Cat
The book is entertaining and an easy read. Three stars for Tan, being precious as usual.
3.75 stars, which I'll be rounding up to 4.
This was a difficult read for me.
Being naturally averse to theological talk and having dabbed for too long a time with philosophy and its meandering musings, I have to admit I really struggled with staying interested in the weird, meandering thoughts of brainwashed, ignorant (I mean this in the most non-judgemental way possible) women.
Book talk aside, I shudder at the thought that such insular, coercitive realities as the Mennonite colony described in the book still exist in this day and age.
Not the worst book I've read this year.
Not the best one. Having read Christa Wolf before, I guess I can't fall so easily for the novelty of this retelling.
A couple of quite impressive poems, amidst a wider set of well-written but (to me) quite meh stuff.
Pachinko takes quite a long time to set the premise for its actual “pachinko” part, and even after the turning point, it deliberately takes its time to cultivate the title metaphor - an endgame that thoroughly impressed me.
I had read about Zainichi Koreans before, but I had no knowledge of the link between their outcast condition and what we westerners usually think is just a Japanese silly game-craze.
All in all, Pachinko taught me something new.
No matter how much I read about Japan, though, I can never even begin to understand the reasons/scope/real nature of what still looks to me like an astoundingly resilient brand of psychological rigidity.
Very well written, I have loved Sunja, Hansu and Isak. Other characters aren't as well-rounded and complete. A couple of gratuitous sex scenes popped up in places where they didn't really add much to the plot or depth of the characters involved. Other than that, quite a fine book.
A very well-written book I'll never read again.
Carrère says at the end that writing this story could only be a crime or a prayer.
I disagree. A crime it isn't. But it doesn't qualify as a prayer either, at least not to me.
Looking to understand the monstrosity of a life and crime such as Jean Claude Romand's is a fool's errand. It doesn't bring any clarity to what was evidently a dark and broken abyss of meaninglessness to begin with.
True crime, even when elevated by superb writing such as in this case, will never be my thing.
Un libro triste e che sa di vita.
Bello, anche se ne ho preferito la parte riguardante il rapporto col padre, che forse avrei voluto vedere più approfondita.
the language is from time to time excessively baroque, yet fascinating. I disagree with those who insist the story isn't feasible. Astrid is very authentic, and I was very sympathetic with her deep rage.
There is nothing I don't like about Moshfegh's prose.
She is clean, laser-sharp and full of tough love for her language, in a way that commands respect.
The lunacy of her characters? Also admirable in the way it relentlessly comes at you from left field.
But reading this short story collection was, to me, a sad affair.
I get that the underlying thesis of the book (and perhaps the author's vision) is that people are awful and on my average day I might feel inclined to agree with her.
But I still think someone fumbled with the quantities in this one: the - exquisitely crafted - fascination with filth gets easily repetitive and ultimately boring: There is little to no plot in most of the stories (which probably qualify better as ‘character studies') and while I'm not necessarily a fan of plot-heavy prose, I definitively would have enjoyed a bit more of it, because - with the exception of four of these - ‘awful' seems to have many faces but the same exact tone of voice.
I get how, rationally, an old chauvinist who only sees women as commodities could sound quite like a young chauvinist who only sees women as commodities, but I don't necessarily want to read about it for 300 pages, if this is all I get.
Again: I love Moshfegh's writing and I admire the way she seems to be on a quest to use every single English word (agog!). But I like her best when she takes the time to flesh out her characters a little more and actually puts them up to something.
The book is well written, which annoys me, because the stories it contains are a strange mix of magical realism and wattpad porn.
I love magical realism and I can't bear to watch it be scathed with vulgar, repetitious accounts of sexual intercourse that always sounds the same, even if the people having it are always different.
What annoyed me the most, though, wasn't the unnecessary, boring sex.
It was the fact that the women protagonists are not difficult, they are just women.
Sad, broken women. But just women.
Here's a more accurate title for the book: Hurt Women.
Unless the clever idea is, there are difficult women and easy women, the latter being those who acquiesce silently to a society that wants us docile, defenseless and happy to be so.
I haven't met many such women, but I have met a lot of sad women and they aren't always the same.
Too many fucks given to lay claims to a universal.
Too long for what it meant to tell. It almost feels like it narrates events over a span of 20 years, while the storyline really unfolds over 5 (and yes, I know there are flashbacks, I'm not talking about that).
Doesn't delve too deep - at least not as deep as I would have liked it to - on a lot of topics, e. g. the codependent relationship between Greta and Einar/Lili. Or why Carlisle suddenly decides to devote a great deal of time and energy to help Lili in her battle.
I appreciated the ending.
Not sure how I managed to live 32,5 years on this planet without ever reading the book or even watching the movie.
Holly Golightly is a surprisingly dark character, very nicely penned.
“If you must know anything, know that you were born because no one else was coming.”
Boy, are the abandonment trauma, gun violence, guilt over sex and internalized homophobia strong in this one!
This been said, this little book is a delight, in spite of all the sadness gore, so gently embroidered with many, mant excerpts of excellent wordsmithery.
I cannot wait to read what else Ocean Vuong becomes as he matures with years and craft.
4.75 stars
Trashier than the first in the series, but still a very relaxing read. My God I can't even with these rich people problems.
Finally found it in myself to read this book to completion. Nicely written prose with a strong aftertaste of technical exercise. The man gave himself a brief and worked it.
I normally eat up whatever Moshfegh writes. In a way, this is also the case: I wasn't enjoying the experience but I just kept on reading.
This is Moshfegh's literary debut. Her voice is still a little blunt and her unreliable narrator reliably predictable. The writing craft is already strong - there is one page in 118 almost entirely consistent of a list of goods traded aboard 19th century merchant ships that is a joy to read through.
Sadly, the credibility is occasionally marred by lack of historical research or fact-checking: reading that a 1851 drunken sailor had been prescribed ‘vitamins' in the form of ‘pills' by a medical doctor was simply off-putting to me.
The cover art might actually have fascinated me more than the novel itself.
A weird next step for Murakami, reverting to quasi Norwegian Wood-esque themes and atmospheres after much time spent in the realm of magical realism.
Good enough, despite an intermittently stale prose.
I guess I will have to abandon this romantic notion that, since I really like the author of the novel, I'll also really really like the novels themselves.
I liked the Abundance of Katherines, but it never crossed my mind that it could be a book for me. I would have probably enjoyed it at his best when I was 14 or something.
I liked all the footnotes, though. Not only because they are a smart narrative device, but also because they do a good job in showing how a mind like Colin's works.
And the math.
See ya again on youtube, John Green. I love you, but as in a writer/reader-out-of-recommended-age-group kind of relationship. So I'm dumping you.
Love, Katherine.
I quite disagree with those disappointed in the book.
Not the most original piece of literature out there, but a good twist on the everlasting theme of teenage and teen angst. The author was only seventeen when she wrote it, it could have been far worse.
What a fucking horrible book.
I'm really surprised to see everybody gushing over this piece of five-hundredth-rate crap.
This was presented to my mother as a thank-you by a friend of hers, I picked it up because it read on the sleeve that Sophie Kinsella loved it, so of course I wanted to hurt my brain really bad and see for myself what kind of ‘literature' world-renown crapseller Kinsella ‘hearted'.
This is it and of this at least I'm not surprised.
Here the reasons for hating it:
- psychological depth of characters equals zero
- decision-making of said characters is preposterous
- male lead expresses respect for female lead's intellectual curiosity, which mistifies readers: said curiosity should be described by the fact that she goes on the internet a couple of times and signs up for a community site. Oh Lordie!
- a conspicuous part of the plot claims to revolve around a ethical nevralgic point, which is never discussed in depht
it seems to me this is enough. But there's more. A lot more.
What a coarse, incredibly dim-witted, horrible thing.