Amalia Gkavea

‘'The Elves explained that this chain, called Gleipnir, was made from six ingredients:The sound of a cat's footstepsThe roots of a mountainThe beard of a womanThe sinews of a bearThe breath of a fishThe spittle of a bird.''

Isn't it wonderful how we see images in our minds? How we form them and give them shape and voice? From the face on the moon to the shapes in the clouds, and all those strange creatures, the offspring of our imagination (or are they...?) that have shaped our fears and warn us to be cautious, to respect what we cannot understand.

Which we don't but that is a discussion for another time.

Creatures known and obscure from America, Europe, Africa, Asia and Oceania. From Pegasus to Chimera, from Medusa to Fenrir, from Quetzalcoatl to Encantado and Zilant, from Ratatoskr to Anansi, from the Yeti to Anubis and Bastet, from Shenlong to Barong and Tanuki, travel around the world guided by a rather formidable company.

Amazing artwork, brilliantly written.

Many thanks to Laurence King Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

'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/

I have long coveted the Little People, Big Dreams series. It seems to me that the time has come for the intermediate students to familiarize themselves with writers, scientists, artists that have shaped our world, our cultures, our spiritual wealth. A tricky business it proves to be because children have grown so attached to technology and social media that everything remotely associated with books and culture is a cause for major sulking on their part. Oh, well...We teachers are a resilient race, we refuse to give up.

Starting the series with Mary Shelley was a no-brainer. Although I've never been an avid admirer of Frankenstein, I am deeply fascinated by the sheer courage and intelligence of Mary Shelley. A woman who grew up without her mother, went against the norms of her era, followed her heart and intuition, and produced one of the most imaginative and terrifying stories, combining science, psychology and folklore. Born out of a competition of great minds, in a villa in Switzerland, Frankenstein became an immortal creation, full of symbolism and literary value. Mary Shelley defied a plethora of stereotypes, proving that a woman can produce stories that are richer than a traditional romance melodrama. Now, if only more writers of our times could actually remember that and stop producing garbage...

Embellished with beautiful, gothic illustrations, this little book is the perfect introduction to a writer that was a true pioneer, an undying spirit (no pun intended) and an icon for persistence and courage.

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/

Studying any material related to autism should be mandatory for all teachers. Apart from the actual teaching of a specific subject, we must support our students, we must care for them and their problems and do everything within our means to help them. We didn't choose this profession to kill time, we chose to be teachers out of love for children and the need to offer. At least that would happen in an ideal world. Unfortunately, there's always a significant number of teachers who consider teaching a chore that they must carry out and be done with it. Psychology and research mean very little to them. So, this is not reading material for these ‘'teachers''. However, it is of special importance to the rest of us. Dr. Sarah Bagiela has developed a concise booklet on the ways autism can be diagnosed and its influence on various aspects of daily life.

‘‘Camouflage''. An excellent choice for the title of the booklet, in my opinion. Dr. Bagiela stresses the differences between women diagnosed with autism and men who face the same situation and presents a number of extremely interesting conclusions. Women hide, camouflage autism by resorting to social mimicry skills. In my opinion, this is one more indicator of the subconscious, powerful influence of social norms on the sexes. Developed around three interviews of women diagnosed with autism, we are introduced to the notions of restricted interests, repetitive behaviours, and sensitivities. The difficulty of social interactions and the importance of interests in the life of these women. And what about men, you may ask. This is not a book on men with autism but on the secrecy and complexity of the world of autistic women. It has nothing to do with equality or inequality as a review mentioned and it's time to stop seeing monsters where there are none. It's getting tiresome. Researchers deal with specific fields. This is exactly a specific field, whether some like it or not (or choose to let their prejudices blind them...) And it is an excellent read.

Enriched with beautiful illustrations by Sophie Standing in green, orange and white and with a very interesting bibliography, Camouflage will interest those who seek to start reading on autism and the ones who have extensive knowledge on the subject. It is moving, powerful and very, very real.

Many thanks to Jessica Kingsley Publishers and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

‘'Yesterday she saved your life, slew a wicked magician, set fire to Moscow and then saved it all in a single night. Do you think she will consent to disappear, for the price of a dowry- for any price? Do you know my sister?''

It is seldom that the third book of a trilogy ends up being the finest. However, this is exactly what happened with The Winter of the Witch. The final installment of a saga created with absolute beauty and dark grace by Katherine Arden is one to remember and cherish, in a trilogy that defied all genres and labels, making its way to be a classic. I firmly believe that The Winternight Trilogy will keep company to generations of readers who will fall in love with the wealth of the Russian culture, the myths, the legends, the traditions.

‘'But she saw the devils, despite the dark. There were silhouetted atop roofs and walls: domoviye and dvorovije and banniki, the faint house-spirits of Moscow. They were there, but what could they do but watch? Chyerti are formed by the currants of human life; they ride them, but they do not interfere.''

Three things are the ones that make the trilogy perfect: a supreme heroine, the exquisite descriptions of the Russian landscape and the theme of the never-ending battle between the old world and the new, the pagan beliefs and the Christian religion. All these elements are done to perfection in the 3rd book. As Vasya fights for survival, justice and balance, she undertakes a long journey to a harsh, mystical haunting realm. Arden's writing is extraordinarily beautiful as we are wondering in the land of Midnight or the scorching Moscow summer. The scenery changes and changes and along with it Vasya is transformed. The glorious city, the realms of magic, everything is a part of a greater world and everything is a link in a chain that must not break because a dangerous foe is approaching, a horde that doesn't care for the old and the new, desiring to establish its own dynasty.

Arden gives us princesses and princes, knights and priests. Wise women, artists, animals touched by magic. Demons and spirits of nature. The entire Russian folklore lives in the pages of the book and it never looked more beautiful, more mystical, more threatening. Marya Morevna, the Baba Yaga, the Firebird and the chyerti, the domovoi and the upyr in a particularly powerful, shocking chapter. Polunochnitsa and her dark domain, the Midday demon, the horses of legends, the women graced (or cursed) with the Sight. These are the pawns of the fight between the living and what they can't see, the world they can't believe in. The division that feeds their need to destroy what they fear because they are unable to understand.

‘'I am a witch'', said Vasya. Blood was running down her hand now, spoiling her grip. ‘'I have plucked snowdrops at Midwinter, died at my own choosing, and wept for a nightingale. Now I am beyond prophecy.'' She caught his knife on the crosspiece of hers, hilt to hilt. ‘'I have crossed three times nine realms to find you, my lord. And I find you at play, forgetful.''

I cannot begin to tell you how much I adore the relationship between Vasya and Morozov and here their dynamic is more electrifying than ever. Is it strange and dark and possibly twisted? Well, it may be and this is exactly what makes me love them so much. They are my favourite literary couple, after Heathcliff and Catherine, and yes, I know I am weird. Vasya continues to remain one of my favourite female protagonists, not only because of her bravery and determination but mostly because Arden chose to make her as real as she could given the premise of the story. She doesn't refrain from fear and insecurity and despair or even one or two questionable decisions and this is how you create a believable, relatable main character in a fantasy setting. Strange as it may sound, though, the character I was always anxious to meet in a chapter was Konstantin. He is desperate and lost and all sorts of confused and you cannot help but be hypnotized by his presence. His chemistry with Vasya is explosive.

So, I am sad to leave the Winternight universe. A trilogy created through haunting sceneries, an exceptional cast of characters, impeccable dialogue and endless respect to the immortal heritage of the Russian tradition, Katherine Arden, thank you for three marvelous journeys.

‘'Men fear what they do not understand'', murmured the Bear. ‘'They hurt you. They beat you, spat on you, put you in the fire. Men will suck all the wilderness out of the world, until there is no place for a witch0girl to hide. They will burn you and your kind.''

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

Boring characters, wooden dialogue,unengaging storyline.The start was almost laughably bad. A Charlotte Gray wannabe that comes across as a poor chick-lit example. Fortunately, there are many, many well-written WWII books that convey the hardships and the heroism of the era.

''But coming out of that sleep was excruciating. My entire life flashed before my eyes in the worst way possible, my mind refilling itself with all my lame memories, every little thing that had brought me to where I was. I'd try to remember something else- a better version, a happy story, maybe, or just an equally lame but different life that would at least be refreshing in its digressions - but it never worked. I was always still me.'‘

The amount of stupidity aimed towards this novel by some members (who are unable to spot the difference between Dickens and the latest ‘‘o-so-cool - and superb- and whatnot YA writer) is unimaginable. What does the fact that the main character is ‘‘tall, blonde, thin and rich'' have to do with anything? Are there any new criteria regarding a character's external appearance on which we should determine their literary value? Is there a special measuring tape for problems and their importance and their use as a plot device? So the character is self-absorbed, isn't she?

Well, news flash. We all ARE! Every single creature on this idiotic planet is self-absorbed to various degrees. We are no Jesus Christ or Virgin Mary. We are not pure and innocent. So, I suggest some of us step down from our righteous pink bubble and face reality.

This is a marvellous book with an excellent heroine by an exceptional writer. End of story!

‘'The week before Christmas, when snow seemed to lie thickest, was the moment for carol-singing; and when I think back to those nights it is to the crunch of snow and to the lights of the lanterns on it.''

In literary terms, few things scream ‘'Christmas'' like a short stories collection. Along with ghost tales, short stories capture the literary spirit of Christmas in terms of atmosphere, customs, feelings. From Dickens - the man who created Christmas as we've come to know it- to contemporary writers, Christmas has inspired monumental moments in Literature. The family gatherings, dysfunctional or loving. The carols, the snow that covers cities, towns, and villages. The people who adore the holidays, those who try to impress and the ones who are less fortunate and let Christmas pass them by. This is the festive mise-en-scène of the 13 stories in ...A Vintage Christmas.

Carol-Barking from Cider With Rosie by Laurie Lee: A tender chapter on carols, wishes, and teenage competition.
Obadiah Oak, Mrs Griffiths and the Carol Singers from Notwithstanding by Louis de Bernières: A sad story about a bitter woman who spent her entire life sulking and distancing herself from every joy.
The Turkey Season from The Moon of Jupites by Alice Munro: A story about turkeys and coming of age in a narrow-minded society. This one was disappointing. Tasteless, crude, borderline disgusting. I don't think that this story should have been included in this collection.
Christmas at Thompson Hall by Anthony Trollope: I think most of us women know that simple flu or the common cold seem like signs of imminent death to most men. They are not the most patients creatures when it comes to illness. In this marvelous story, a young wife tries to soothe her hypochondriac husband's ‘'suffering'' and gets herself in trouble.
Christmas Shopping from The Green Road by Anne Enright: An over-stressed woman prepares for the extravagance of a very particular Christmas dinner.
Conscience Pudding from The New Treasure Seekers by Edith Nesbit: The custom of the Christmas pudding goes horribly wrong for four children in this comic and melancholic story.
Christmas at Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons: A funny and picturesque chapter but the Sussex idiom was too distracting and reading this proved a struggle.

‘'He told me, coming home, that he hopes the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.''

There Never Was Such a Goose from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens: The beloved figure of Tiny Tim are enough to bring tears in our eyes. The quirky ghost of Christmas Present shows Scrooge that life can be beautiful even in poverty and hardships. As long as you have love in your heart.
Let Nothing You Dismay by Helen Simpson: A story that is the epitome of some serious humbug! I'm sorry but this abomination shouldn't have found itself in the company of Dickens and Trollope.
Christmas is a Sad Season for the Poor by John Cheever: A sad story about the unique ways in which people can be kind and cruel to each other. About the darker side of Christmas, the loneliness and isolation.
A Serious Talk from What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver: A very sad occasion of an extremely dysfunctional couple.
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle by Arthur Conan Doyle: ‘'My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know.''

So, this collection isn't perfect and it isn't as ‘'vintage'' as I would have liked. However, it is a nice company for the holidays and a chance to reminisce on Christmas Past...

‘'And two thousand Christmases became real to us then; the houses, the halls, the places of paradise had all been visited; the stars were bright to guide the Kings through the snow; and across the farmyard we could hear the beasts in their stalls. We were given roast apples and hot mince-pies, in our nostrils were spices like myrrh, and in our wooden box, as we headed back for the village, there were golden gifts for all.''

Many thanks to 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

''Which is to say that wrong choices can produce right results, and vice versa. I myself have adopted the position that, in fact, we never choose anything at all. Things happen. Or not.''

I admit I had never read any of Murakami's works before I bought Desire, a part of the beautiful Vintage Minis series. The reason may sound a bit selfish and unfair but I am always honest, I can't help it. Seeing posts on Instagram by people who haven't even opened a newspaper to read the weather forecast, proclaiming a book by Murakami to be ‘‘OMG, the best book eeeeever!!!!'' made me nauseous. So, I stayed away, faithful to my obnoxious conviction that ‘‘popular'' and ‘‘fashionable'' = dubious quality. However, a beloved fellow teacher and esteemed colleague swears by Murakami's writing and I decided that Desire would be a nice chance to finally ‘‘meet'' the acclaimed writer. Being a lover of Japanese Literature, I quickly became an admirer from the first pages.

Murakami writes about one of the most powerful emotions. Desire. However, he doesn't limit himself to the οne-dimensional, sexual meaning of the word. He writes about desire as an expression of hunger for understanding, connection, and fulfillment. Wandering in the districts of Tokyo, the high-tech, mysterious and quirky metropolis during late autumn and stopping in Prague, in a Kafka-esque scenery, we try to come to terms with the void of loneliness, the hope of togetherness and the uncertainty of our choices.

The Second Bakery Attack : A young married couple decides to rob McDonald's. The reason? A teenage folly and a sudden, insatiable hunger.

On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning: Our heart works in such mysterious, metaphysical ways and sometimes, life seems to move within an impossible circle. How do we decide who is the right person? And do we actually ‘‘decide'' or is Fate the absolute controller? What if our soulmate has already passed us by in a crowded street and we'll never come to know whether anything was possible? A story that will move even the coldest of hearts. A story that can win the heart of a stranger.

Birthday Girl: A young woman narrates the strange incidents that took place on her 20th birthday. Murakami guides us into the world of restaurants and introduces a strange millionaire with a unique gift. But can our hunger be fulfilled with a wish? This story was my favourite in the collection.

''But the streets are crowding with soldiers and tanks. There are checkpoints on all the bridges, and people are being rounded up. That's why the men in my family can't go out. Once you get arrested, there's no telling when you'll return. That's why I was sent. All the way across Prague, alone.'' No one will notice a hunchback girl,'' they said. ‘'

Samsa In Love: Prague possibly during the 1968 Revolution. This is the setting of a story that pays homage to one of Murakami's major influences, Franz Kafka. An intriguing girl, a broken lock and a man who finds himself transformed into...a human being. His name might sound familiar to you. Gregor Samsa.

A Folklore For My Generation: A Prehistory of Late-Stage Capitalism: An elegy to the generation of Flower Power, complicated youth, and a love that is defeated by an unfulfilled hunger.

I won't tire you with my musings. I only want to say that I cannot wait to read everything by Haruki Murakami. Sometimes, there is a reason why a writer is so popular. In this case, it is perfectly understandable.

''It's strange, isn't it?'', the woman said in a pensive voice. ‘‘Everything is blowing up around us, but there are still those who care about a broken lock, and others who are dutiful enough to try to fix it...But maybe that's the way it should be. Maybe working on the little things as dutifully and honestly as we can is how we stay sane when the world is falling apart.''

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

'We were a family and now we're not any more. We're the wrong number. It's all wrong. I can't cry. I can't.''‘

The times we live in are uncertain, turbulent, obscure. Financial insecurity, fear caused by leaders who dream of generating the Third World War, Nazi and Soviet sympathizers in power, presidents who believe themselves to be modern sultans, members leaving the Union they fought hard to form. Utter degradation of every basic human value, absence of feelings, absence of respect. This is our world today. This is the world that seems to suffocate Bea and Dan, motivating them to find some form of escape. The young Londoners travel to France to aid Alex, Bea's brother, with his ‘'duty'' in an almost run-down hotel. Little do they know...

One needs to tread carefully because almost 50% of the novel is set upon a trap of spoilers. The themes and the consequences of the characters' choices are irreversibly linked throughout the story. To begin with, the first chapter is striking. It immediately attracted my attention, it was the perfect introduction. In Part One, I felt that the motif was inspired by the Seven Deadly Sins, a prominent decoration in the hotel with no guests. A hotel whose only occupants are dust and snakes. The reptiles can be heard during the night, an ominous sound, a threat that cannot be seen, unpredictable and deadly. A symbol of suspicion and treachery, the fragility of a marital relationship and the influence of the parents and the social background.

What I perceived to be a prominent question was the significance of money and social influence as our goals in life. What about those of us who believe that there are values more important and crucial than material wealth? Are we weak? Are we lacking in ambition? We hardly care. This is who we are. This fight is successfully depicted in the clash between Bea, an extremely well-written protagonist, and Griff, her father, one of the most horrible characters, a truly despicable man.

Despite the undoubtedly sensual, dark prose, there were a few problems that became noticeable soon. On a personal level, I was almost offended by the writer's nihilistic and dismissive views on religion. As someone who believes, I felt Jones included a derogatory monologue for the sake of serving a ‘'modernity'' that calls for the rejection of anything that has to do with spirituality. Yes, by all mean, do worship your new mobile phones. They're so important...What logic is there? Am I not educated? Am a less adequate reader because I am a Christian? This is utter bullshit. Next time, place a special sticker on the cover, stating ‘'I don't want my books to be read by Christians.'' And as a reminder, the Seven Deadly Sins weren't created by themselves, Sadie Jones.

I couldn't understand what was the need for the emphasis on Bea's presumably less- than- perfect external appearance. It didn't feel ‘'literary'' but a cliché derived from a boring thriller. There was too much swearing and, frankly, the book was too long. 100 pages less would have been ideal with better-placed dialogue and a more careful linking of the themes. I believed I was about to read a literary social commentary. At worst, a literary thriller. I was extremely attracted to it and its dark tone. And then, it became a rich family soap-opera, complete with the subjectively neglected husband trope and I grew cold. And bored. I am not interested in parties, estates, and inheritances. However, Part Four was very good. A number of subplots remained unresolved but the ending was astonishing. Absolutely shocking. You'll have to read it to experience how powerful it is.

So, I admit I am conflicted about the rating. With the exception of Part Three, which was pretty bad, this is a hypnotizing novel. It lures you and it's difficult to detach yourself even though you know you won't end up loving it completely. I think it will be one of the most talked-about novels of the year and despite the issues I faced, it has stayed with me. This speaks for itself. I feel that 4 stars is a fair rating.

Many thanks to 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

‘'Somewhere a tide is turning. In that place where no land can be seen, where horizon to horizon is spanned by shifting twinkling faithless water, a wave humps it back and turns over with a sigh, and sends its salted whispering to Mr Hancock's ear.''

London, 1785. Swiftly, we are let in two very different worlds that are about to be united under extraordinary circumstances. Mr Hancock, a moderately wealthy merchant, has acquired a marvellous creature. Angelica Neal is an accomplished courtesan that has come to admire his new possession. And what may that be? Well, a mermaid! And now, they are thrown into a series of dubious choices, chances and hopes in the opulent city and the peaceful countryside.

‘'We fill their minds even when we are far away. They fancy they see us even when they do not. They tell one another stories about us.''

Imogen Hermes Gowar creates a very special example of Historical Fiction. Beyond the magnificent depiction of 18th century London, beyond our vivid transportation to the world of the courtesans and the merchants, two professions that seem to look for wonders, taking every chance that comes their way, beyond the need for love, she connects the elusive legendary figure of the Mermaid to the ‘'icon'' of the beautiful, desired women. Both are sought after, tirelessly wanted. Once someone is fortunate enough to ‘'possess'' them - literally, mind you - they become creatures to be put in a cage for profit. The Mermaid brings money. The Woman brings earthly pleasure but must ‘'belong'' to one man only. Even if he is a scoundrel and a liar.

‘'A loss is not a void.''

Imogen Hermes Gowar populates her beautiful story with fascinating characters. Good and bad, most of them grey. Real, tangible, easy to identify in all societies. But the main duo is a true force. Angelica's spirit seems to mirror Hancock's calm and need for a life with meaning. Her unafraid attitude to stand for herself against men and women who want to exploit and diminish her reflects his decision to abandon his microcosm and see all anew. They both make mistakes - who doesn't? - and learn from them under the ever-watchful eye of the Mermaid.

The element of Magical Realism is cleverly and uniquely used to advance the story, walking side-by-side with very human, very familiar emotions and obstacles. And this is how an extraordinary novel is born.

‘'I am here; I am here; you are not alone. Here I am; I am grief, the living child of your suffering. I am the grief that sits within you; I am the grief that sits between you. You will bury me but I shall rise up.You will not know me, but I shall make myself known to you.''

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

  One of the weakest volumes in the series, filled with stories that felt focused on being gross and shocking, And NOT in a pleasantly literary way. Stories like Sink Rate by David Frankel should come with a tiger warning and I am a sworn enemy to trigger warnings. However, some of us do travel a lot, others have experienced traumatic events related to flights. Why any editor would think this story should be included in the collection is beyond me. Others like RZ Baschir's The Chicken and Will Wiles's The Meat Stream were horrible, unreadable. If these writers have won ‘awards' for their writing, I pity us all contemporary readers.
When you only enjoy 10 out of 20 stories, the omens are not in your favour, right? On the bright side, these 10 stories are easily among the best I've ever read, born out of bold ideas and exceptional writing.
How You Find Yourself (Sara Sherwood): A life narrated in relationships with acute remarks on womanhood and intimacy.
Single Sit (Edward Hogan): The lightning relationship between an employer and an employee, set in the quietly haunting English landscape.
Offcomers (Rosanna Hildyard): In a situation that mirrors the time of the pandemic, a couple (not a father and a daughter as an idiot below would have you believe...) tries to cope with the risks of farming. Except the husband is an absolute brute. Set in the rugged land of Yorkshire.
‘'A window a table a recess with a lamp.A window a table.A moon looking in.''
Square/Recess/Moon (Ben Pester): A brilliant, evocative metaphor for the loneliness and frustrations of modern life. Extraordinarily beautiful writing.
Sarcophagus (Alice M): A woman narrates her thoughts while being in an MRI scan machine.
The Comet (Sonya Moor): A make-up artist narrates her meeting with Simone Veil, the French politician who survived the unimaginable horror of Auschwitz and went on to pass the legalization of abortion in 1975. Moving, poignant, the absolute gem in the collection.
A Visit to the Bonesetter (Christopher Burns): This story scared the living daylights out of me. In a dystopian society, a married couple gets a taste of the authority's desire to eradicate what makes us humans.
An Easement (Paul Mcquade): A new life awaits the lovers of our story, yet new beginnings are seldom pleasant. An atmospheric story set in the rural landscape of the USA.
New To It All (Sean Padraic Birnie): A body horror tale done right. Exquisitely disconcerting.
Wild City (Sophie Mackintosh): A designer returns to a city that has decided to make the transition from urban to rural in a dystopian setting that looks eerily familiar. 

‘Once I have owned a book I am longing for the next one. Collecting is a creative act. One of perpetual longing and desire. One is never fully fulfilled. Collections live in dread of satisfaction. There is that brief, transitory moment of satisfaction and then it disappears like dust in the air. We live to long after something, we know and accept the power of longing and desire. We are under no illusion that what we want is the unobtainable.''

Violet is a young woman living in Edwardian England, in an era of change. However, this process has nothing to do with her. She is the young wife of a dashing landowner and has just given birth to their son. Suffering from severe postpartum depression, Violet becomes extremely cautious of the world around her. Suspicions, doubts, the disappearance of a book of fairy tales and the presence of the nearby asylum looming over her life create cracks in her seemingly picturesque family. And what happens when obsession becomes reality?

I want you to think of a long, dark corridor. There are closed doors everywhere. Each door you open hides a small portion of the story. A young woman whose sanity has been snatched away, a young mother holding her baby, a book written on the finest vellum, speaking in hushed whispers. It's a labyrinth of souls and there is no way out...This is the best description of this extraordinary novel by Alice Thompson.

''One scene showed Elise throwing her eleven nettle shirts over her eleven brothers in ‘The Wild Swans' to transform the princes from swans back into men. Violet could clearly see the youngest brother still brandishing one wing for an arm. The scene from ‘The Little Mermaid' showed the mermaid, having had her tail transformed into legs by the witch, dancing with the prince, but feeling as if she were walking on the sharp edge of swords. Violet could see the blood flowing from the mermaid's legs. The third scene was from ‘The Red Shoes'. Here the headsman was cutting off the dancer's feet imprisoned in the red shoes so that she could finally stop her relentless dancing.''

Thompson depicts the dark nature of the most well-known fairy tales in extraordinary detail and connects it to the heroine of the novel who becomes the protagonist in a tragically twisted fable. Hallucinations, manipulation, depression surround Violet like demons. Thompson makes use of the tropes of the Victorian Novel in all its Gothic glory but what makes The Book Collector special is the accurate depiction of the brutality and rawness of a society that bows to decorum, utterly devoid of understanding, always willing to abandon the ones in need. They should either be locked away and silenced or crushed once and for all.

Violet is quite the unreliable narrator. She may test your limits with her way of thinking but I loved her. She tries to become ‘the angel of the house' only to turn into a doubter. Thompson creates a story full of darkness and disturbing images that may or may not be real. And every page becomes a door...

If you don't like your books hauntingly dark, this novel may not be for you. But if you proclaim yourself a Gothic soul, The Book Collector is waiting...

P.S.I am against trigger warnings and I never include them in my reviews. We are grown-up readers. We don't need any kind of ‘‘warnings''. A powerful book is powerful through raw descriptions and intricate themes. The rest are trivial peeves.

''That night she dreamt of a naked corpse hanging in a room of dark rocks, arms and legs pulled apart in a triangle, an image from the anatomy book she had been reading. The skin had been peeled off to reveal the bloodied flesh of the body, the vein, the muscles. Flies hovered in the air. Discarded strips of skin lay around on the floor. She tried not to retch as she bent over on the floor, the hem of her dress becoming soaked in blood, her pale satin pumps now soiled red in a lacy filigree.''

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

‘'Inhale the scent of a forest close by. I can smell the earthy fragrance of autumn as night falls, the leaves gently rustling, I can feel the damp air of dusk descending.''

Our story begins in autumn. Tomura, a young man from Hokkaido, starts working as an apprentice to a piano tuner, a charming man named Mr. Yanagi. Tomura meets all kinds of clients, some sensitive, others abrupt and demanding, but no meeting influences him more than the acquaintance of Kazune, an enigmatic young woman, and her twin sister. It is then that Tomura understands his inclination towards the beauty of music through his unique bonding with the forest and the mountains.

‘'When I was walking near the sea, it sounded like the mountains at night.''

When I was five or six, my mum took me for a walk in Plaka, the most beautiful neighborhood in Athens, a place where one can feel the influence of a centuries-old history, where the quaint houses stand proudly to remind us of a possibly lost innocence and quietness. It was the beginning of summer. As we were walking in one of those unbearably beautiful alleys, the sound of a piano reached us from an open window. This is a moment that is still vivid after many years, its quiet and peace fervent as ever. This is how I felt as I was reading Miyashita's novel. The sounds and the perfumes, the moonlight gently touching the top of the trees, the sound of the leaves, the smell of the wood. The scenery, the atmosphere comes alive through the pages of this beautiful book.

I travelled to Hokkaido with Tomura and saw the seasons changing, the serene autumn reigning among them. I heard the soft, powerful notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and dreamt Kazune's dreams lulled by Chopin's Nocturnes. Few things are as beautiful as the melody coming from a piano, a sound that has the power to raise your soul to a revolution or make you dream in the moonlight. It is no easy task to depict this in a novel and yet Miyashita creates such an evocative environment, populated with beautiful characters.

Ιn a tender, heartfelt translation by Philip Gabriel, we come to know Tomura, Mr. Yanagi, Kazune, to feel their wishes and insecurities. As is always evident in Japanese Literature, the characters and the dialogue communicate a deep connection between nature, family values, and beliefs and the road we have decided to walk. Mr. Yanagi helps Tomura fight his doubts and Tomura helps Kazune believe in herself and her vocation.

This novel is a quiet, gentle, atmospheric ode to Nature and Music. To our past and present, to bonding and the belief in ourselves, to the strength we need to discover within us. It is one more example of the uniqueness of Japanese Literature.

‘'Playing the piano is not how I'll make a living'', Kazune said. ‘'It's how I'll make a life.''

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

  ‘'Look beyond and there is a gentle rise, streets populated with lines of houses, a repeating tessellation of London brick. On a good day, with the sun slanting on them from a certain angle, I can see in them - I admit it takes a small leap of the imagination - the contours of a Tuscan hillside town, a configuration of straight lines and angles and light and shade and warmth that does pleasing things to the brain.''
Let Lev Parikian guide you to the unique vibe of London through the seasons dictated by Japanese culture. Let the heavenly beauty of daffodils, peonies, cherry blossoms, and lilies fill your soul with magic. Let woodpeckers, swallows, foxes, crows accompany you. Witness the miracle of the rainbow, the mystery of the mist, the comfort of the spring rain, the arrival of autumn, the cosy atmosphere of winter. Tread the path on which St Swithun and the gods of wind in Japanese mythology meet. 
London becomes poetry in Lev Parikian's book. He narrates the moment he saw a cormorant flying over a cemetery and the reader just stares in awe. The cemetery reflects our society. It becomes the microcosm that should be observed, understood, cherished. And protected.
‘'I do this occasionally, looking at something as if for the first time. It's a way of finding beauty and interest in the mundane, learning to appreciate the things that form the backdrop to everyday life. And if it serves as a reminder of the fragility of all life on earth, including ours, than that's no bad thing.''
Many thanks to Elliott & Thompson and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
 

  ‘'You could walk into a wood on a summer's day, pretty and green, and not know a thing was wrong if you didn't know the signs to look for. And nowhere is that gap between appearance and reality more apparent than with climate change - the great invisible force holding the world to ransom.''
Stephen Rutt takes us on a journey in the heart of the peculiar, absurd summer of 2020, in a world that seems to have lost its footing. Sonnet 18 and Orwell's thoughts welcome us and then we're in for the unique experience of witnessing the changes of the British summer in a time when we are still unable to travel to the UK (even though we are fully vaccinated but whatever...). A time when Nature rings every alarm possible. You will find no better guide than Stephen Rutt.
‘'Light is like time. It is always changing but the pace is too slow to notice until suddenly, one evening it is light when you leave work, or one morning, you wake up with day leaking in at the curtain's edge. It is there, unlike yesterday. And you realise with a jolt of surprise- is that the time of the year?''
Even though I live in the centre of Athens, my neighbourhood still retains old houses and trees and small parks. I work in the northern suburbs of the capital where Nature is very much present, thank God, and the changing of the seasons is there in all its glory every year. But working from home for a year and a half (with small intervals) deprived me of those moments when the cherry trees start blossoming and the afternoons become longer, sweeter. Summer came rather late in Greece this year which makes Stephen's observations even more relatable. Easter week was rainy, May was almost cold and the first days of June were chilly. We're currently going through a massive heatwave (41+ in certain parts of the country) while news of the tornado in Moravia has shocked us all. Learning about the changing of the seasons, from their early ‘'establishment'' to the way we perceive them now and the research on phenology have never felt more urgent. And the virus is no excuse for ignorance or indifference.
‘'We must not lose sight of the present while worrying about the future.''
Let us wander in the heart of Cornwall on a day when the land became white due to a wondrous snowstorm. Let us find a path in a forest in Bedfordshire and travel (virtually as most of us have done these past months) to the Wood of Cree in Scotland. Let us visit marshes, the moors of Galloway, lochs and castles, echoing Robert Burns' poetry and laments. 
Let us watch for dragonflies and nightjars, for owls (always special to me being an Athenian and all...), let us listen for corn buntings and skylarks, for cuckoos and rooks. See? A small pearl-bordered fritillary, a Scotch argus, a bat released into the wild, healed by loving people. Every gift of Nature is here. And what do we do?
The summer solstice has already passed. We sit on our porches and balconies, enjoying the peaceful summer nights - heatwave or no heatwave- the cares of winter places in a tiny, locked box somewhere in our minds. And we think that all is well. But it only takes a birding scope (in a beautiful story narrated by Stephen) to understand how tiny we are and what great problems we are constantly creating for Mother Earth.
This book is a superbly beautiful ode to the soul of the woodland in summer and a mighty alert to finally reconsider and do our duty.
*I LOVED the references to Gainsborough's Mr and Mrs Andrews, one of my favourite paintings, and John Buchan's The Thirty- Nine Steps. *
‘'Everything is now a warning: things out of order or things passing as normal that betray how far from normal we have strayed. Perhaps the eternal summer of Shakespeare's compliment has become the curse of our future.''
Many thanks to Stephen Rutt, Alison Menzies and Elliott & Thompson for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
 

‘'Books are part of how we understand ourselves. They shape our identities, even before we can read them. They accompany us throughout our lives. [...] They get tangled up in our relationships with parents, siblings, classmates, teachers, friends, lovers and children. They are part of how groups of people, and even nations, imagine and represent themselves. Books become meaningful objects in all sorts of ways: treasured possessions, talismans, bearers of significance. This book is about how that happens.''

There are readers who desire their books to look as immaculate as fresh snow. Others, like yours truly, want them to look lived in, with dog-eared pages and scribbles in the margins. We keep them in our bookcases as tokens of our personality, our knowledge, our convictions. We refuse to obey the rule of common sense and we accumulate them by the dozen, ending up with stacks scattered all over because free space is just an illusion. We fall in love with characters and storylines. Our first journey ‘'abroad'' probably took place through an exciting book.

We meet heroes and villains, people of the past who shaped our present. We find a way to escape from dark times and personal instability and insecurity. We became friends (and lovers...) with someone who shares our passion for the same books, we fight and refuse to ever speak again to the ones who offend our book choices. We marvel when we find a book with uncut pages, a glimpse into a world beyond our reach. We become as inquisitive as it gets when we visit a house with an impressive (or not) bookcase, our eyes and necks straining to browse through the titles.

We are the ones who can't get enough of bookish gifts. We are tormented by the question ‘'what will happen to my books after I am gone.'' We are terrified by the prospect that our children may not worship on the altar of Literature. We are the ones who delight in reading the phone book. Literally. We are the ones who smile at the mere thought of the word ‘'book.'' We are the ones who are granted a second and a third and a fourth life through the written word.

Is this the finest ‘'book-about-books'' I've ever read? The answer is a loud, triumphant YES!

Many thanks to Alison Menzies and Elliott & Thompson for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

‘'After a long trudge over a misty moor, you arrive at the crest of a hill and pause for breath by an oak tree. Initials have been etched into the bark by others who have stood here. Lovers. Friends. Mourners. Your eye follows a drystone wall down to the valley below, where a river meanders through a meadow; a Civil War battle took place there, one so bloody that the water ran red for a week. You smell smoke. Hear the crackle of burning wood. A crow flies out from the spire of a derelict church just visible above the trees. Bells begin to toll but you know there have been no bells in that church tower for decades.''

A superb introductory chapter paves the way for an exciting reading experience. From 19th-century urban landscape legends (Jack the Ripper, Spring-Heeled Jack, body snatchers and the rise of Spiritualism), we enter a chronicle of the numerous ways Britain has changed over the centuries. Lore, the unofficial and much more accurate and objective form of History, lies in songs and nursery rhymes, legends of dark alleys, witch huts, shadowy forms seen in battle-torn fields, ghostly music and voices. But what of the lore we constantly create within the hearts of our modern cities?

‘'We have the same instinct to seek patterns in the chaos. We still yearn to make sense of the mystery of existence. We still tell stories to help us process the world. We still have an emotional attachment to places and objects. These impulses have not died beneath the concrete and tarmac of the modern world, any more than they did beneath the iron and brick of the industrial revolution.''

Modern folklore is well-hidden in our contemporary urban reality where legends and myths coexist with our seemingly mundane routine as we make our way through our personal and professional lives. In this book, we travel to Hull, Manchester, Bristol, Glasgow, Birmingham and London.

Through the mysterious, fascinating Scarfolk craziness and the haunting children running around the pylons in Stocksbridge. The secrets of Glasgow and the mystery of urban geomancy. The folklore of roundabouts and crossroads, the haunted estates, the spectral nuns and monks and the faces in the windows. The mystery and danger of the underpasses, flyovers and intersections and their role in the development of urban culture. The strange magnetism of abandoned industrial sites and the sadness of car parks and multistoreys. The pain and agony that remain hidden behind the silent walls of abandoned hospitals.

I loved the 70s and 80s references and the writer's passion and dedication to his theme. His words paint an eloquent and enticing background to the experiences he narrates and the writing is very engaging. You won't be bored, not even for a moment. However, there were a couple of issues that felt problematic to me.

A woman was supposedly possessed by a demon named Pazuzu? Is this an attempt for the writer to appear smart? I fear all credibility can be thrown out of the window. Unfortunately, pun intended.

A certain interviewee's convictions were highly problematic, even unacceptable. I mean, ‘'pride in being part of the drug underculture?'' Since when do drugs consist a form of ‘'culture''? Or any reason to be proud of? This brings me to the constant references of ‘'boozing''. Being drunk is nothing to be proud of. It is hideous and dangerous.

So, there were many, many moments of beauty in this book but the attitude of the writer in what I consider sensitive issues diminished my enjoyment. Despite my personal dissatisfaction, you definitely need to try your luck with this book if only for the superb descriptions of the scenery and a world that may already be beyond our grasp.

‘'Witches, ghosts and demons have not been entirely banished to legend- they haunt our homes, shops, hospitals and roads. The churches, forbidden woods and haunted mansions that were once the stuff of our dreams and nightmares have now been replaced in our imaginations by industrial estates, power stations and factories.''

Many thanks to Allison Menzies, Elliot & Thompson and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

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

‘'Winter in the mountains is arresting in its drama, the light melting over the Brecon Beacons as though it carries cold in it, not heat. There are the lakes of mist, too, the sun riding high over the bracken-red ridges as they surface through pearlescent cloud, heaving up like whales. Winter by the sea is another kind of theatre, like standing in a great and empty auditorium.''

It is very difficult, almost impossible to convey the feelings and thoughts born from reading this book. ‘'Book''? No, this isn't the proper word this time. This is an ode to winter in its most sinister form, in all its wildness, harshness, in its darkest moments. An elegy for lives broken and united, lost and gained, in the heart of the British cold that is beautiful and ferocious, haunting and heartless. These are the musings, the memories of a charismatic man, a talented writer who pours his soul in the pages with bravery and tenderness.

The dangers that threaten people and livestock. The menacing darkness, the isolation. The beautiful scenery painted in white, grey and cobalt blue. The joy of Christmas, the chance for the family to be together during the long nights. A confused, misinformed society that tries to predict the unknown ‘'winter'' brought about by the absurd Brexit. The monsters of depression, the hopelessness, and pain that seem to become more acute once temperatures plummet, Clare shares his fears and insecurities, the love for his family and his students and discovers that winter can be loved and enjoyed even in its most vicious form.

This is not a pleasant read. Quality books are NOT pleasant. It isn't a hymn to the romantic white of winter. It is a cry and a song, an atmospheric, haunting and powerful account of a human being that could have been our father, our partner, our friend. The depiction of how tiny we stand when facing Mother Nature. If you love winter, you will come to love the beautiful and fierce season even more after reading The Light In The Dark. If you don't call winter your favourite season, you might reconsider. This is what Horatio Clare did. His confession will stay with you long after you let your wander in the last paragraph.

No more of my blabbering. The following extracts speak for themselves:

‘'Over the western plain the sky was clear; as we approached Manchester we came under a dark bar of cloud. Now, as we close with the fingers of the moors, the windows of the foothill towns are lighting and there is a peace in the glooming valleys, a drawing - in as the earth turns us and night comes down from the wild tops as if drawn to the warmth of our settlements.''

‘'Now the power cuts. I dash out to see if it is just us - but it is the world, the world transformed, released into darkness, moonlight, stars and frost. It is the first time I have ever seen our valley as it is in itself at night. Under a half-moon, with the hills' bacla princkled with stars, its character has entirely changed. The dark no longer hunches around the few street lights. It is dimly luminous, stretching and languid, the moonlight a soft sweeping, rounding and gentling the ridges. The constriction of the valley is gone, the silvered fields wide under the mantling moon.''

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

‘'Quickly, days short, somehow we all adjust and welcome the dark, for it is neither threatening nor smothering. Darkness becomes a thing of joy and vivid beauty in its own right. When early winter storms blow in, night skies are shrouded in heavy swathes of purple-black velvet. On cloudless nights the Milky Way comes overhead, a broad braided river of light coursing through the sky. And in this time of conflict and rapid change, of life and death, other lights become visible as the darkness deepens, flickering and shimmering in neon greens and reds, the Northern Lights should be ringing with trumpets and other heavenly music as they herald the arrival of winter, but they are utterly silent.''

In Athens, winter comes suddenly and unexpectedly. Every year I wait for it, tired by the scorching heat of the summer, finally irritated by our whimsical autumn that seems unable to decide between heat and cold. Every year, there comes a day when I wake up and realise that it is finally time for the entire winter survival kit. Coat, scarf, boots, gloves, a woolen hat. I have the happy opportunity to work in the northern part of our capital, in a beautiful neighborhood where the seasons make their presence known in a much more accurate way than in the heart of the city and wintry days can be rather trying. And yet, I wouldn't change winter for a thousand summers.

‘'Winter is about endurance and that's all you can do. Endure. Fingers numbed from the frostbitten breeze, cheeks red and raw and burning from the cold; you blink to stop your eyes from watering.''

I remember a textbook from primary school that called winter ‘'the death of nature''. Bloody nonsense! Winter isn't a time of death, winter is a time of togetherness and warmth. My grandma used to love winter, despite the endless years of surviving the cold days and nights during the Second World War, despite the lack of comforts that we have the honour to enjoy nowadays. She loved winter because it was the time for the family to gather and tell stories, reminisce and dream of the future waiting at the edge of winter. A time for true ‘'coziness'', not pretentious blubbering for glamorous magazines but a moment when whispering by the light of the lamp created memories. This is the feeling I experienced while I was reading Winter, the third book in the Seasons series edited by Melissa Harrison.

‘'On these shores, winter feels more ambiguous: at times a long, grey sigh or a drawn-out ache, with occasional sharp pains to remind you of its bite. The night skies are perfect for star-gazing, though. And if you're lucky, your loved ones clasp you a little closer. Then there are the short-lived days when the wind briefly throws into a sweet-scented, benign breeze and you feel a frisson of anticipation.''

Let us travel to the Scottish Highlands, to the metropolis of London. To Dartmoor and Wistman's Wood. To Norfolk and Bench Tor. To Northumberland, to Oxford. Let us experience winter in the city, let us enjoy the coziness of winter in a traditional village. Let us feel the screaming air from the winter sea. Let us welcome the Winter Solstice, Christmas and Candlemas under the bright, mystical light of the winter moon. There is always something enticing about the way moonbeams are lighting the branches of the trees that have shed all their leaves. Let us be careful of the east wind that blows, bringing nightmare according to the old superstition. Let us wonder on the attitude of ancient cultures towards winter with a mulberry wine at hand by the Christmas tree. Foxes, badgers, pheasants, woodpeckers, plovers, kingfishers, otters and ravens will keep us company.

Roger Deakin has written a beautiful text on leaves and their unique presence in our world. Caroline Greville beautifully describes the haunting nights when winter begins to show us that it has finally come. There is also an atmospheric extract from Dickens's Bleak House on London and fog in the late November nights. Ronald Blythe's moving text on Christmas, Saint Thomas and the Resurrection of Lazarus. A beautiful passage from Virginia Woolf's Orlando and from Dubliners by James Joyce. Emma Kemp shares a poetic description of a walk on a winter's night and Brian Carter talks about the memories of a childhood's snowy days in the North. Jon Dunn describes the winter darkness in the Shetland Islands and the festivities of Up Helly Aa in a beautiful, dark text and what collection would be complete without a chapter by Thomas Hardy?

Winter is harsh and beautiful, pure and threatening, cold, possibly unapproachable but majestic. This anthology captures the spirit of the quiet season to perfection. And as for me, winter is the cold morning when a child used to wake up at 7 o'clock to see whether it was snowing, when Grandma always reassured me that snow would come soon and I was sitting by the Christmas tree, staring out of the window, waiting, in a house full of the aroma of fresh coffee, cinnamon, almonds and the sound of crackling wood in the fireplace. Winter is the whitened sky and the grey noons, the cobalt blue of the blue hour, the lights that start flickering from 4 o'clock in the afternoon, the oversized scarf knitted by Grandma because ‘'it is too cold outside and your skin is too sensitive, puppet.'' Winter is stories. Winter is memories.

‘'There are moments of peace even in the darkest of times. When life is stripped to its purest core we find its resolve is strong. And when the world around me is so cold it nearly takes my breath away, when my feet feel they might just be snatched from beneath me, I will push on- on to the grass, towards the other side and to my destination: to sit and rest there a while, until time and nature have thawed my heart and fears.''

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

‘'After all, autumn is the natural world's gentle memento mori; it's when the year's cycle begins to slow as spring's generative energy and summer's riotous fruition at last start to fail, prompted by shorter days, falling temperatures and the need shared by so many living things for a period of quietude and senescence.''

What is it that makes us love autumn so much? Is it the crispy mornings after the thick, suffocating humidity and blinding sunshine of our summers that become hotter and hotter by the year? Is it the dress that nature chooses to wear, painted in shades of brown and yellow and red? The sound of the leaves, the wind that makes the trees whisper to each other? The apples and the pumpkins? The atmosphere of mysticism brought by Bonfire Night and the ruler of festivities, the Halloween season, when we love to get scared? All these you will find in this collection dedicated to the beloved season and edited by Melissa Harrison.

‘'Autumn in New York. Autumn in Rome, Paris, London: the great cities might be made for the seasons, their towers of lights shining for longer as the months roll darker, and in the cooling mornings the sweet and smoky smells.''

Certainly, there are some cities that seem to be made for autumn, but this is a season to be enjoyed by those of us who live in a big metropolis and the fortunate people who reside in a rural area. In this beautiful collection, you will experience autumn in the Highlands, in Shetland, in North Yorkshire, in London, in Dublin and Cork, with brief visits to Berlin that flourishes in late September.

‘'There is a distinct smell in the air now that I haven't smelt for almost a year. It's hard to locate exactly- I don't know if it's the damp rotting wood, the overripe fruit, or the moss that's growing more brightly and more densely as it soaks up the rain.''

Walk among the birches and the oaks. Don't forget to take a look at the fungi lurking by your feet. Smell the apples. Be careful not to disturb the proud stags, the badgers and the sweet squirrels. When dusk descends, ‘'the time of mauve and moonlight, of shapeshiftings and stirrings, of magic,'' a moment of enchantment in every season, crows may fly somewhere near, heralding the rising of the Harvest Moon. And if you decide to take a walk in the moorland, owls await.

September, the melancholic month, when we begin to realize that another summer has ended. October, the quintessential autumn month, the most beautiful month of the year. November, the herald of winter, the month that calls for Christmas thoughts. Horatio Clare has written a beautiful ode to autumn through the eyes of an educator. The feeling of autumn in the city, the way the air changes. Written with tenderness and a small dose of melancholy. Caroline Greville writes a beautiful passage on the changing of nature. There is a rather melancholic text on the sadness of September by Nick Acheson, an extract from H Is For Hawk by Helen Macdonald. Poem In October by the great Dylan Thomas, The Stag by Ted Hughes and November by John Clare. The Wild Swans at Coole, one of my favourite poems by William Butler Yeats. The two texts I loved the most was a passage by Louise Baker containing the most beautiful description of autumn I've ever read:
‘'It is thick, sticky mud and the stains on your boots, the glow of a candle within a deep orange pumpkin, and the flurry of birds that come to feed in your garden. Stand bathed in the in the glow of a bonfire and watch fireworks dance across a deep purple sky.''

And an atmospheric text on All Hallow's Eve and autumnal ghosts by Sinéad Gleeson:

‘'The wind rushes through hundreds of branches, a hypnotic symphony reassuring and eerie all at once. The dark nights roll in with Halloween and, in the forest's charcoal depths, it's hard to ignore the supernatural, Watcher in the Woods feel. The hills and trees are spooky in the evening gloam.''

This collection, edited by Melissa Harrison, is like autumn itself. Atmospheric, cozy, melancholic, hypnotic, beautiful....

‘'Autumn is an adventure, a season of transformation, and a time to prepare for the long winter ahead. It is a thousand leaves falling to the ground and nourishing the soil beneath; it is heavy rainfalls that catch you off guard and drive you to shelter; it is the refreshing winds that sweep the haze of summer away; it is the calm before the storm.''

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

‘'If spring is all about looking forward, and autumn about looking back, summer surely is the present moment: a long, hot now that marks the sultry climax of the year. {...} it is a time of fruition and plenty, of promises fulfilled. Spring's generative riotousness slows and ceases, and a stillness settles over the land.''

The summer of 2018 is slowly coming to an end. Eventful or not, unusually warm or not, summer always brings me to a contradictory state of mind. When May begins, I can't wait for summer to come but by the mid of July, I become restless, hating all the heat and the noise and the long days. You see, this is why I cherish the dog days and save the main part of my holidays for the end of August. This lovely anthology dedicated to summer, edited by Melissa Harrison made me appreciate the season slightly more.

A wonderful array of articles, poetry, essays, extracts from classic literary moments, stories and passages from famous writers, from the Middle Ages to our times. It is focused on the British landscape but it will touch the heart of every reader regardless of our home countries. If it managed to touch my obnoxiously autumn/winter- worshipping soul, it will definitely make you fall in love and perhaps the summer days will last a little longer.

...‘'In late springtime the evening sun leaves a residue of light and brightness on sea, loch and river waters. Nights, still dark and starlit, become thinner somehow, and watery. Evening lengthen, end-of-day airs are white and turquoise, amber and rose, insect-humming and bird-filled.''

The summer evening sun and wind, stargazing once darkness arrives while the perfume of the jasmine fills the air. The summer storms that leave behind the smell of the refreshed grass. The open-air performances where nature provides the finest stage sets for beloved plays. There are so many beautiful moments in this anthology...A beautiful text on the changes summer brings to the nature of the Highlands by Annie Worsley, a moving account of the life cycle of the glow - worm by John Taylor, a rather dark, haunting text on gulls, owls, and bats by Esther Woolfson, a memorable extract from Far From The Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy, one of the greatest writers in Literature (a writer that a certain ‘'reviewer'' in Goodreads felt necessary to disrespect through vile words and unspeakable phrases...Why am I surprised, though? As I have said, there is an idiot in every corner....)

‘'Throughout the long evenings of July, the village women bend low in their gardens over raspberry cane and currant bush, gooseberry and loganberry.''

Start a journey to the Highlands, Dartmoor, Dorset, Hampshire, Cumbria. Feast while the haymaking takes place, see the gulls, the wrens, the curlews, the badgers and the otters. Smell the roses and the orchids, bow to the beauty of the dahlias and the sunflowers. Taste the currants and the apricots, the peaches and the corns. Rest under the ivy on the wall of a pretty, peaceful village church under the afternoon sunlight. This is an urgent plea to respect nature, our mother. The most generous mother of all, the one that gives freely only to receive burnt forests, disrespect and violation by the greed and the bottomless stupidity of the humans. This is a book full of colours, sounds and perfumes, a homage to the British summer landscape.

‘'Those Elysian summers, polished to dazzling brightness by the flow of years, can never be recaptured; but we have this summer, however imperfect we as adults may deem it, and we can go out and seek it at every opportunity we find.''

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

‘'It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched courters' - and rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the shoe-black, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat- bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snowting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.''

On my way to work, I realise that spring is hesitatingly knocking on our door. Even though the changing of the seasons is an abstract notion in Athens, working in the northern suburbs of the capital, far from the city centre, has quite a few perks (if we exclude the fact that taking the Athens Tube and sitting with an unimaginable number of idiots lowers my IQ...) As I watch the tress acquiring life once again and the days lengthening, I can feel the sweetness in the air and this special weightlessness. Although spring is my least favorite season, the arrival of Easter gives me such joy that I can ignore the allergies and the irritating pollen flying and sticking everywhere. This anthology is my final stop on a beautiful journey curated by Melissa Harrison.

‘'I don't think any artist, using the subtlest brush strokes and softest of hues, could capture the rich colours and sounds and scents of the evening. Is there a poet who could fit the rhymes and beats and randomness to the rigidity of a sonnet or haiku, even with the cleverest metaphors? No orchestra could mimic the mellow simplicity and the startling complexity of this unrehearsed, yet harmonized soundtrack. The sun has set on this Suffolk spring evening.''

Toads, swallows, hedgehogs, foxes, bumblebees, deer. Badgers, otters, magpies playing in the woodland while bluebells, mandarins, anemones, unopened buds in the night garden. Travel to some of the most beautiful corners of Great Britain: Cambridgeshire, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Cumbria, the Highlands, Bodmin Moor, the Yorkshire Dales, Chesil Beach, Oxfordshire, Suffolk. Take a stroll and enjoy the spring evening in the company of beautiful texts and extracts by famous writers and lovers of the flower season.

‘'There is a spiritual feel to the wood tonight that I don't think I'm imagining. Perhaps it's expectation, and awe that this recently denuded scene is now bursting into life again. The winds have stopped and our sense of anticipation seems to be shared by nature, waiting with us. A blackbird shrieks an alarm call in front of us, as if to dispel such romantic notions.''

A beautiful text on the coming of spring in the Highlands by Annie Worsley. Highfield, a beautiful poem by Alan Creedon. A moving text on fatherhood and the bond between the generations accompanied by the sweetness of the birdsong by Rob Cowen. A vivid description of the change of seasons in the North by Elliot Dowding, the thoughts of a teacher on children and baby owls by Nicola Chester and a beautiful confession of the isolation that has now become the companion of every city resident and the change most of us undergo when the opportunity to come closer to nature occurs. A joyous text on the coming of spring in the city by Melissa Harrison and an ode to Sakura, the cherry blossom, and the unique relationship between flora and the Japanese culture.

And then we have the greats joining the spring fest. William Shakespeare's Sonnet 98. An extract from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte and from Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. Thomas Hardy. The preparations of the Mole for the coming of the season or How to Do Spring-cleaning in The Wind In The Willows way by Kenneth Grahame. Dylan Thomas and a beautiful, haunting text on the silent, hesitant spring nights taken from Under Milk Wood. A dark, atmospheric passage on the death and rebirth of Nature by D.H. Lawrence. And so many more...

I am going to miss the series. The only thing that would make me feel better is to have an anthology dedicated to each month. That would be ideal...

‘'Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silence black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see...''

‘'And the seasons roll through our literature, too, budding, blossoming, fruiting and dying back. Think of it: the lazy summer days and golden harvests, the misty autumn walks and frozen fields in winter and all the hopeful romance of spring.''

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

  ‘'Magical powers. I have to summon my magical powers. The power of darkness, the power of wind - any magical power will do, but I need something. I have to use my magical powers on my whole body before my heart feels anything.''
It was all your fault. You should have said ‘'No'' loud and clear. You imagine things. You want attention. Your mind is filthy. ‘'He didn't go all the way, don't fuss.'' ‘Why are you acting so traumatized?'' ‘'These things happen, we just have to put up with it.''. ‘'It was years ago, move on.''
NO!
Natsuki, Yuu, Tomoya. Three people who struggle to escape a world that wants to swallow them whole. We resort to magic, illusions and make-believe because our reality is too terrible to confront. All your paper lanterns, and mountains, and traditions, all your ancestors' presence can't make up for the abuse, the beatings, the humiliation, the rape, the betrayal, the violence. For a mother who needs the perfect punching bag and finds it in the face of Natsuki. For a society that needs ‘'work tools'' and ‘'reproductive tools'', a mentality that demands of you to be the proper, perfect ‘'tool for society''.
‘'1. Yuu won't tell anyone that I am a magician.2. I won't tell anyone that Yuu's an alien from outer space.3. We won't fall in love with anyone else, even after summer's over. We'll definitely meet up here again next summer.''
You don't want intimacy, then? You are an alien. You don't want children. You are a useless parasite, without a purpose and rights and what will you ever offer to the society that nurtures you, you are full of ingratitude. You've got some nerve, you need to be taught a lesson.
When your mother tells you that ‘'you are the horrible one, not him.'' When a daughter can't trust the one who brought her to life, the world itself has fallen. When you feel that your life and body don't belong to you, when you are willing to get married in order to escape constant surveillance and scrutinization and blatant humiliation. We are looking into a society that murders its own children. Technology will do very little, it is the human soul and heart and spirit that should matter but they don't. Certain societies of our world (and some of them are closer than we would like to think...) haven't grasped this basic concept yet. I doubt they ever will. Let us all work for the Factory, then. For societies that demand everything and give back nothing.
There are certain really horrible scenes that are sure to make any reader uncomfortable, that require a strong stomach, but we need to persevere because this is Life. We don't hide from it, we mustn't.
This book isn't ‘'bonkers'' - what a word to be used by people who call themselves ‘'readers''- or ‘'absurd'', or ‘'mad''. It is an allegory, a tragic, poignant fable of issues we face on a daily basis but refuse to acknowledge by playing the ostrich game. If we are unable to see it, I doubt there is any hope left for our future...
‘'Survive, whatever it takes.''
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
 

''These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman. Night falls;'‘''The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas'', Ursula K. Le Guin

In a church of a sleepy town, somewhere in the American South, a being is found. And I use the word ‘‘being'' because no one can determine whether the stranger is a boy or a girl. They are named ‘‘Pew'', after the pew they were found on. The residents of the town seem to be fascinated by the unexpected visitor, they offer hospitality and ‘‘protection'', believing that the silent Pew is the perfect listened to accept their confessions. Pew listens and watches but rarely speaks, only nods. When someone doesn't speak, judgement and condemnation stay away for the ones who confess their sins. But their ‘‘confessions'' are meaningless and things are bound to change when Pew doesn't behave exactly as they expect...

''I do wish they bloomed this time of year. It would give me some relief. But you can tell a tree whatever you like - it won't even listen.''

''All this bitterness. Everyone wants to be the one who's right.''

Pew is an innocent bystander, a silent watcher, an unwilling listener and confidante because of their silence. What initially appears as a confession of wrong choices and guilt, quickly turns into the worst form of patronization and manipulation behind the facade of ‘‘innocent'' curiosity and kindness. Pew hasn't asked for their ‘‘help''. These people aren't driven by kindness and generosity but by a frightening urge to alter the ‘‘different'', the one they cannot understand, the one who doesn't fall into their precious, perfect tags. If you don't like to talk, you are strange, dangerous. We live in societies where everyone wants to ‘‘talk'' and ends up saying nothing at all.

Act nice, look nice. Everyone's watching you. What would the neighbours say? The plague of all small communities. Wealth dictates whether you will be ‘‘respected'' or not, as Hilda demonstrates. Hilda. Hideous Hilda, the epitome of the uneducated housewife. Mr. Kercher, young Annie and Roger are tiny dots of light on a map filled with vicious people.

''After all the moon was here, calm night, warm and easy air, and all of it was ours.''

The frail body and the pale moon echo Pew's presence. Who is Pew? An archangel? A spirit? Pew, ethereal and earthy. Pew, led from one resident to another, first as if they were an exhibition item. Then, carried away like Jesus from Caiaphas to Herod to Pontius Pilate. And once more, religion is distorted to justify the rot in people's souls, their horrible actions, their ‘‘morality'' of stupidity and hatred.

Lacey creates a modern classic. Classics mirror our societies' wrongdoings and Lacey excels. Think of all those American sects, the charlatans, the hysteric so-called ‘‘priests'' that scream and pretend to ‘‘heal'' people who are desperate, uneducated and stupid enough to believe them. There isn't an ounce of forgiveness in this awful lot, in this god-forsaken town, somewhere in the American South. In a society where crying children are psychologically abused for disturbing the peace and upsetting the others. No one gives a damn about their feelings.

And the mob will always hold a trial about things they cannot understand. The mob will always believe they have the right to decide what is true and what is not. And there is nothing Christian in this behaviour. White people, black people...They all treat Pew in the same horrible way. Narrow-mindedness doesn't discriminate. It concerns every race, every religion, every individual.
Needless to say, this novel made me furious. Needless to say, every reader should choose Pew as their next read.

''Some years, but gone now. They had ended and would never return and would never end. They were mine, or had been mine, but now they were somewhere else, somewhere near and far from me. They didn't belong to anyone, those untouchable years. All that was left of them was their imprint, the empty field they'd left in me.''

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

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