Amalia Gkavea

‘'When I'm asked about the thirty-two children who lost their lives in San Cristóbal, my reaction varies depending on the age of my interlocutor. If we're the same age, I say that understanding is simply a matter of piecing together that which was previously seen as disjointed. If they're younger, I ask if they believe in bad omens.''

‘'I got the feeling that this wild stray was two contradictory things at once: a benign presence and a terrible omen, a friend welcoming me to the city, but also a messenger delivering alarming news.''

The town of San Cristóbal is afflicted by a series of vandalisms, thefts and assaults disrupting the peaceful daily life of the residents. Although the perpetrators are known to all, no one is prosecuted. Thirty-two children that no one knows where they come from and no one knows where they go once night falls. Once the final line is crossed, an incomprehensible chase starts. A family of newcomers is in the heart of this peculiar situation in one of the most moving, complex and haunting novels I've ever read.

‘'When we see them on the street we pretend they're not there, but they watch us and say nothing, like vultures.''

In a superstitious community, the protagonist of this incredible novel tries to make sense of a frightening situation. How can you react when the ‘'guilty party'' is a gang of children that disappear every night only to return in the morning more and more vicious. What are they? Can they be summoned through other children's invocations? Can the residents' children ‘'talk'' to them through their dreams?

How can you react when you are threatened by children? What are the origins of a child's psyche? What defined a child? What influences their behaviour? And if we lose the innocence of children, what hope is there for our society? Soon, we find ourselves in the middle of two camps, the adults and the children and the strain between the parents and their offspring who are in danger of siding with the children-criminals.

Barba creates a fable that seems made of the wildest, bloodiest folk tales and gives us the end from the beginning. It doesn't matter. If anything, its effect is even more powerful. The sympathetic protagonist finds himself in the heart of brutal scene and circumstances. There is a particularly haunting scene of the destruction of the Christmas presents for the ones in need that really sets the alarm for the readers and their expectations.

A novel that must be read in order to be felt, a novel that raises serious questions on the origins and instincts of human nature.

‘'But reality persists and not even that made them cease to be children. How could we forget, given that it was there that the whole outrage began? Children. And one fine day it turned out that they stole. ‘'They seemed so innocent!'', exclaimed some, but after that outcry came the personal affront. ‘'They seemed so innocent and they deceived us, the little hypocrites.'' They were children, granted, but not our children.''

Many thanks to Granta Books and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

“This is what life does for you in the end; it arranges a fight you can't win.”

Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Anne of Cleves. Three women that amply demonstrate the saturnine, obsessive and fickle nature of Henry VIII. However, in my opinion, it is the tragic figure of Thomas Cromwell that sheds light to the vast extent of the monarch's madness and cruel, evil character. The man who shaped his ideal to restore England's glory, the mentor, the one who managed to provide Henry with his so precious annulment. The one who looked upon the king and only saw the young boy who once was under his protection.

I don't think there is much to say about the trilogy that was handed over to us by Hilary Mantel. The third instalment concludes the tragic story of Cromwell, narrating the final four years of his life until his execution in 1540 in startling vividness and glorious characterization. Mantel gave life to one of the most controversial and fascinating political figures in British History and created a monumental work in World Literature.

Following Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, The Mirror and the Light is mandatory reading for the lovers of true Literature.

“What is a woman's life? Do not think, because she is not a man, she does not fight. The bedchamber is her tilting ground, where she shows her colours, and her theatre of war is the sealed room where she gives birth. She knows she may not come alive out of that bloody chamber. Before her lying-in, if she is prudent, she settles her affairs. If she dies, she will be lamented and forgotten. If the child dies, she will be blamed. If she lives, she must hide her wounds. Her injuries are secret, and her sisters talk about them behind the hand. It is Eve's sin, the long continuing punishment it incurred, that tears at her from the inside and shreds her. Whereas we bless an old soldier and give him alms, pitying his blind or limbless state, we do not make heroes of women mangled in the struggle to give birth. If she seems so injured that she can have no more children, we commiserate with her husband.”

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

‘'11/7/1999'' γράφει το δεύτερο φύλλο. ‘‘Ημερομηνίες σε όλα τα βιβλία'', συνήθιζε να λέει η γιαγιά μου. ‘‘Είναι τα βιβλία αυτά που σου θυμίζουν στιγμές και πράξεις κι ανθρώπους που περνούν''. Συνήθεια που κληρονόμησα, βεβαίως, βεβαίως. Πώς θα μπορούσε να γίνει διαφορετικά; Στα 14α γενέθλια μου, λοιπόν, διάβασα για πρώτη φορά ένα από τα βιβλία που σφράγισαν τα εφηβικά χρόνια. Τι ήταν αυτό που με έβαλε να ‘‘εξερευνήσω'' την παλιά βιβλιοθήκη στα πατρικό μου, λίγες μέρες πριν κλείσω τα 35; Δύσκολο να πώ. Τί είναι αυτό που με προσκαλεί να διαβάσω ξανά τα βιβλία της εφηβείας; Λίγο ο αριθμός που φοβίζει, λίγο η νοσταλγία που συνοδεύει τα καλοκαίρια; Λίγο οι αναμνήσεις;

Αυτό, λοιπόν, είναι το πρώτο βιβλίο στο οποίο διάλεξα να επιστρέψω μετά από χρόνια. Τέσσερις ιστορίες κοριτσιών που αψήφησαν τις δυσκολίες, τις επιταγές των εποχών, και πολλές φορές, τη λογική για να ακολουθήσουν τις διαταγές μιας μεγάλης, επίμονης, κυρίας. Ξέρετε, αυτή που βρίσκεται στην αριστερή πλευρά του στήθους. Αυτή που δίνει ζωή και μας ωθεί στο να κάνουμε πράγματα που δε θεωρούσαμε ποτέ τον εαυτό μας ικανό να πράξει... Κι όσοι αψηφούμε το μυαλό μας και σπεύδουμε να κάνουμε το θέλημα της, συνήθως το πληρώνουμε οικτρά...

Ο συνδετικός κρίκος μεταξύ της Θεανούς, της Θεονικης, της Αρετής και της Τέτης είναι ένα περιδέραιο του 5ου αιώνα Π. Χ. το οποίο περνά από γενιά σε γενιά, άλλοτε σαν ευλογία κι άλλοτε σαν κατάρα. Αλλά τις τύχες μας τις φτιάχνουμε μέσα από τις επιλογές μας και την επιμονή μας. Το Χαμόγελο της Εκάτης είναι μόνο χρυσός και πετράδια. Καθώς ταξιδεύουμε στη Σάμο μέσα στους αιώνες, την αρχαιότητα, τα Βυζαντινά χρόνια, την προεπαναστατική περίοδο του 1808 και το 1995, καταλαβαίνουμε πως το μόνο που δεν αλλάζει είναι η δύναμη και η αποφασιστικότητα (καλή ή κακή) των νέων κοριτσιών. Η κατάληξη είναι ένα άλλο ερώτημα.

Όταν ήμουν έφηβη, ήταν ένα από τα πιο αγαπημένα μου βιβλία ελληνικής Λογοτεχνίας. 21 χρόνια η άποψη μου αλλάζει λίγο. Η ιστορία της Τέτης, η έλλειψη κάθε έννοιας σεβασμού, η παράδοση σε εναν εγκληματία στην ηλικία των 17, και η άκομψη γλώσσα της συγκεκριμένης ιστορίας “θαμπώνουν” ελαφρά τη λάμψη του Χαμόγελου της Εκάτης.

“He played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au fond, he was a stupid man. And so - he died.”“Because he was stupid?”“It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, madame.”

A flamboyant, mysterious host who goes by the impressive name of ‘'Mr. Shaitana'' invites eight guests. Four sleuths and four people who are possibly capable of murder. Following a rather exciting game of bridge, Mr Shaitana is found dead. Now, each one of our sleuths has to investigate and try to connect the dots, leading to motive and the perpetrator.

Memory, sins of the past, dangerous secrets, and an impressive pile of the finest stockings compose one of the most elaborate and exciting mysteries of Queen Agatha. This is the introduction of Ariadne Oliver, the most impressive, sassy and downright glorious sidekick of our beloved Belgian genius.

“Life is a difficult business,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “You'll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders: ‘Was it worthwhile?”

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

''A pine forest came down to the edge of the track: the light from the carriages rippled over the bordering trees. As she gazed out into the dark heart of the forest, she began to see small moving lights. For an instant a grey dogshape skirted the rail, then returned to darkness. The lights, she realised, were the eyes of beasts. She drew her head in and closed the window.''

A jolly squad of British expatriates is currently residing in Bucharest, each one for their own reasons. But there is a terrible shadow looming over their heads. The Second World War is about to begin in all its terrible rage, and the characters need to battle their personal struggles in a world that will soon be torn to pieces and change forever.

In the first instalment of her famous Balkan Trilogy, Olivia Manning writes with honesty, clarity and elegance about the way of thinking of the British citizens in a foreign country that stands on an extremely threatening crossroads. Some of them parade hopes, fears, insecurities and prejudices, almost oblivious to the fact that disaster is coming, paying no attention to the poverty around them and the persecution of the Jewish people that no one seems to care about.

The writer gives us an accurate and sensitive critique of the parties and the dinners and all kinds of ridiculous, empty celebrations, full of magnanimous words and petty whinings, while the conflict is raging and the poverty of the citizens of Bucharest is everywhere. Contaminating the very air they breathe, the Germans already treat everyone like subjects, demonstrating their disgusting expressions of victory, exploiting Romania's fear for the Soviets that led to the wrong choices. The Nazi monsters have not invaded Romania yet but that doesn't stop them from parading around like ‘'victors'', turning my stomach page after page.

And where do our characters stand amidst this situation? Hard to say. Manning eloquently depicts the fact that each one of us is always locked up in a private microcosm that cannot be influenced even by the worst affliction. War or no war, marital problems, financial insecurities, personal ambitions will always come first. Especially when you are somewhat affluent and you are in no danger to find yourself in a concentration camp...And, frankly, this is understandable. Manning doesn't pass judgment. She observes and pin-points the bleak image of her characters but never becomes cruel.

But I am a reader and I can pass judgement and become cruel and cynical. And pragmatic. And I declare Guy as one of the most irritating, unlikable characters I've ever encountered in a novel. For the life of me, I can't see why any woman would fall in love with him unless there were other reasons. He is terrible. He makes Harriett look utterly stupid and Lord knows why she puts up with his behaviour. Clarence, with his frequent use of the word ‘'bitch'', is no less problematic even if he is an interesting, enticing character. Harriet tries. She tries hard. And despite her occasional moments of rebellion, she is too meek and docile for my liking. Yakimov is almost a tragic figure at times, and then becomes the unwanted guest, an almost pathetic comic relief. In short, the novel seems to lack an interesting cast of characters, judging by the first volume of the trilogy.

‘'But I don't imagine I exist to enhance your sense of superiority. I exist to satisfy my own demands on myself, and they are higher than yours are likely to be. If you don't like me as I am, I don't care.''

Many thanks to Penguin Random House UK and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

‘'To me, it always seemed unnecessary to watch a storm. This time, though, I had no chance to be angry because I forgot about everything, and unknown to anyone, just like that, suddenly, without warning, without turmoil, without dead horses, without any midnight knocks at the door or even a single cry during the siesta, for me the street had begun.''

A young woman is transfixed by what seems an ordinary scene of domestic life. In the house across the street, clearly visible from the window of her living room, unhindered by shutters and curtains, three women are sitting, almost motionless. Day after day, they are there, like statues, frozen in time and space. And our narrator is bewitched. Seen as an escape from her own reality, she becomes obsessed and her passion grows once the first signs of life in the women's company are seen. As she finds the courage to make her presence known to them and become their regular visitor, we start wondering. What is real and what is a dark fantasy of a disturbed soul?

‘'Arenida Juramento would always be - at least on first hearing its name, though later it could be other things - a dimly lit drawing room looking out onto the street, with shadowy corners, and three pale faces that appeared to be living at ease.''

Norah Lange was supposedly inspired by the famous portrait of the Brontë sisters and constructed a story that dances over the boundaries of reality and the land of dreams and fantasies. Our narrator, a girl of seventeen, on the threshold between girlhood and womanhood, is highly unreliable and there lies the fascination of the novel. Clearly suffering from anxiety, her mind is haunted by the concept of death and, especially, suicide. Her mother struggles with her own problems and the girl has no one (or wants no one) to turn to. The three women become the centre of her existence, but is it a way out of her claustrophobic world or one more hindrance?

Lange's novel is so strange and so demanding. As you read, you feel as if you've landed at the centre of a hallucination. We often use this term but here we'll find its definition. Lange creates a hypnotic scenery and the characters of our narrator and the elderly sister (if we accept that the three women are sisters...) are very complex and provide much food for thought. And yet, we start all over again and ask the same question? Is everything real or have we found ourselves within the strange fantasies of a young woman? At times, we'll feel as if we're in a loop of observation, expectation and whispers of death. So, by the time you reach the last page, you'll have to decide. I know I still haven't.

Some have said that nothing happens in the story. Lord give me strength! There are books where the writing, the thoughts of the characters and the questions raised are far more eloquent than any ‘'action'', the way they mean it, at least. If you're looking for a Jack + Jill book, look elsewhere. If you're unwilling to use the cells in your brain (grey or not..), turn elsewhere. For the rest of us, this is one of the most particular, enchanting, haunting books we'll ever read.

‘'But they kept sitting there, in silence, and I wondered (it was impossible not to wonder), ‘'Who will mourn for them?''

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

“One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is this – ” he tapped his egg-shaped head – “this, that functions!”

In one of the finest mysteries of Queen Agatha, five people - five little pigs - are suspect for the murder of Amyas, an allegedly brilliant artist who was a womanizer, a manipulator and one of those men who believe they have the right to catch as many flies as they want. Well, beware of those...flies. You never know what they carry in their wings, mate.

“It takes more than a printed notice to keep you from reality. . . . We've only one life to live.”

An idyllic summer, an act of childish wrath that had serious consequences, a man who craved reassurance, a young woman who thought everyone is a toy to meddle with. A crime with a crystal-clear perpetrator. Or maybe not. The daughter of Caroline and Amyas askes our beloved Belgian genius to investigate a murder by a lake, so that her mother may be exonerated after death. And it is now time for the little pigs to gather and cry all the way home...

The 2003 ITV adaptation with the remarkable David Suchet as Poirot is a masterpiece.

“What do most people mean when they say that? So young. Something innocent, something appealing, something helpless. But youth is not that! Youth is crude, youth is strong, youth is powerful—yes, and cruel! And one thing more—youth is vulnerable.”

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

There is a golden phrase in every language. ‘‘In my opinion''. Some of you need to start using it...

‘'Then Judith is in a crowd. It is night- time, cold; the glow of lanterns punctuates the freezing dark. She thinks it is the Candlemas fair. She is in and also above a crowd on a pair of strong shoulders. Her father. Her legs grip his neck and he holds her by each ankle; she has buried her hands in his hair. Thick dark hair he has like Susanna's. She uses the smallest of her fingers to tap the silver hoop in his left ear. He laughs at this - she feels the rumble of it, like thunder, pass from his body to hers - and shakes his head to make the earring rattle against her fingernail.''

The frantic steps of a young boy disturb the peaceful summer day in a town in Warwickshire. His house echoes his almost erratic search for any member of his family. But the house is empty. His parents nowhere to be found. He begs the dusty roads of the village to bring him help because his beloved twin sister is dying. He begs Fate to exorcise the Black Rider who has decided to reside in their house, looking for a victim to snatch.

‘'The Latin verbs roll on and on around him, like a fenland fog, through his feet up and over his shoulders, past his ears, to seep out of the cracks in the window lead. He allows the chanted words to merge into an oral blur that fills the room, right to its high, blackened rafters.''

Dear God, what a masterpiece!

When every ‘'writer'' who wants to pass Historical Romance scribbles as ‘'Literature'', when ridiculous plays and even more ridiculous film dare to meddle with the Bard and especially with his wife's enigmatic figure, one can't help being apprehensive. But not when you are in the gracious, blessed hands of Maggie O'Farrell. What can I possibly say about Hamnet? An ode to womanhood, motherhood, family and the fragility of daily life that should never be taken for granted.

‘'The trees could be seen from the back windows, tossing their restless heads on windy days, shaking their bare and twisted fists in winter.''

O'Farrell brings us the tragic story of Shakespeare's family, focused on his son and his wife, two incredible characters. Her writing is quiet, mystifying, haunting. A breath of a hazy, lyrical summer and the sadness of golden autumn. There is beauty and there are pain and Death. Physical loss and the thwarting of the dreams of youth. The loss of faith and the unimaginable horror of losing a child. Hamnet is rich in literary beauty and O'Farrell inserts brief, poignant scenes that define the tone and the spirit of the story. The terrifying figure of the Plague Doctor, a woman's unbreakable bond with Nature, William's wanderlust, the sequence of the coming of the pestilence in Warwickshire, a brother's ache for his sister's ordeal, a mother's despair, a father's helplessness, the cries for a ghost of a beloved presence.

‘'She has a certain notoriety in these parts. It is said that she is strange, touched, peculiar, perhaps mad. He has heard that she wanders the back roads and forest at will, unaccompanied, collecting plants to make dubious potions.''

Perhaps the most demanding aspect in this novel is the characterization and O'Farrell creates wonders. Agnes (see the moving Author's Note that clarifies why ‘'Anne'' became ‘'Agnes'') is an extraordinary character. Intelligent, brave, sensitive, deeply connected with Nature, firm in her beliefs. William is a gentle man, trying to balance his love for her and his calling. Hamnet is one of the most moving, developed and memorable characters. His pain and sense of helplessness and the fact that we know his fate will break your heart. His sisters, Susanna and Judith, are equally enchanting and beautifully drawn.

‘'I'll walk backwards,'' he says, backing away, ‘'so I can keep you in my sights.''‘'All the way to London?''‘'If I have to.''She laughs. ‘'You'll fall into a ditch. You'll crash into a cart.''‘'So be it.''

It is said that this tragic loss was the driving force behind the creation of Hamlet. The Bard would be proud of Maggie O'Farrell's masterpiece. And I don't need to tire you more. The following extracts speak for themselves.

‘'Summer is an assault. The long evenings, the warm air wafting through the windows, the slow progress of the river through the windows, the slow progress of the river through the town, the shouts of children playing late in the street, the horses flicking floes from their flanks, the hedgerows heavy with flowers and berries.''

‘'Autumn, when it comes, is terrible too. The sharpness on the air, early in the morning. The mist gathering in the yard. The hens fussing and murmuring in their pen, refusing to come out. The leaves crisping at their edges. Here is a season Hamnet has not known or touched. Here is a world moving without him.''

‘'Night-time in the town, a deep, black silence lies over the streets, broken only by the hollow lilt of an owl, calling for its mate. A breeze slips invisibly, insistently through the streets, like a burglar seeking an entrance. It plays with the tops of the trees, tipping them one way, then the other. It shivers inside the church bell, making the brass vibrate with a single low note. It ruffles the feathers of the lonely owl, sitting on a rooftop near the church.''

Many thanks to Knopf Publishing Group and Edelweiss for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

''Οταν πλησιάζουμε στο Γιορκ, οι ανταύγειες του ουρανού, ωχρές, φωτίζουν ακόμα την πύλη του, τα μεσαιωνικά κάστρα, τα γοτθικά καμπαναριά και τους πύργους. [...] Όμως, καθώς διαβαίνω τη γέφυρα, πάνω από το ποτάμι, κι ύστερα τη μεσαιωνική πόλη, τη Μικλ Γκειτ και μπαίνω στους στενούς δρόμους της παλιάς πόλης με τα χαρακτηριστικά εγγλέζικα σπίτια από σκουριασμένα τούβλα και μαύρα ξύλα, με τον πελώριο γοτθικό ναό του Αβαείου, από ωχρόν αμμόλιθο, που οι σαίτες του καρφώνονται στον ουρανό, αισθάνομαι πως τριγυρίζουν σαιξπηρικά φαντάσματα. Θα τα δω να ξεπορτίζουν, μαύρες σκιές, μες σε ομιχλώδεις γαλαρίες, να κατεβαίνουν απ'τους πύργους, τα καμπαναριά και τις τερατόμορφες υδρορροές, να σέρνουν τη σιδερένια πανοπλία τους στις επάλξεις.''

Ο αφηγητής μας ξεκινά από μια υπέροχα σκοτεινή ιστορία μιας υπόσχεσης που δεν τηρήθηκε, μιας εντολής από ένα σκιώδη επισκέπτη που δεν εισακούστηκε, μιας περίεργη ομίχλη σε ένα πλάνο μιας παλιάς κασέτας. Ακολουθούν οι υποσχέσεις για παρουσίες από την άλλη όχθη, μέσα στη νοσταλγία της παιδικής ηλικίας. Ένας από τους ομορφότερους σταθμούς λαμβάνει χώρα στο μαγευτικό Γιορκ, με το Αβαείο του, το σκοτάδι του, τα πνεύματα που πλημμυρίζουν τους δρόμους του. Μια φωτογραφική μηχανή γίνεται αιτία μιας βασανιστικής νύχτας αμφιβολιών και παράλογων φόβων που, παραδόξως, μοιάζουν απολύτως δικαιολογημένοι.

Αφήνωντας πίσω το μυστήριο της Αγγλικής γης, επίστρεφουμε στην πατρίδα μας. Ιωάννινα, ανάμεσα στην παράδοση, την Ιστορία και τη σύγχρονη πραγματικότητα. Θεσσαλονίκη, αναζητώντας το σπίτι μιας οικογένειας που σημάδεψε τον αφηγητή μας. Πάτρα, στη διάρκεια της Αποκριάς, κυνηγώντας ένα μάλλον καταδικασμένο καρδιοχτύπι. Κι ύστερα; Από την Κρήτη στο Μέτσοβο, ακούγωντας τον άνεμο, για να προσγειωθούμε στην Αθήνα, στην αυγή του 2000.

Ένα υπέροχο δείγμα βιογραφικής πεζογραφίας.

‘'Και να, σ'ένα στενορρύμο πλησιάζει ένα φρακοφορεμένος με ημίψυλο και προτείνει να μας συνοδέψει, όταν νυχτώσει, σε απόκρυφες γωνιές, όπου διαβαίνουν τα γκοστ! Και σ'έναν πεζόδρομο πλακόστρωτο, όπου μια εντοιχισμένη πλάκα πληροφορεί πως εκεί, στο σταυροδρόμι, διαδραματίζονταν στο Μεσαίωνα η δημόσια ζωή - τα παζάρια,τα θεάματα με τους σαλτιμπάγκους και τους θαυματοποιούς, οι δίκες και οι αποκεφαλισμοί - στέκεται ασάλευτος σε μια κόχη ένας δήμιος ντυμένος στα μαύρα, με κουκούλα και μπαλντά, που σίγουρα, όταν σε λίγο νωχτώσει, θα μπει στο στημένο παιγνίδι.''

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

“The memory has a marvellous capacity to remember the forgotten, its existence and its stalking, and thus allow us to stay alert when we don't want to forget and forget when we choose to.”

Javier Mallarino is a political cartoonist, revered and respected by the public of Colombia, and feared by the ones who bow down to corruption. His influence is immense, his art is a weapon against all that is rotten. Now, the time has come to be honoured as he deserves. But all is not well. One of his daughter's friends from childhood comes to visit him. Her presence brings back memories that are too painful to be remembered. But Samanta WANTS to remember. She deserves to know whether she had fallen victim of a horrific act and Javier realises that sometimes, a comic strip in a newspaper may have dubious repercussions.

Juan Gabriel Vasquez masterfully depicts the feverish desire and demand for justice, the nectar of acceptance by the public and the inevitable ‘'god'' status within the community of a land where balance is sensitive and condemnation is so difficult and yet, so easy. The writer lets us into Javier's mind and there we witness all his doubts, his fears and his satisfaction of helping an innocent soul find peace.

But is there peace? And where do the limits of criticising end? What happens when threats and fear enter your peaceful home because you are doing the work that the authorities are unable or unwilling to perform?

A magnificent novel by one of the most important writers of our times.

‘'It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.''

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

“Although we'd left the overhanging shrubbery behind us, theday was still dark, and I saw, as in the photo, part of the house was in shadow. I looked up to see what was throwing its shade onto the Hall but saw only the watery sun hanging low in the sky, straining to lighten the day. I could see nothing which would explain the outline darkening the eastern wing which cast such a gloomy pall.”

Exciting, is it not? Not!
No need to bore your soul with a synopsis. The blurb is there. But I can tell you that, for me, this was a failure. And then some.

Endless, pointless discussions over photos, pregnancy, and maids. I got it the first time, repetition doesn't help.

The dialogue was wooden, and there were numerous grammatical mistakes. “Her” instead of “here” many, many times. “Wer” instead of “were”, the editor must loath the letter “e”...The questions were oddly formed, as if they were too “American” for lack of a better definition, and it bothered me.

Louisa “winced” and “frowned” too many times...Lily “flinched”, everyone's faces are “flushed”. Louisa's self-pity over her second husband was exhausting.

The fact that the heroine learns facts while eavesdropping is lazy and naive.

Loaded with every cliche imaginable.

A character utters the “come thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of Hell”. And Louisa doesn't recognize the quote. So much for her endless education. Leave Macbeth alone, dear “writer”.

The inclusion of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a gimmick and a presumptuous choice on the part of the writer.If you don't have the chops to meddle with an actual literary legend, leave him/her alone. Honestly!

And in the end, I was tired.I was exhausted and I didn't care. To mention this drivel next to The Silent Companions and The Familiars is pathetic.

Many thanks to Orion Books and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

 If you attempt ANY kind of political comments, the exit is THAT way. It's that simple. Don't provoke me, it won't end well.

 “This is not a story of heroic feats, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do not mean it to be. It is a glimpse of two lives running parallel for a time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams.”

Two young men set off for the journey of a lifetime. Their chariot, a motorcycle. Their initial purpose, to know and understand the fascinating world of South America. As they travel deeper and deeper, they come across lands and communities struck by poverty, abandonment, isolation, exploitation, violence, torment, sickness, death. And the two youngsters of our story acquire a new purpose. To help the ones in need with whatever meagre means they have.

Their quest takes them from the north across the Andes, to Chile, the Atacama Desert, Peru and Venezuela. Facing the whims of a demanding nature, encountering people who have been abused and ostracised because of their beliefs, experiencing the sacred impact of Machu Pichu, one of the marvels of human ingenuity, the two young men leave the crazy, alluring, care-free attitude of youth behind towards a new vision. Che's writings, thoughts and experiences in the San Pablo leper colony in Peru are heartbreaking, his determination to aid the ones who suffer by an absurd divide due to false ‘' medical'' convictions is touching and eye-opening.

The young men's names? Alberto Granado. Ernesto ‘'Che'' Guevara.

P.S. Do I really need to mention the marvellous 2004 adaptation starring Gael García Bernal and Rodrigo de la Serna, directed by Walter Salles? If you haven't watched it, do so. You won't regret it.

 “Some give the impression they go on living only because it's a habit they cannot shake”

 “Perhaps one day tired of circling the world I'll return to Argentina and settle in the Andean lakes if not indefinitely then at least for a pause while I shift from one understanding of the world to another.”

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

‘'When we read, when we listen to music, when we immerse ourselves in the flow of an opera, we go underneath the surface of life. Like going underwater the noise stops, and we concentrate differently. [...] In the end, it is all about the feeling.''

One of my earliest memories from my childhood was the voice of the greatest of the great, Luciano Pavarotti, soaring over the sounds of happy, daily life in our household. Along with the perfume of freshly roasted Espresso, this was one of the most valuable values inherited from my beloved Grandma. A child of Naples, Opera and singing were in her blood. And even though I was too young to understand those strange sounds that were a daily reality, the seed had been planted and soon roots grew. Now, I cannot imagine a day without an aria, or a musical extract from the dramatic, luxurious, magnificent world of the Opera. Opera is Culture, Classical Musical, like Classical Literature, IS Culture. And without it, we are dead. The ones who deny this need to do some serious reading. Vain hope, but still...

So, I was more than eager to hold this collection (and what a beautiful front cover...) in my hands and I wasn't disappointed. A number of today's ‘'biggest'' names have contributed with stories inspired by some of the most famous operas. There were some pretty significant ‘'duds'', written by authors that have never disappointed me before, but what can you do? It happens, once in a while...Still, this book is the perfect company for a midsummer's evening, accompanied by cold wine, and a Puccini aria...

‘'Only the songs knew me - only the songs- the daylight and the dusk, the night and the day.''

First Lady of Song by Jackie Kay: Inspired by The Makropulos Affair by Leoš Janáček. A singer from Prague is made immortal by her father and narrates her story of memory, glory and loss. An elegy to music and a question of whether eternity matters when everyone you love dies and you are the only one left to cope with loss after loss. A 300 years journey and a tale set in Prague? Yes, please!

‘'They stagger out into the light. They stand about ragged dazed, heartbreakingly hopeful. They're like a false resurrection. They look up in the sunlight. Summertime, they sing, and the living is easy. Fish are jumping and the cotton is high.''

Fidelio and Bess by Ali Smith: A brilliant story inspired by Beethoven's Fidelio and Gershwin's Porgy and Bess. A melancholic tale of love, race, gender, sorrow. So beautiful!

‘'But it is a country that looks to me as if it doesn't really need humans. It is large everywhere, pale sometimes in the sunlight, with marks of fierce colour, and the water is that deep and plunging sort that would sooner kill than delight you. Everything is just murderously there. Everything seems as if it is on death row, the grasses, the rocks, the snake, the light.''

Freedom by Sebastian Barry: An Irishman and a Blackfoot, two men from (only seemingly) different worlds find understanding in Music and Theatre. Inspired by Natoma by Victor Herbert.

To Die For by Kate Atkinson: The story of two actresses, an English and an American, with lots of musings in the different perceptions of Art, fame, royalty, etc. This was supposedly inspired by Verdi's La Traviata and it was horrible! Unimaginably awful writing, focus on sex in its most vulgar, ugly form, a ridiculous nymphomaniac as a protagonist. This isn't Opera, this is porn for the uneducated masses. What did the editor have in mind, I wonder?

‘'You're telling me you've never heard Mahler's First Symphony? Eighteen years old! Whatever have they been doing with you all these years?''

Preach!!

‘'Another time, another night, a hot early summer's night, the windows flang wide on the jasmine-scented courtyard below, something crept around the drawing room. Something? - an oboe? A flute?

The Growler by Julie Myerson: Inspired by Ariadne Auf Naxos by Strauss, this is the fascinating, melancholic story of a young au-pair in Florence, and the grandmother of a boy left by his mother because her new boyfriend doesn't like children (!) Beautiful Italian atmosphere, beautiful Italian nature, music and life.

The Ghost by Toby Litt: Inspired by Mozart's Don Giovanni and set in London, this is the creepy story of a young boy and his strange obsession with ghosts and death. However, his incoherent sentences prove to be much more than mere creations of a child's imagination.

P.S.As fantastic as this story may be, I am so done with the ‘'irritating wife who can't see beyond the end of her nose'' trope. My patience, people...

Nemo by Joanna Trollope: Inspired by L'Elisir D'Amore by Donizetti, one of my favourite operas. Truly, if you have never listened to Luciano Pavarotti's mythical, divine rendition of Una Furtiva Lagrima, you need to remedy this NOW!

So, this one was the definition of SACRILEGE! And no, now I refuse to use the phrase ‘'In my opinion.'' Trollope took a mystical experience and reduced it to a feast for horny heathens. She turned the elixir of Love into a pill for sex marathons, if you can believe it! How is supposed to comment on that? She took a creation of our heritage and turned into garbage for the modern masses that can't distinguish between Love and a naked selfie.

And this is the mirror of our pathetic, modern society and every value that has gone down the drain for the sake of modernization...

The Pearl Fishers by Colm Toibin: Inspired by Bizet's Les Pecheurs De Perles. I could never imagine that Toibin would disappoint me. This story started as a feverish tale of childhood, love and abuse, but soon was turned into another ‘'piece'' of graphic, distasteful sex scenes. No. This has nothing to do with Opera. And at this point, I began to fear that a few of these stories served as a vehicle for a certain agenda that is as remote from Culture as I am from Geometry...

Key Note, or, Che Gelida Manina by Anne Enright: Inspired by Puccini's La Bohème, a beautiful story of a poet whose muse is still that young girl he fell in love with, in 1969, in Dublin. Short but powerful.

‘'Like everybody else in the Labour Club, Hazel had come down from the holy mountain and joined the carnival of everyday compromises.''

No kidding...

First Snow by Andrew O'Hagan: Inspired by Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin. Oh, I loved this one! Elegant, funny, and very honest on issues such as pseudo-feminism and the relationships between women and men. At its heart, a complex heroine and a mysterious man with a keen interest in Russian Literature. This is a gem. An ode to Literature, independence and Russian culture. Set in Scotland.

‘'I am speaking personally, but how else is there to speak.''

Goldrush Girl by Jeanette Winterson: Inspired by Puccini's La Fanciulla Del West. From the very first page, this story screams ‘'Jeanette Winterson''. Such a poetic, lyrical tale. Such a beautiful, haunting narration of Puccini's most unique opera. Magnificent!

The Martyr by Ruth Rendell: Inspired by Hendel's Theodora. Read this and weep...
‘'Everyone expects them to behave like hippies.''
Seriously? A sentence like this in a story set in the 4th century AD? Sure, yes, I mean where is Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan? We'll have a Woodstock with peplums! The writer either addressed her story to complete and utter idiots or she didn't care one iota for Language and History and all kinds of basic credibility and went on violating everything. Needless to say, I didn't continue with this abomination.

String and Air by Lynne Truss: Inspired by Britten's The Turn of the Screw. This story was truly amazing! Creepy, atmospheric, moving. Two black cats are the vehicle to a tale of troubled souls and possible curses.

The Empty Seat by Paul Bailey: Inspired by The Makropulos Affair by Leoš Janáček, Die Fledermaus and Der Zigeunerbaron by Strauss. A tender, sad tribute to sacrifice, to the battle against the Nazi monsters, endurance, family and the cruel, yet intoxicating, universe of the Opera.

My Lovely Countess by Antonia Frazer: Inspired by Le Nozze di Figaro by Mozart. What if the beautiful, over-the-top drama of the Opera could be transferred to our own daily life? Well, chaos would follow swiftly. This is a story of revenge and the strange games of Fate, and an ode to the most fascinating female roles of the Opera.

‘'White is the colour of remembrance. The hoar frost on the blades of grass that cling to the castle walls, the hollow between the ribs and the heart. A shroud, a winding sheet, a ghost. Absence. The trees are silhouettes, mute sentinels, slipping from green to grey to black in the twilight. The forest holds its secrets.''

‘'Green is the colour of history. Not the white and black on a page or notes on a stave. Not the frozen grey of tombstones and chapels. It is green that is the colour of time passing. Olive moss, sable in places, covering the crow's feet, cracks in the wall. Emerald weeds that spring up a path long unused. The lichen covering, year by timeless year, the inscription on the headstone, the letters, the remembered name.''

‘'Red is the colour of dying. What else?The violent rays of the setting sun through glass, flooding the chamber crimson. The petals pulled from a rose, strewn on the cobbled stones of a garden no longer tended. The colour of the damaged, beating heart. Blood dripping through the fingers.''

La Fille de Melisande by Kate Mosse: Inspired by Debussy's Pelleas et Melisande. The beauty of Mosse's writing, the atmosphere, the grief, the legend... What a masterpiece in a few pages...

Now the Great Bear... by Andrew Motion: Inspired by Benjamin Britten's Peter Grimes. A family story, narrated through Music and Death. Quiet and haunting.

Forget My Fate by Marina Warner: Inspired by Purcell's Dido and Aeneas. The ordeal of a professor as she struggles to teach one of the immortal legends to a class of young heathens who call themselves ‘classicists'' but dismiss the Classics (...Goodreads community...ahem...) Interesting story, but a tiny bit slow and unnecessarily confusing.

The Albanians by Alexander McCall Smith: Inspired by Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte. A spirited, refreshing story of suspicions, doubts and love, set in Edinburgh.

There is a lovely Epimetre with coherent overviews of each opera that inspired the stories of the collection. And don't mention the word ‘'spoilers'', that ghastly word of our contemporary clueless society. We are readers, for God's sake, we ought to know certain operas by heart...

''Acts of love and death. [...] In the distance, the bell strikes another hour. It marks the end of one history and the beginning of another.''

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

‘'Odysseus, son of Laertes, the great traveller, prince of wiles and tricks and a thousand ways. He showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none.''

Greek Mythology has an infinite number of fascinating women. Goddesses and lesser deities, mortal queens, princesses and priestesses. In my opinion, few are as enchanting and enigmatic as Circe, the most famous witch in the world of gods and mortals.

Circe is a burden to her father, Helios. Too timid for his liking, too honest and too powerful. The Titans do not play that way. Following an act of revenge against one last humiliation, Circe is banished to the island of Aiaia (obviously, I am using the Ancient Greek name), a land somewhere in the Western coast of Italy (presumably...) In the company of beautiful beasts that have become her faithful followers and protectors, Circe weaves all-powerful spells against mortals and deities, the ones who threaten her peace and her honour. Until the day when one more ship arrives, seeking shelter. A vessel that carries Odysseus, the greatest of the Greeks, to her doorstep. And it is then that Circe realizes not all mortals are enemies. The gods, though? Well, that's a different breed...

‘'Spring passed into summer, and summer into fragrant autumn. There were mists now in the morning, and sometimes storms at night. Winter would come soon with its own beauty, the green hellebore leaves shining amid the brown, and the cypresses tall and black against the metal sky.''

This novel had been waiting patiently for two years before I finally chose to read it. I was very hesitant. As a Greek, these myths run in our blood, they are a part of our vast heritage and when I see them maltreated in the hands of writers whose purpose is to serve an agenda, all Hell breaks loose. Like Pat Barker, Madeline Miller respected the origins of Circe's myth and Odysseus' story and created a beautiful, moving novel of perseverance, independence and love, and a cast of balanced and exciting characters. She didn't try to ‘'overthrown'' Homer because this is impossible. It will never be. Homer cannot be surpassed by any writer. Not even the Bard could him justice. And Miller seemed to understand that. In this novel, you will find no caricatures, no ridiculous dividing archetypes of today's culture. No evil VS righteous. Everyone is evil and everyone is righteous. Well, not exactly everyone. Circe's clan is pretty horrible.

Miller recreates a beautiful, mystical scenery in the island of Aiaia, protected by spells and populated by magnificent beasts. A land as enchanting and enticing as its mistress, a determined heroine who tries to escape those who have hurt her because she was different. Some of the most legendary figures in Greek Mythology pass before our eyes and mark Circe's course. Daedalus, Jason, Medea, Ariadne, Hermes, Apollo, Athena. Monsters, heroes, deities, all parts of a majestic tapestry. Circe is an incredible voice. Level-headed, committed to her course, but sensitive enough to bravely acknowledge that there are times when the heart has a mind of its own and there's nothing we can about it.

Apart from Circe, there is Odysseus, portrayed as a hero that has come to dismiss the label, torn between former deeds and present regrets. There is Medea, mad with love and obsessed with a man who doesn't deserve the unbearable sacrifice. Telemachus, every inch the son of his father, and Penelope, the definition of the faithful, honest wife of the absent warrior. Penelope, for me, was the ultimate revelation in Circe. Her character was enriched with her firm belief and Miller worked wonders in every page that depicts a conversation between Circe and Penelope.

Circe has nothing to do with a ‘'feminist approach of the Odyssey.'' These are empty marketing labels and nothing more. They are inadequate, disrespectful and, ultimately, wrong. This novel has nothing to do with the Odyssey. Homer's works do not need modern tropes to justify their existence. The epics are made of greatness. If someone can't see that, I suggest they read some books. This is about Circe. Miller didn't choose the popular way of portraying every male character as a brute. Like Barker's The Silence of the Girls, she created nuisance heroines and heroes. She created a tale whose roots lies deep in the myths that shaped the European culture and demonstrated how legends are always relevant and eternally beloved. If someone's looking for an agenda, try other writers who have grasped the meaning of marketing quite adeptly.

This is a beautiful book, full of respect and tenderness. If only more Greek myths retellings were like this one...

‘'We are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive.''

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

''Don't envy me, my dear. You have your life ahead of you, and mine is behind me. You wouldn't want to be in my body a minute, there are so many aches I've learned to overlook that you would notice; you would find them unendurable.

Kathryn, a young journalist from New York, visits Hope, an elderly artist residing in New England. Through the interaction of the two women and through Hope's memories, we are thrown into the stormy universe of the artists during the turbulent and world-changing decades of the 50s, the 60s and the 70s.

A moving, haunting ode to womanhood, Art, perseverance and acceptance, taking place in the breathtaking scenery of New England.

''The live wet breath of the rain, the sound and stir of it in the dark, the glimpse by doorlight of its vertical rods sparkling with reflections, its towering presence stretching up out of sight into the darkness from which it falls: the beast confronts the two women. The lamps of the living room reveal only a few strides of dead lawn, plus the spangled tops of the bushes planted close to the house, soaked white spiderwebs spread on the flat-cut yew like doilies on a table.''

''Nasla wants to sing,but at night, you do not sing.At night, you sleep.But what if the yellow dotgrows and grows? What ifit becomes big enough to swallow her whole?She would not be ableto sleep or sing.''

A girl is believed to be too old for her toys. Her father has gathered them all on the top of her wardrobe. But Nasla isn't ready to say farewell. She wants to talk to them because they are her true friends, and the only time she can do that is at night.

But grown-ups seem to believe that night is for sleeping. She must sleep.

Our beautiful, mysterious Moon understands Nasla's wish and invites her to a dreamy dance. But Nasla must face her fears.

A beautiful, albeit sad tale about a girl who wants her childhood back.

Beautiful illustrations by Simone Rea.

Many thanks to Princeton Architectural Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

What is a ghost? A tormented soul that has left unfinished business on the world of the living? A soul who cannot find rest because of great wrath, pain, and a deep desire for vengeance? A soul that was wronged and now seeks justice, crying for help? Or is it the reflection of a moment from a dreary past? A supernatural ‘'videotape'' that has a mind of its own and decides to become visible to the eyes of the living?

Whatever the answer may be, ghosts will never cease to fascinate and entice us to discover the truth.

And good luck with that...

Written in simple, yet not simplistic language, full of vivid descriptions and observations, this book is an absolute must-read both for the connoisseurs of the subject and the ones who want to familiarize themselves with arguably, the most perplexing and fascinating problem in the history of mankind.

The wonderfully mysterious Moberly - Jourdain experiences in the Petit Trianon in Versailles, the legendary Bell Witch events in Tennessee, the mythical apparitions of the Scottish castles, the story of Elke Sommer's house in Beverly Hills, ghost photos and the West End hauntings, the incidents in Ardachie Lodge in Glasgow, a haunted radio station in Virginia, the Cock Lane ghost, the eerily cruel events in Borley Rectory, ghost ships and cursed sailors, tormented nuns and monks, victims of Henry VIII's evil scheme of the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the Faces of Bélmez, the Ash Manor ghost, the mysterious Winchester House, stories of the present and the past wonderfully narrated and combines with scientific results for a truly informative experience.

Don't read it before you go to sleep...

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

‘'You think we ought to break up this life, just start and fly by?''

“Humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie is less than a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than the individual because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies. And they say that love is greatest thing, they persist in saying this, the foul liars, and just look at what they do (...It's a lie to say that love is greatest, what people want is hate - hate, and nothing but hate. And in the name of righteousness and love they get it...If we want hate, let us have it - death, murder, torture, violent destruction- let us have it: but not in the name of love.”


A masterpiece, arguably containing the most hideous female character in the history of English Literature. Gudrun has always made me want to gauge her eyes out...Sorry, not sorry!

''But more curious than this was what they saw next: a huge heron, the colour of rain, suddenly emerging from the flood in a fast, steep flight, leaving not even a ripple on the water beneath it. With a languid flap on its wings it came to rest in the crown of the oak, standing over the unlucky farmer, as if on a guard.''

Somewhere in the wilderness, a woman lives alone on a farm next to oppressive neighbours. Years later, another woman lives in a cave, finding help from a father and his young son. Until the day a squad of young troops comes, led by a young woman who has set off to find a wonder. The great heron that can give birth to rain or make it disappear. As we move back and forth in time, we witness the ordeal of the characters within an unforgiving nature. Within their own troubled selves.

''Frozen, palled days, drained of hope, stacked one upon one another.''


Arnott has no mercy for the reader. In a story that is full of shocking moments of raw power on the verge of brutality, a devastating scene early on sets the pace and we understand that this is going to be a dark, dark journey. In the heart of a harsh landscape, haunted by the haunting nature and their choices, the lives of the farmer, the hermit, the young soldier unfold in perfect prose. The chasing of futile dreams, the hunt for the precious ink, the obsession with the heron. Each individual journey is an Odyssey to control the non-human, to bend it to our will. Each character is a tapestry of fear and vices and ambitions. All controversial to the bone, all fascinating. I was particularly intrigued and impressed by the Northerner and Alec, two crucial figures in Zoe's story.

''How does it feel to be followed?''

We gradually realize that the world has changed. A coup has taken place and although its traces are evident even within the natural environment, Arnott doesn't focus on it at all. The central theme of this extraordinary novel lies elsewhere, in my opinion. We desire to control Nature as we control politics, nations. As we THINK we can control Fate. But we are deeply mistaken. We can't control anything. We can't even control ourselves...

Who is Ren? What has happened to her? What does Zoe really want? Who is evil, who is righteous? What is the boundary between the instinct of survival, duty and blind violence?

Written like a dark fairy tale, a haunted forest where death has made its home, and with an elegant, careful touch of Magical Realism, The Rain Heron is one of the best, most original novels of the year.

''Ravens called from the trees, deep rasps, long and loud. Ren watched them hope, black patterns in the branches. Pine needles carpeted the ground beneath them, giving way in small glades to grass, stones, fallen branches, thick moss. The light was weak, interrupted everywhere by the trees and their shadows.''

Many thanks to Atlantic Books and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

Excuse me, but I have no patience for endless room descriptions, unbearable, painfully bad dialogue, degrading remarks towards Jesus, and a main character who is a weakling, the worst kind of housewife who tries to please everyone, afraid to speak her mind. IF she has one, that is.

No.

If we compare this drivel to The Exorcist, we are in certain need of an exorcism...

* My review in English is hiding below *

‘'Λένε ακόμα πως σαν κάποιος διαβεί τη νύχτα από τα περίχωρα της αινιγματικής Κορικότσα, ακούει κραυγές ανθρώπων, γαβγίσματα σκυλιών, μέχρι και κελαηδίσματα πουλιών, που φαίνεται να βγαίνουν από τα σκοτεινά της βάθη. Και στα νερά της φυτρώνουν κάτι φύκια, που της δίνουν ένα μοναδικό πορφυροκίτρινο -σχεδόν χρυσαφένιο - χρώμα, από όπου και προέρχεται το ονομά της.''

Στον υπέροχο πολιτισμό του Περού, ο Ίντι, ο θεός Ήλιος, δημιουργεί τον Άνθρωπο για να μη νιώθει μόνος στις ερημιές του βασιλείου. Πανούργοι θεοί καταριούνται κι ευλογούν τα πλάσματα της φύσης, ενώ ξεγελούν νεαρές θεές και θνητές και τις οδηγούν στην απελπισία. Φιλόδοξες γυναίκες αρνούνται την οικογένεια τους κάτω από τις διαταγές δαιμόνων και ο Κόνδορας ερωτεύεται μια βοσκοπούλα. Τι γίνεται όμως όταν μια από τις κόρες του Ήλιου τολμά να ερωτευτεί έναν θνητό; Αδιάκριτα αγόρια δολοφονούν γιαγιάδες και γίνονται αστέρια. Μωρά πεθαίνουν όσο ξαφνικά γεννήθηκαν και υπέροχα λουλούδια εμφανίζονται στους τάφους τους. Κοπέλες προσπαθούν να φτάσουν το Φεγγάρι και γίνονται νούφαρα. Άλλες αγνοούν τους κινδύνους που παραμονεύουν στα πυκνά δάση, κυνηγώντας πεταλούδες.

Σκοτεινοί, γοητευτικοί, κτηνώδεις, οι μύθοι του Περού είναι μοναδικοί.

_______________________

‘'It is said that whoever treads the outskirts of the enigmatic Coricancha hears humans screaming, dogs breaking, birds chirping as if they're coming from Coricancha's dark recesses. And in her waters, seaweeds grow, painting her with a unique red and yellow - almost golden - colour and this is how her name was born.''

In the myths of Peru, Inti, the Sun God, creates the Human in order not to feel alone in the wilderness of his kingdom. Cunning gods curse and bless the creatures of Nature, while tricking young goddesses and mortals, driving them to despair. Ambitious women deny their families under the orders of demons and the Condor falls in love with a shepherdess. But what happens when one of the daughters of the Sun God falls in love with a mortal man? Inquisitive boys murder grandmothers and become stars. Babies die as suddenly as they were born and beautiful flowers spring from their graves. Young women try to reach the Moon and are turned to water lilies. Others ignore the dangers lurking in the thick forests, chasing butterflies.

Dark, fascinating, brutal, the myths of Peru are unique.

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

‘'If you saw the moonTiptoe past your window,What would you do?Would you nestle under the covers Or step outside, too?''

There is something mysterious and fascinating and addictive (...and frightening...) about the world at night. When everything goes silent and we are all in our beds, trying to let our minds rest from the troubles of the day. But this is the mind of us adults who have forgotten to search deeper, who take everything for granted. What about our children? What do they think about the nightly world? Many of them fear it. What we must do is help them understand that the world isn't exactly still and enclosed in absolute silence when the sun goes to sleep. On the contrary, there is a wild dance of life in nature, once the stars appear...

Narrated in ethereal rhymes and illustrated with Kelly Pousette's dreamy paper-cut dioramas against the dark, nightly sky, this is the story of a child who decides to explore the world at night. Badgers, owls, frogs, otters, coyotes escort the excited child to a journey through a world that is wide awake under the light of the moon.

This is indeed a story stitched by starlight and daylight...

‘'If you were nightAnd you saw an owl swoop from a brunch,Would you hide behind a shadow?Or would you joinThe thrilling hunt, too?''‘'If you were nightAnd all around was quietAnd all around was growing bright,Would you stay up to tasteA drop of morning dew?Or would you close your tired eyesAnd let the lightness carry you, too?''

Many thanks to Kids Can Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

''The storm comes in like a finger snap. That's how they'll speak in the months and years after, when it stops being only an ache behind their eyes and crushing at the base of their throats. When it finally fits into stories. Even then, it doesn't tell how it actually was. There are ways words fall down: they give shape too easily, carelessly. And there was no grace, no ease to what Maren saw.''

Norway, 17th century. Isolated from the mainland, the women of Vardø, a fishing village, have remained alone to support themselves, after a terrible storm that led to the death of almost every man of the village. Loyal to the traditions of their homeland, they haven't forgotten to pay homage to the myths of old along with their Christian faith. But hostility does live among them, and when a strange man (who is actually a witch hunter) arrives escorted by his young, frightened wife, danger is more tangible than ever. Whispers of witchcraft get louder and louder and no woman is safe anymore.

Kiran Millwood Hargrave has created an ambitious work, composed of a number of themes often found in today's Historical Fiction novels. The era when witch trials monopolized the people's interest, a time when men (and women) used religion as a means to get rid of the ones who were brave enough to follow their own route, serves as the backdrop for a story of womanhood and bravery.

Centred around a beautiful relationship, the strength of Maren and Ursa demonstrates the power of women who are united, supporting each other, protectors and nurturers. And we are also shown the results of discord when hostility and envy bring about imminent danger. Naturally, men use this to their advantage. The writing is beautiful and atmospheric. The details of the daily life of women, the chores, their gatherings are depicted to perfection. The harsh land, the whimsical sea, the wind, the fire, the traditions, everything that comes in our minds when we think of Norway can be found within the pages of this beautiful novel.

However, there are a few problems, in my opinion. I felt that the story became easily predictable, especially if the reader has read tons and tons of Historical Fiction. There are many repetitive references to Ursa's past in Bergen and, truthfully, I am quite tired of seeing the trope of ugly sex between wives and husbands. It's been done to death and modern writers are not D.H.Lawrence. The most important problem I faced was the dialogue. At times, it seemed a victim of the syndrome of the YA writer who decided to write a novel for adults. It is not as jarring as in other similar cases, but it is there.

The Mercies is one more example of a successfully constructed Historical Fiction novel that inserts contemporary issues in fine unison with History without being too modern or implausible. Populated with interesting characters, centred around two marvellous women and their relationship, rich in Norwegian atmosphere. It may not be perfect, but we sure do need more novels such as this.

''She knows what they are: hallowed ground, blessed by a man of God, holding naught but the remains of their men. But here, with the wind whistling through the open channels of their island, and the lit houses at her back, walking towards them seems as ill-fated as stepping from a cliff. She imagines them crashing up, thrashing down and the world seems to rock beneath her feet.''

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

Yoshie Watanabe returns to a tumultuous past, in the aftermath of the devastating Fukushima earthquake in 2011. His recollections are centred around his relationships with women around the world and Japan's position since the 40s. An ambitious premise, but the writer falls short. Extremely short, in my opinion.

Watanabe's lovers are given what seems to be a powerful, determined and confident voice. But their desperate focus on sex diminished them in my eyes, and every character (Watanabe included) was so cold, so distant, so impossibly empty... The story takes us on a journey to Tokyo, Paris, New York, Buenos Aires and Madrid and touches, primarily, on the status of Japan following the war, the difficult questions raised by Japan's actions during WWII but there is no mention of Japan's unimaginable atrocities against China. Naturally, there is extensive reference to the events in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, all the way to the era of the Cold War, Chernobyl and out times.

Now there was a significant problem I faced which ruined the book irreversibly. Watanabe's remarks were nationalistic and misogynistic. Was the writer's intention to make him appear thus? Did his musings reflect the writer's own opinions? Regardless of the answer, it became a chore to read once repetition and dubious political remarks got in the way. The anti-nuclear message is evident, and rightly so, but there is a thin line between so-called activism and ignorance of the historical facts. The need to justify the actions of the Japanese army during WWII while turning the blind eye to the massacre in China was infuriating. It was ridiculous. It was horrible. The remark that Germany ‘'is the bravest nation'' because they ‘'had the guts to admit'' the atrocities was the phrase that made me want to throw my e-reader away. Really? Does the Argentinian writer (who apparently has Jewish roots (!) although I doubt it...) believe that a mea culpa absolves you? The torture my grandfather went through in Dachau isn't erased by a billion ‘'I'm sorry''. The burnt villages, the executed families, the millions of Jews, the millions of victims of the Nazis tyranny, the soldiers of the Allies that lived Hell on Earth in the battlefields of the Pacific aren't forgotten because a politician whispers an insincere ‘'I'm sorry''. I suggest Churchill's biography to the writer in order to understand what it means to be a fighter to free the world from darkness. If the writer wishes to feel pity for the Nazis, the Japanese, the Turks and every army that caused terror during the WWII, there are many ‘'squads'' he can join. I am disgusted. This is my opinion and whether others disagree with me or not doesn't interest me in the slightest. Each one of us answers to his own private code of morality. I answer to the wound of my family's torment during WWII.

In addition, the focus on sex was cheap, voyeuristic, degrading. One more reason for me to throw this away.

Yes, the prose may have been beautiful at times, and the spirit of each city was depicted in a direct, moving way. But, in my opinion, political and social themes were used in a lengthy lecture with the reader as the target audience. And I don't like being lectured by writers who most obviously retain a frightening kind of political agendas. And yes, this is a political disagreement and a deep loathing of seeing the repetition of sex being used as a ‘‘literary'' trope. It's my opinion and I won't ask anyone's permission. Perhaps, we should leave the tremendously talented Japanese writers to write about Japan.

ARC from Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

'Never underestimate the power of dreams and the influence of the human spirit. We are all the same in this notion: The potential for greatness lives within each of us. ‘'

Wilma Rudolph

On June 23, 1940, a beautiful baby girl was the new arrival in a family of 22 siblings, Tennessee. At the age of four, she contracted polio, one of the most terrible diseases at the time, and it was thought unlikely that she would ever walk again without a brace. But the girl's mother was a strong, determined woman who didn't lose courage and the young girl was never afraid. She loved gazelles and decided that one day, she would run faster than them.

‘'My doctor told me I would never walk again. My mother told me I would. I believed my mother.''

Wilma Rudolph

The girl was in the safe arms of a loving family. The years went by and by the age of nine, the young girl didn't need her brace. She could walk. She could run like a wind. Like a gazelle. She led her basketball team to the state championship and won the bronze medal in the Melbourne Olympics in 1956, running the 400- metre relay. Nothing would ever stop her. Four years later, in Rome, in the Olympics that changed the world, she became the first woman to win three gold medals. Back home, people of all colours joined the celebrations. The fastest woman in the world showed that all we need is the undying belief in ourselves. She became an inspiration for unity, strength and determination.

‘'Never underestimate the power of dreams and the influence of the human spirit. We are all the same in this notion: The potential for greatness lives within each of us.''

Wilma Rudolph

Her name was Wilma Rudolph.

‘'I believe in me more than anything in this world.''

Wilma Rudolph

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/