our shops, our offices and start dancing naked, screaming profanities. We all wear our ‘'work'' uniform every day, we all obey to job rules, strict or less strict, and this is completely understandable. For me, and for Keiko, the dangerous territory is the world outside, the terrain of obligatory socializing and social rules that have no basis anymore, yet need to be fulfilled. Why? Don't ask me, I don't know. Ask those who enjoy mingling and getting married...

‘'When something was strange, everyone thought they had the right to come stomping in all over your life to figure out why. I found that arrogant and infuriating, not to mention a pain in the neck. Sometimes I even wanted to hit them with a shovel to shut them up, like I did that time in elementary school.''

Keiko is my spirit animal. Enough said.

She is tremendously perceptive. Her observations on people's behaviour and facial expressions are spot on. The insults are constant, coming from ‘'friends'', but Keiko doesn't respond. She doesn't know how. Until she finally lifts her head and strikes back, exhausted by the abominable behaviour of a man who embodies all that is fake, cheap and toxic in the construction of a society where women and men believe they have the right to meddle with one's life just because she doesn't want to ‘'find someone''. This is a society that will cast you out if you're not interested in sex or money. This is a society with an orgasmic fixation on age, motherhood, social status and wealth. This is superficiality in its most extreme, tormenting, tyrannical form. And Keiko sends each one of them to Hell because she can.

Clever and funny, and quite unsettling, even shocking at times, this gem of Japanese Literature is a quirky, yet poignant story of individualism, choice, expectations and a monstrous society. Absolutely wonderful!

‘'No. It's not a matter of whether they permit it or not. It's what I am.''

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

 ‘'Έχω να παραδώσω παιδιά στα σπίτια τους στο Σικάγο, άλλα στη Βοστώνη, Τρέντον, Ντένβερ, και Κλήβελαντ, Ρένο, Νέα Ορλεάνη, Γουάτς, Ατλάντα. Κι όταν επιστρέψω, θα'χω νέα παραλαβή, θα'ναι όλα τα παιδιά ξαπλαρωμένα στο γρασίδι, άλλα με τσακισμένη ραχοκοκκαλιά, το μυαλό λιώμα, με τα σωθικά τους πολτό. Παιδιά κουτσά κι απ'τα δύο ή από το ένα πόδι.''

O David επιστρέφει σπίτι μετά τον τραυματισμό στο πόλεμο του Vietnam. Έχει τυφλωθεί, κι όμως ‘'βλέπει'' καλύτερα από τον καθένα. Έρχεται πίσω σε μια οικογένεια που αποτελεί αφόρητα τυπικό δείγμα της εποχής της. Άρνηση, ρατσισμός, μια βαθιά επιθυμία να κρύψουμε τα πάντα κάτω από το χαλί. Ένας αγροίκος, άξεστος πατέρας, μια μητέρα αδύναμη να κρατήσει την οικογένεια της, ένας μικρότερος αδερφός του οποίου τα ιδανικά περιορίζονται στο γρατζούνισμα μιας κιθάρας, το χλαπάκιασμα σοκολατένιου γλυκού, και το πήδημα στο πίσω κάθισμα. Πως γίνεται να μην πέσει σε απελπισία ο David;

To έργο του David Rabe είναι μια συνεχόμενη γροθιά στο στομάχι. Σε πετάει στο έδαφος κι εσύ δέχεσαι το ένα χτύπημα μετά το άλλο, αδύναμος να κουνηθείς. Παγωμένος, γίνεσαι μάρτυρας της μάχης ενός νεαρού άνδρα του οποίου η ζωή κι η αγάπη έχουν καταστραφεί, το σπίτι του έχει γίνει κολαστήριο επι γης, χειρότερο από κάθε πεδίο μάχης. Θα μπορούσε κάποιος να αναφερθεί σε μετατραυματικό στρες, στο ρατσισμό, στη μεσο-αστική στενομυαλιά, σε rednecks που ζουν στο δικό τους, στρεβλό μικρόκοσμο. Για μένα, όμως, αυτά είναι απλά λέξεις, κούφιοι ορισμοί. Αυτό που με τρομοκρατεί είναι η απόλυτη έλλειψη κάθε τρυφερότητας, πόσο μάλλον αγάπης, από τους ‘'γονείς'' στο παιδί τους, η βαρβαρότητα και η σκληρότητα προς το γιό που πολέμησε για έναν άδειο σκοπό. Όταν το ίδιο σου το σπίτι γίνεται ο λάκκος με τα φίδια, τι μπορείς να κάνεις;

Από την αρχή ως το σοκαριστικό επίλογο, το Ραβδιά και Κόκκαλα είναι ένα από τα πιο τρομακτικά, σύνθετα κι απαιτητικά έργα του Αμερικανικού Δράματος, ένας θησαυρός τον οποίο πρέπει να βγάλουμε από την τωρινή του λήθη. Άν ακούει (ή διαβάζει...) κανείς...

  'Δηλαδή το βρίσκετε λογικό, να αρπάξω ένα γέρο και να του βουτήξω το κεφάλι μέσα σ'ένα λάκκο με νερό, και να συνεχίζω να μιλώ για αυτοκίνητα, χρήματα, ίσαμε να σταματήσει ο αδύναμος σφυγμός του, κι ύστερα να περιφέρομαι λές και δε συνέβηκε τίποτα. Εγώ έκανα αυτό που θέλατε, την παράτησας εκεί... που οι άνθρωποι είναι λιγνοί απ'την πείνα, μιά ολόκληρη ζωή! Νομίζετε πώς ζούνε όπως εδώ; Με ηλεκτρικές κουζίνες και νεροχύτες; Έτσι νομίζετε; Τρεχούμενα νερά, ηλεκτρικό φώς, φορτηγά, τηλέφωνα και τηλεόραση. Ο Ρίκυ τραγουδάει μέρα νύχτα, αλλά αν του έκοβα το λαρύγγι, δε θα τραφούδαγε πια, θα μουγκανώτανε, κι εσείς θα τον αποζητούσατε - θα αποζητούσατε τα τραγουδάκια του. Είμαστε όλοι αλήτες, ταξιδιάρικοι! Κάνουμε...διάφορα σινιάλα μέσα στη νύχτα. Εσείς αναγνωρίζετε τα δικά σας. Κι εγώ κατανοώ τα δικά μου. Το μόνο που μπορούμε να μοιραστούμε είναι ένα φλιτζάνι...καφέ!''

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

David returns home after he is wounded in the Vietnam War. He is blind, yet he sees better than anyone. He comes back to a family that couldn't have been more typical of its era. Denial, racism, a deep desire to hide everything under the carpet. A father that is an absolute brute, a mother whose weakness prevents her from keeping the family together, a younger brother whose only ‘'ideals'' are pretending to play his guitar, eating chocolate cake and fucking girls in the back seat. How can David not fall into despair?

David Rabe's play is a constant punch in the stomach. It throws you on the ground, and receive blow after blow, unable to move. You are frozen, witnessing the struggle of a young, broken man whose life and love have been destroyed, whose family home becomes Hell on Earth, worse than the worst battlefield. We could refer to PSTD, racism, middle-class narrow-mindedness, rednecks living in their own distorted microcosm. For me, these are just words. What horrifies me is the absolute lack of any kind of tenderness, not to mention love, from the parents to their child, the cruelty inflicted on the son who fought for an empty cause. When your home becomes a snake pit, what can you do?

From the beginning to its shocking closure, Sticks and Bones is one of the most terrifying, complex, demanding plays in American Drama, a treasure that we need to bring out of its present oblivion. If anyone is listening...

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

‘'It wasn't on purpose that he sat down beside the woman. He realized it only when the white-coated black waiter was standing in front of him, impatient for his order. The place smelled of fairgrounds, of lazy crowds, of nights when you stayed out because you couldn't go to bed, and it smelled like New York, of its calm and brutal indifference.''

Two strangers, a struggling French actor and a mysterious socialite, meet in a downtown diner in Greenwich Village, in Manhattan, as night turns into day. They decide to wander the streets of New York, and soon become lovers. Through the course of a few months, New York becomes the background of a stormy and fragile relationship between two people who must leave their wounds behind in order not to fall apart.

‘'They were hardly man and woman. They were two beings who needed each other.''

Georges Simenon, one of the most important writers of the 20th century, wrote Three Bedrooms In Manhattan, inspired by Edward Hopper's painting Nighthawks, a work that left its mark in American Realism. It is impossible to stay apathetic in front of Harper's masterpiece -and this is true for the vast majority of his work - your mind immediately starts working, unconsciously writing a story. Who are these people? Why are they alone? Why are they dining in such a late hour? What is going on between them?

There is a dark, dreamy quality in Hopper's Nighthawks and the same feeling and atmosphere permeate Simenon's novel. In sparse, unadorned and flowing writing, we witness the story though Francois's eyes and enter his rather troubled mind. Wounded by betrayal, he is afraid to accept Kay's influence on him, to the point of obsession and momentary madness, while Kay's sensitivity, fragility and flightiness provide the unreliable point of focus that makes us wonder on the evolution of the couple's sentimental Odyssey in the city that never sleeps. And New York is there to remind them of their past choices and mistakes and to shelter a love that was born in its nightly streets, in an empty diner.

‘'She stumbled a few times because of her high heels. After about a hundred yards, she took his arms, and it seemed like the two of them had been walking the streets of New York at five in the morning, from the beginning of time.''

Many thanks to Penguin Classics and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

‘'He first came to the Iris one day just before the beginning of the summer season. The rain had been falling since dawn. It grew heavier at dusk, and the sea was rough and grey. A gust blew open, and rain soaked the carpet in the lobby. The shopkeepers in the neighbourhood had turned off their neon signs along the empty streets. A car passed from time to time, its headlights shining through the raindrops.''

It is a suffocating summer in the Hotel Iris. For Mari, it is one more dull, frustrating holiday season performing chores for her tyrannical mother and the customers of dubious quality in the isolated seaside town. Everything changes when she meets a middle-aged translator and allows herself to be involved in a situation that is born by one man's twisted personality and her own desperate need for...what? Freedom? Attention? In my opinion, this is the most important question of the novel.

‘'There was still light in the sky, but the sun was sinking slowly into the darkness at the horizon. A pale moon rose over the seawall. The sea looked smaller from above. The island floated peacefully on the waves. The lights from the booths and rides blurred into a single bright mass, and at the centre, the band played the same tune over and over.''

I won't refer to the subject matter. Yes, it is unsettling. At times, it requires great resilience on the part of the reader. But I've never been bothered by such things and I've always said that Dark Theme + Exceptional Writer equals True Literature. Yoko Ogawa is the definition of this equation. Her themes are extraordinary and her writing creates impossible moments of beauty within terrible darkness. The descriptions of the town, the sea, the night lights, even the unusual heat wave that lasts for so long are serene, powerful, reflecting the unhealthy relationship between the two main characters.

The translator is a character that presents serious challenges. Is he a psychopath? A murderer? A typical example of a narcissistic, domineering misogynist? And what about our narrator? How did this young woman become so troubled? Is it a twisted version of the Oedipus Complex prompted by the untimely loss of her father? Is it the suffocating presence of her mother with her awful ways and heathen manners? Is it a dark, unbeatable urge in which she gives in? And if so, what does this tell us about our nature? What happens when we decide to lay down our dignity, our pride, our common sense for the sake of a twisted excitement that results in utter humiliation and degradation?

When a novel poses such questions, forcing the reader into an uncomfortable introspection, what else do we need as readers? What do we search for in a book? A fickle two-hour reading stand or a chance to contemplate on issues and themes that terrify us with their truths? Edgy, provocative, disturbing. To dismiss Yoko Ogawa's novel on the grounds of the controversial theme is a view I cannot understand. Also, to the one who compared Hotel Iris to a series of... toilet paper for uneducated, horny individuals: You need to finish primary school. I am sorry, but there is a limit to stupidity. Even on Goodreads.

‘'That day, however, it was overcast for the first time in weeks. Midday was no lighter than dawn. Layers of steel blue clouds obscured the sun - the same colour as the sea. It was an ominous colour. Not beautiful but somehow pure, like the steady pulse of a calm breathing. A narrow strip of sky showed at the horizon, but the clouds seemed to weigh down on it, threatening to crash it at any moment. A gull looked up from a rock, hesitant to fly.''

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

“Daffodils made D.H. Lawrence think of ‘ruffled birds on their perches'; yellow cabs reminded Frederick Seidel of daffodils. John Ruskin brought a fine-tuned sensibility to bear when declaring a bunch of anemones ‘marvellous in their exquisitely nervous trembling and veining of colour – violin playing in scarlet on a white ground'. James Schuyler, a curator at New York's Museum of Modern Art as well as a poet, couldn't ‘get over' the beauty that met him at five o'clock ‘on the day before March first', 1954, when he saw the green leaves and pink flowers of the tulips on his desk against the backdrop of a setting Manhattan sun.”

And if this paragraph makes sense to you, you get a reading medal.

This was supposed to be a beautiful book about the beauty of flowers, the legends, the stories, the poems, the paintings. And it tried to be. Hard. Presenting sixteen plants, divided by seasons, its only redeeming quality the vivid illustrations and the reference to Jean Genet's Un Chant d'Amour, his only film.

And that's about it.

Let me count my issues with it.

Oh, right. They're too many...

Unnecessary political remarks. Why does everything get politicised these days? It's tiresome.

Excuse me, but when a writer starts making references to Sex and the City and similar TV series made for stupid people, I begin to seriously doubt her integrity. Even if her comments are dismissive (as they ought to be). TV references about a bunch of sex-crazed bimbos side-by-side to Romantic poets and remarks about the Troubles?

Are you serious?

The writing is all over the place. Too many extracts “woven” into the paragraphs, too many clarifications, too many parentheses. Footnotes would have been a better choice, in my opinion. I mean, do we really need to be told what “photosynthesis “ is? It seemed to me a poor effort on the part of the writer to show off.

A little more respect towards Oscar Wilde wouldn't hurt. Her attitude is particularly high-and-mighty towards certain issues. And her obsession with D. H. Laurence acquired exhausting proportions. In addition, she needs to check her fact on Ancient Greek culture and mythology. Her inaccuracies were shockingly ignorant. In addition, she completely ignores the well-known Native American legend of the princess and the Sun God which is linked to the sunflower. But yes, let's write about Mao Zedong instead...

In addition, writing about saffron and not mentioning the Greek variety of the beautiful plant, referring instead to...Essex, Pennsylvania and the supposedly “nationalist” connotations of its use in Asia (yeah, I don't know where that came from) was the final stroke.

We get it, greenhouses bad!!!

Numerous syntactic and grammatical errors.

Also, “middle-age reflection”? Seriously?

Some may like this one. But I wouldn't let it anywhere near my bookcase. To me, it is one more example of a “writer” that desires to show off her limited knowledge by stacking quote upon quote in every single paragraph, serving dubious political agendas. How was that even possible in a book about flowers? The explanation hasn't bloomed in my mind yet, and I won't bother...

Many thanks to Yale University Press and NetGalley for the ARC...

‘'For God's sake, let us sit upon the groundAnd tell sad stories of the death of kings;How some have been deposed; some slain in war,Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;All murder'd: for within the hollow crownThat rounds the mortal temples of a kingKeeps Death his court and there the antic sits,Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,Allowing him a breath, a little scene,To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,Infusing him with self and vain conceit,As if this flesh which walls about our life,Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thusComes at the last and with a little pinBores through his castle wall, and farewell king!Cover your heads and mock not flesh and bloodWith solemn reverence: throw away respect,Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,For you have but mistook me all this while:I live with bread like you, feel want,Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,How can you say to me, I am a king?'' Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2

Last Saturday, I was watching what must be my favourite documentary, BBC's Shakespeare Uncovered. This particular episode was presented by the living legend and Theatre Icon, Derek Jacobi, dedicated to Richard II, one of the most particular and complex History plays (although I've always classified it under the Tragedies category).

Written entirely in verse, reflecting the Medieval ethic of the Divine Right of Kings, Shakespeare gives us a bitter lament over a monarch who has lost the people's trust and is now trapped in the hands of Bollingbroke, the ‘'new'' type of monarch who arms himself with machinations and violence to change the status quo. However, Shakespeare stretches the vanity and fickle nature of the monarchy as an institution on the whole. With the aforementioned monologue, one of the finest and truest pieces he ever produced, Richard finally understands that between the two bodies of the king there can only be struggle and strife...

Do yourselves a favour. If you haven't watched the great Derek Jacobi as Richard II, do so. The performance is available on YouTube.

‘'What must the king do now? must he submit?The king shall do it: must he be deposed?The king shall be contented: must he loseThe name of king? o' God's name, let it go:I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,My figured goblets for a dish of wood,My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff,My subjects for a pair of carved saintsAnd my large kingdom for a little grave,A little little grave, an obscure grave;Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,Some way of common trade, where subjects' feetMay hourly trample on their sovereign's head;For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;And buried once, why not upon my head?''

‘'Well, don't. You're a foreigner. You have to understand it's not our business. We don't interfere. It's the Japanese way.''

Thirteen exquisite stories written by an American woman who married into a Japanese family, and moved in the Land of the Rising Sun. Stories of love, family, marriage, motherhood, duty, heritage. Stories of silence and secrecy. Stories of convictions and an all-powerful desire to hide everything under the carpet. Stories of people for whom the phrase ‘'if we don't speak about it, it doesn't exist'' gas become a daily adoration.

‘'And, of course, lots of them were looking at their phones. The universal pose of modern man. If we don't watch out, our spines will curve back into a Neanderthal shape, and our evolution will start going backwards.''

Well, we are worse than that, actually. It is derogatory for the Neanderthal man to be compared to our sorrowful, pathetic contemporary existence when education and respect have been substituted by selfies, sexual obsession and ignorance.

The Rescuer: A kind spirit has the responsibility of rescuing idiots (I mean, careless passengers...) who are glued on their phones in a station in Tokyo.

‘'And now you've deserted me. You've gone to the Pure Land and I'm left in Hell.''

Genbei's Curse: A young woman is left to care for her tyrannical father0in-law. But life works in mysterious ways and, ultimately, in circles...

‘'The day of the trial by fire dawned bright and crisp. A fine white ground most was already dissipating in the mild warmth of the rising sun. The tall cypresses looked down on the shore, absolutely motionless, their dark depths pierced with slanting sunbeams.''

Trial By Fire: The incredible, true story of the dispute between two villages that had to be decided through a trial by fire.

‘'How could anyone just say no when asked to do something? Especially a woman? She tried to remember if she had ever done such a thing.''

Love and Duty: An American teacher tries to explain the different meaning of Valentine's Day to a Japanese coworker. But this isn't actually about opposing cultural perceptions. It's about a culture that dictates women to be silent, complacent and obedient.

‘'Ah! There was the shrine, the cedars still standing tall, clumps of snow sticking to their dull green sides. And here was the corner of the shopping street. But there was no steam rising from the metal chimneys.''

The Turtle Stone: The story of a traditional sweet shop and its unique decoration through the eyes of its owner.

>Rhododendron Valley‘'My children! You have taken away my children! Where are they?''Uncle Trash: An elderly resident has filled his house with old paper, clothes and various objects, taking hoarding to a whole new level. When his family decides to put an end to this without even asking him, all Hell breaks loose. A brilliant story about the ignorance with which we treat elderly people and a shocking ending.Watch Again: A young woman meets her estranged husband in the metro. A husband that wanted children because his father demanded it. A husband who wanted his ‘'food'' cooked by his wife, a husband who resented her success, a husband who wanted a slave, not a companion. Can there really be a second chance when a woman has to put up with this attitude? Can he actually change? My answer is a huge, written in neon: NO!Showa Girl: The writer narrates the childhood and adolescence of her mother-in-law. A story of quiet beauty.‘'These people were going to squeeze her between them till there was nothing left.''A Year Of Coffee and Cake: Two women, an American and a Japanese, bond over cakes and family troubles. Amanda is asphyxiating in her marriage, and her neighbour provides a pleasant destruction. But is she actually what she seems? This story will shock you to the very end. Three Village Trees: A teacher contemplates on the changes of her students. A young man who was abused by his father exacts his revenge. A worker seeks recognition. Three village tales of a frustrating reality.‘'I'm trudging over beige winter grass under a tumultuous sky. Wool from my hat tickles my eyebrows, and from my scarf is damp and cold on my cheek. Wind pushes at my back. Cold arms, cold legs, eyes tearing up, nose running. I prospect in my pocket for the wad of tissues I always carry on winter walks. A mountain dusted with snow looms in the distance across the rice fields.''Rachel and Leah: A foreign woman married to a Japanese family contemplates on her husband's expectation, her own wishes and constant compromises, illness and honesty.The Mad Kyoto Show Swapper: The tender story of a young man with the habit of swapping shows, and a deep love for Casablanca, set in the uniquely beautiful city of Kyoto.Stories inspired by anecdotes, Ottawa's husband's family myths, personal experiences, actual occurrences, observations and incidents that have been taken place in urban areas, compose a collection that is both sensitive and raw, and an eloquent depiction of the cultural gap that sometimes we are unable to bridge.‘'She doesn't know me. Even my son doesn't know me. They all think they know me, they think they have pinned me down, just another slightly troublesome older woman. They think it's all right to stop thinking about me.''My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/

‘'There is a stubbornness in me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others.''

The greatness of what I consider to be Jane Austen's finest work can be found beyond the elegant prose, the intelligent irony, the complexity of the characters, the romance that melts even the coldest of hearts. Similar to the most significant writers in History, Jane Austen's insight on the human soul reflected the quality of her pen along with her acute understanding of the idiosyncrasy of our feelings.

“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! – When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

Elizabeth Bennett is the woman we should all aspire to be. Intelligent, independent, caring, polite, standing her ground regardless of the consequences and the external factors, unafraid to acknowledge her feelings. Armed with subtle irony and caustic honesty, she faces the coldness of the ones belonging in the ‘'upper class'' and puts them in their proper place. Bookish, a lover of nature, deeply faithful to her principles and a true daughter of her father, her first impressions is a justified rebellion towards Darcy's rugged, almost vicious remarks. And it is exactly her influence on him that elevates Pride and Prejudice to the realms of the novels that reflect our souls.

“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”

I always felt a strange kind of sympathy for Darcy. I think he is exhausted by the hypocrisy of the young ladies and the vultures that their mothers represent, his abrupt manner becomes a shield to hide his disappointment with the world. He is absolutely done and I don't blame him. But Elizabeth represents a challenge and the truth she mercilessly and rightfully throws on his face prompts him to search deeper and discover that the world he perceives as rotten can be seen differently at the side of Elizabeth.

I don't care about feminist pseudo-reflections, I've never been one to follow the flow or to bow down to fashionable labels. For me, it is simple. Elizabeth is grace, intelligence, integrity, passion personified. She is the brightest example of Jane Austen's immense talent to expose every vice and highlight every virtue of ours. This is not a frollicking romance. If you bother, you will find that it is actually a precise study of our tendency to fear and then accept the unknown.

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

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

“Τότε που η νύχτα ήταν ακόμη το βασίλειο των θρύλων και των στοιχειών, του θαυμαστού και των φασμάτων, του εγκλήματος και του μυστηρίου, των σκοτεινών και δυσωδων σοκακιων, της απειλητικής εξοχής, αλλά και του σκληρού μόχθου. Τότε που η νύχτα ήταν αυτό :ένα βασίλειο. “

Μια μικρή, κομψή ανθολογία που αποτελείται από κείμενα τα οποία υμνούν το νυχτερινό Παρίσι κατά τη διάρκεια εκείνης της περίεργης και συνάμα γοητευτικής εποχής όταν το γκάζι έδωσε ζωή στους φανοστατες κι έδιωξε ένα μέρος του Παρισινού σκοταδιού. Κι όμως, η Πόλη του Φωτός δεν έχασε σπιθαμή από το θρύλο της. Το γλυκό φως από τους φανοστάτες έδωσε μεγαλύτερη έμφαση στα μυστικά των Παρισίων, τις πεταλούδες της νύχτας, τους τυχοδιωκτες, τους απόκληρους, τους καλλιτέχνες.

“Δίπλα στο νυχτερινό Παρίσι των μεγάλων βουλεβάρτων - το εύθυμο και κοσμικό Παρίσι του Μαξίμ, του Συλβαιν, του καφέ Αμερικαιν, του Βετζελ και των καμπαρέ της Μονμαρτης- βρίσκεται μια άλλη πόλη που ζωντανεύει μόνο μετά τα μεσάνυχτα, ένα Παρίσι παράξενο, ενίοτε τρομακτικό, κάποτε μάλιστα κι επικίνδυνο, μα πολύ πιο συναρπαστικό, που προσφέρει στον παρατηρητή σκηνές κι απεικονίσεις ηθών αντάξιες των Μυστηρίων του Παρισιού.”

Με ένα σύντομο, αλλά γοητευτικό πέρασμα από τη Βρετανη, μια συνάντηση με τις χθόνιες θεές του πεπρωμένου, τα στοιχειά της νυχτερινής εξοχής, βρισκόμαστε σε μια περιπλάνηση στη γοητεία της Νύχτας, στο Παρίσι του 18ου και ιδιαίτερα του 19ου αιώνα, παρέα με τους γοητευτικούς βρικόλακες και τους ιδιαίτερους θνητούς.

“Κάτω από πέπλα πυκνά Είδα έντεκα άστρα λαμπρά Ήλιο μαζί και Σελήνη Υπόκλιση να μου κάνουν Άχνα να μη βγάνουνΣτου ύπνου μου τη γαλήνη “ Το Όραμα του Ιωσήφ

Τα κείμενα πού περιέχονται είναι τα εξής : “Promenade Sentimentale” - Paul Verlaine
“La Bource” - Honoré de Balzac
“Pourquoi la nuit?” - Corrine Bayle
“Les Visions de la nuit dans les campagnes” -George Sand
“La Cafetiére” - Théophile Gautier
“Dualité de la nuit, duplicit de la ville” - Julia Csergo
“Les Mystéres de Paris”- Eugene Sue
“Cover la nuit en ville Australia XVIIe siecle” - Arlette Farge
“LA Nuit” - Guy de Maupassant

Υπέροχη έκδοση με την υποστήριξη του Ιnstitute Français de Gréce.

“Night advanced, But not by secret flight did Greece attempt To escape. The morn, all beauteous to behold, Drawn by white steeds bounds o'er the enlighten'd earth; At once from ev'ry Greek with glad acclaim Burst forth the song of war, whose lofty notes The echo of the island rocks return'd, Spreading dismay through Persia's hosts, thus fallen From their high hopes; no flight this solemn strain Portended, but deliberate valour bent On daring battle; while the trumpet's sound Kindled the flames of war. But when their oars The paean ended, with impetuous force Dash'd the resounding surges, instant all Rush'd on in view: in orderly array The squadron on the right first led, behind Rode their whole fleet; and now distinct we heard From ev'ry part this voice of exhortation:-


“Advance, ye sons of Greece, from thraldom save Your country, save your wives, your children save, The temples of your gods, the sacred tomb Where rest your honour'd ancestors; this day The common cause of all demands your valour.”

‘'Μα η νύχτα προχωρεί, κι οι Έλληνες κρυφό δρόμον᾽ ανοίξουν από πουθενά δε δοκιμάζουν·όταν όμως με τ᾽ άσπρα τ᾽ άτια της η μέραφωτοπλημμύριστη άπλωσε σ᾽ όλο τον κόσμο,μια πρώτ᾽ ακούστηκε απ᾽ το μέρος των Ελλήνωνβουή τραγουδιστά με ήχο φαιδρό να βγαίνεικαι δυνατ᾽ αντιβούιζαν μαζί κι οι βράχοιτου νησιού γύρω, ενώ τρομάρα τους βαρβάρουςέπιασεν όλους, που έβλεπαν πως γελαστήκαν.γιατί δεν ήταν για φευγιό που έψαλλαν τότεσεμνόν παιάνα οι Έλληνες, μα σαν να ορμούσανμ᾽ ολόψυχη καρδιά στη μάχη, ενώ όλη ως πέρατη γραμμή των της σάλπιγγας φλόγιζε ο ήχος·κι αμέσως τα πλαταγιστά με μιας κουπιά τουςχτυπούνε με το πρόσταγμα την βαθιάν άρμηκαι δεν αργούνε να φανούν όλοι μπροστά μας.Το δεξί πρώτο, σε γραμμή, κέρας ερχόντανμ᾽ όλη την τάξη, κι έπειτα κι ο άλλος ο στόλοςαπό πίσω ακλουθά· και τότε ήταν ν᾽ ακούσειςφωνή μεγάλη από κοντά:

«Εμπρός, των Ελλήνωνγενναία παιδιά! να ελευθερώσετε πατρίδα,τέκνα, γυναίκες και των πατρικών θεών σαςνα ελευτερώστε τα ιερά και των προγόνωντους τάφους· τώρα για όλα ᾽ναι που πολεμάτε.»


Αυτά για να μην ξεχνιόμαστε...

Υ. Γ. Έχοντας δει αμέτρητες παραστάσεις στην Επίδαυρο από μικρό παιδί, ένεκα του επαγγέλματος του μπαμπά, βεβαίως βεβαίως , η φετινή παραγωγή του Εθνικού Θεάτρου ήταν σαφέστατα η καλύτερη που έχω παρακολουθήσει.

‘'One must be frank to be relevant.'' Corazon Aquino

Cory was born in the beautiful Philippines, the country of a Thousand Islands. She loved Literature, and she was very comfortable with public speeches. But above all, she loved justice. She studied in the United States and excelled in French, Japanese, Spanish, English and Mathematics but it was the study of Law that won her heart.

And Nimoy, her husband who was brave and fierce like her and brave enough to stand up against Ferdinand Marcos, a dictator whose dogma was corruption, violence and exploitation. Cory, Nimoy and their family spent years in prison and were forced to abandon their beloved country. Despite their happy days in Boston, the brave couple knew that they had to continue fighting for freedom and justice. Ninoy returned to his country and was assassinated by the cowardice dogs of the tyrant in Manila International Airport which now bears his name. More than two million people supported Cory as she led the funeral procession. The time for the change had come.

‘'Faith is not simply a patience that passively suffers until the storm is past. Rather, it is a spirit that bears things - with resignations, yes, but above all, with blazing, serene hope.'' Corazon Aquino

The 1986 People Power Revolution had begun. Cory ran for president and the people fought against the dictator's evil schemes. On 25 February 1986, she became the first female president of the Philippines.

Intelligence, persistence, honesty, education, unrelenting faith, bravery, a firm belief in justice, equality and democracy. Corazon Aquino became a symbol for all of us.

Another brilliant, moving addition to the gorgeous series Little People, Big Dreams by Mª Isabel Sánchez Vegara, superbly illustrated by Ginnie Hsu.

‘'I've reached a point in life where it's no longer necessary to try to impress. If they like me the way I am, that's good. If they don't, that's too bad. ‘' Corazon Aquino

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/

*ANY political comments will be deleted. I do NOT discuss politics or religious or social issues with strangers. If you attempt to do so via a ‘'friend'' request, you will be blocked and reported. My opinions are my own and I do not engage in discussions over personal convictions and ethics. Don't like it, don't read it.''

‘'Promised. That there would be no more stealing, that everything would be for the people, that everyone would have the house of their dreams, that nothing bad would happen ever again. They never stopped promising. Under the threat of nonfulfillment, unanswered prayers crumbled beneath the weight of the resentment fueling them. The Sons of the Revolution weren't responsible for anything that happened. If the baker was empty, the baker was to blame. If there were shortages at the pharmacy, even of a single box of contraceptives, the pharmacist was to blame. If we reached home, exhausted and hungry and with only two eggs in our shopping bag, the person who'd bought the egg we needed was at fault. We found ourselves wishing ill on the innocent and the executioner alike. We were incapable of differentiating between them.''

Adelaide and Santiago are two residents of Caracas that try to protect a home. The young woman, aided by Santiago (what a beautiful name!), a persecuted friend of the family, struggles to keep herself and her property safe from a curse that haunts the streets of the capital of Venezuela. A curse created by a regime that firmly walks on the path of the Soviets, squads of thugs that murder and plunder to ‘'teach the wealthy and privileged a lesson.'' And what can you do? What is your punishment for being a human being with education and values? For refusing to accept that guns and violence are the answers? Threats. Rape. Humiliation. Death. But there are some people like Adelaide. People who refuse to yield to the mob.

‘'They'd taken everything from me, even my right to scream. That afternoon I wanted to have hooks for hands. To kill everyone by just moving my arms, like a mortal windmill.''

This is a vicious world. Power cuts, dead bodies lying on the streets. Thugs, male and female, invade your house. They occupy it and turn it into their very own personal toilet. Their shit is everywhere. You are thrown out by the ‘'soldiers of the Revolution.'' Now, you need to ‘'invade'' another house, to defend yourself, to survive, to show that the humanoid worms will not put you down. The squads of murderers and a regime that does nothing except accumulating wealth and extinguishing the ones who aren't idiots to fall for their lies. Product shortages, black market, controls targeted at women who are ‘'easier to yield'', chocolate and books confiscated, everything we know (I hope...) from the days of the Soviet past and their vision of ‘' democracy'' are laid bare for the readers. The brave readers.

‘'The library was deserted. What the hell had they done with my books? So many were gone. Where had they taken Children of the Mire, The Green House, Family Airs, Ask the Dust? I only had to go to the bathroom to realize that entire sections of my Eugene Montejo and Vicente Gerbasi editions had been used to block the pipes.''

What do those filthy beasts that occupy Adelaide's world know of Literature or Culture? The only ‘'Art'' they are aware of is the one that serves their vile notions of a new world. What do they know of History? What do Change and Justice have to do with violence, murdering civilians, women and children, innocent students? In Adelaide's life, the victims are left wondering, struggling to gather the broken pieces. If they survive the armed mob...

‘'Who's alive today, Adelaida? Since everything went to the dogs, who's not dead?''

As we seamlessly move back and forth in time, the moments of Adelaida with her late mother relieve the tension, even for a few blessed moments. To say that the writing is beautiful and shocking would be a tremendous understatement. This is one of the most memorable, touching, terrifying books I've ever read. I will never, ever forget it.

There are certain books that need no reviews, or the conclusions that we, as readers, strive to reach. There are certain books that speak for themselves, that ask us to contemplate on the dangers of populism, and the web of lies, on blind violence and the poisonous words that aim to sweeten our troubled minds. This is one of those books.

‘'Being in the street at six in the evening was asking to cut your life short. Anything could kill us: a stray bullet, a kidnapping, a robbery. Blackouts lasted long hours and meant sunsets were followed by everlasting darkness.''

‘'Then I died once more. I was never able to rise again from all the deaths that accumulated in my life story that afternoon. That day I became my only family. The only final part of a life that nobody in that place would hesitate to cut short, machete blow by machete blow. By blood and fire, like everything that happens in this city.''

Many thanks to HarperCollins and Edelweiss for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

“Stop asking useless questions,” Calypso replied, “and be remarkable. Like the rest of us.”

But Minnow doesn't want to be “remarkable” like her forty-nine sisters, Neptune's daughters. She doesn't care for beautiful gardens, and fish training and songs for the silvery moonlight. Minnow wants to know. She wants to know why crabs don't have fins, where bubbles go, what lies beyond her father's kingdom. Until one day, when a pretty red shoe with pretty ribbons and pretty heels comes her way. And she sets off to discover the story of the shoe.

Minnow discovers the world of the humans, with the lighthouses, the different kinds of shoes, the children. She finds the answers to her questions and makes her father proud and his court curious to know. Because we all come to know the answers. All we have to do is ask the questions.

A story of exploration and staying true to yourself, ignoring the stupid Calypsoes of the world, beautifully illustrated by K. G.Campbell.

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

“The young people think the old people are fools – but the old people know the young people are fools.”

THIS!

In the tale that started it all, Miss Marple doesn't need to move away from her lovely sanctuary in St Mary Mead. Colonel Lucius Protheroe is a loathsome creature. No one likes him, no one wants to even look at him. Therefore, the suspects are plenty once he is found murdered in the study of the local Vicar. A young artist, a flighty daughter, a troubled priest, an isolated wife, a rather posh newcomer, an archaeologist, strange clocks, portraits and paints.

My favourite novel out of all Miss Marple's adventures, and as always, a glorious TV adaptation (ITV 2004) where you can see the crème de la crème of British Theatre.

“What they need is a little immorality in their lives. Then they wouldn't be so busy looking for it in other people's.”

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

“The clock had struck that late hour of twilight when all colours seem suddenly to lose their richness, and it was raining hard; though the cockled glass, the yard was bleached and fading. Inside, the spirit lamps had not yet succeeded the sea-coloured light of the dying day, and seemed by virtue of their paleness to accent the general cheerlessness of the room's decor.''

The 14th of January 1866 was a rather inauspicious day. A young woman is found unconscious, a heavy sum has been sewn in her dresses. An elusive man has died and a mysterious young man has disappeared. A mysterious widow and her companion seem to move the strings, and unrest has awoken within the Chinese community. This is the situation in the rugged town of Hokitika in New Zealand when Walter Moody arrives, enticed by the thriving goldfields. The tales that starts to unfold in a smoky room in Crown Hotel is as dark, mystical and intricate as the nightly sky and the constellations that rule our fate...

The Luminaries is one of those gloriously complex and deliciously confusing books that are impossible to review without a) sounding utterly incomprehensible, and b) revealing crucial parts of the plot. Or plots, to be more precise. Twelve men who represent the zodiac circle and characters who stand as representatives of the planets. Among them, two of the most enigmatic and fascinating female characters in recent Literature, Lydia Wells and Anna Wetherell who are the heart of this epic noel. Epic not in scope or in characters since both are limited, but in terms of the questions it poses regarding human nature, something I always look for in the novels I choose to read.

‘'Never underestimate how extraordinarily difficult it is to understand a situation from another person's point of view.''

Greed, love, fraud, tireless hunting for fortune, endless schemes and intrigues. The interaction of different cultures, the position of women and men in a newly-built society, the fight for survival in a land as beautiful and mystical as it is rugged and demanding, spirituality, mystery and justice. Everything is called into question, everything is fluid. Each plotline, each event is presented through the multiple views of our characters and the richness of the novel lies in the exploration of the diverse opinions and attitudes towards their fellow human beings. One's wish is another's curse and life unfolds in mysterious ways.

Before I conclude my poor attempt of a review, I'd like to refer to Lydia and Anne, the reasons that made me fall deeply in love with Eleanor Catton's masterpiece. Two women, polar opposites one could say, but with many similarities. Both determined to stand for themselves and survive in a world of men, both willing to overstep the boundaries between determination and ruthlessness, both at the side of the men they have chosen to trust. However, one stands for wisdom, cunningness and seduction, the other for mercy and understanding. But is it all a facade? Which one is on the side of the angels? That is for each one of us readers to decide.

One of those novels that you know they will soon enter the pantheon of classic Literature, monumental moment, a book that takes you on a stormy journey on the Earth and the stars.

‘'You shared your language. You shared the stories of your people. It is a fine friendship that is built from that kind of stone.''

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

‘'Since the first stories were told, the sea has been the folklore, myth and mystery in every corner of the earth, and the life-sustaining and life-threatening centre of every coastal culture. Its sheer vastness holds a promise of power and the unknown and leagues under the surface lives a world as different from ours as another planet's.''

A cute and informative guide to all the secrets that are well hidden deep in the water, the realm of the mermaids and their legends. Along with stories of old, narrated by some of the most important folklore writers, we learn about the most prominent mermaid figures in World Culture.

The queens are the Irish mermaids and the selkies of the well-known myths from beautiful Orkney in Scotland. We will meet Lorelei, residing in the Rhine, Yemaya, the Queen of the World in Santeria, Nuliajuk, the vengeful spirit of the Innuit legends, the Mermaid of San Francisco Bay, the alluring temptress of Zennor, commemorated by the very real Mermaid Chair.

But there are also ‘'real'' mermaids, women who have turned water into their natural habitat, like the amazing women in Jeju island, in Korea. And there are myths. Myths are always present to remind us how mermaid tears turn into pearls, to amaze us with strange incidents experienced by tourists in Bermuda. They are immortalized in beautiful mermaid statues (and I was delighted to see the Paros Mermaid, here, in Greece, had been included), in myths of ghost ships, seaweeds lore and nautical curiosities.

‘'Oh, then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you, when one has gloomy thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the smoke made by the kelp burners on the strand, there, the Lord save us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man's Lake at midnight.''

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

‘' Or when the lawnIs pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts returnGently at twilight, gently go at dawn,The sad intangible who grieve and yearn;'' To Walter de la Mare, T.S. Eliot

The restless spirits that cry their agony from every battlement of every castle in the beautiful British Isles. The haunted waterfall in Kitty's Steps, the black figure of Creech Hill, the ghost with the golden cup somewhere in the wilderness of Cornwall. In Glamis Castle, a family has been haunted for generations. In Ireland, a red-headed young woman had become the banshee of the Fanshawe family and a Black Monk had been haunting the Byron family for generations. A mutilated cat haunts a manor in Oxenby, an evil old hag, the Gwrach - y- Rhibyn had been haunting the Stradling family in Wales until the last descendant fell dead.

A mutilated hand haunts a Scottish clan, a white bird becomes the Angel of Death for a noble family in Devon. The Tower of London has become home to tragic figures of the British History and the theatre houses in Drury Lane aren't silent once the lights have burned out. In Canterbury Hill, the warriors of King Arthur are waiting for the time to rise again. In Letham, the Battle of Dun Nechtain between the Picts and the Northumbrians is still going strong. And the haunting spirits residing in Whitby Abbey still echo the hymns of a glorious past.

Tormented, wronged dead return to their families, seeking justice and closure and others come back to help their beloved who have fallen into despair. Charles Dickens takes part in a strange, real-life ghost story, children seek companionship in little ones from the other side. The doppelgänger phenomenon is always exciting and as frightening as ever.

The spirit of a heroic soldier who died in Gallipoli can still be seen, among the rocks and the bushes and in Malaysia, the ghosts of the Japanese soldiers who were left behind, are condemned to linger on, a just price for the evil they inflicted. In Japan, terrifying ghosts bring vengeance and retribution to vile, sinful men and women. And in different parts of the world, the living organize ceremonies to trick the spirits of the dead, to exorcise them and lead them to an actual eternal rest.

Astonishing book, incredible illustrations.

‘'Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time,Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal;Ay, and since too, murders have been performedToo terrible for the ear. The time has beenThat, when the brains were out, the man would die,And there an end. But now they rise againWith twenty mortal murders on their crownsAnd push us from our stools. This is more strangeThan such a murder is.'' Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 4

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

‘'I am the shadow of what we were, and while there is light we exist.'' Luis Sepúlveda

One of the most important writers of our times returns to Chile after 14 years of exile. In a country that is being reborn within the arms of democracy, following the nightmarish Pinochet dictatorship, we meet people that inspired and accompanied Sepúlveda, people that left their marks on his writings.

Sepúlveda takes us to an impossibly exciting flight to Patagonia. Along with a friend from Germany, he searches for the children that posed for a moving photo eight years ago and drinks to freedom in the birthday gathering of a former comrade. He paints an ode to the parks in Prague and Santiago and an elegy to the ones who fell, defending La Moneda. In Talagante, peaceful bakers sell their soul to the Devil and receive new recipes that result in extraordinary pastry creations. In Cartagena, an ATM ‘'robs'' the writer on behalf of the Holy Roman Church. A young woman is practically sacrificed on the altar of money and fame, an illusionary ‘'escape'' from the poverty of the barrios. An elderly man narrates stories of love.

The summer sun in Gijon warms the statue of Gaspar Garcia Laviana, a priest who fought and died for freedom. A writer born in a village in Asturias shows the life-changing love for reading. Sepúlveda contemplates on the futility of interviews and the decay that Literature faces in the hands of ...journalists. He reminisces on the circumstances that led him to his French editor and the publishing of his first book. He lets us in the secret of a very particular dog, called Edward and the difficulties of working for television. He dedicates a story for a Chilean footballer who loved too much.

Luis Sepúlveda was taken from us. And the world of Literature has become darker...

‘'He often heard that wisdom comes with age, and he waited, trusting that this wisdom would bring him what he most wanted; that ability to guide his memories and not fall into the traps that they often set for him.'' Luis Sepúlveda

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