Chris Blocker

The Grim Grotto starts off wonderfully. There is a good mix of what makes this series entertaining. We're introduced to two new characters—one as hilarious as Aunt Josephine was, the other as seemingly loyal as the Quagmires (and cute too). The conspiracy continues to unravel, Sunny continues to utter adorableness, and events continue to grow more and more unfortunate.

The second half of the book wasn't nearly as wonderful, primarily because the book loses its humor, becomes trapped by the adventure taking place, and relies a bit too heavily on the established formula, a phrase which here means Count Olaf would've gotten away with his villainous crimes had it not been for those meddling kids. Nevertheless, it sets up a nice introduction to the next book.

Despite my waning attention toward the end, I thought this book was one of the best of the series. Mystery, humor, adventure, heartbreak—it's all here. Only two more to go!

A Series of Unfortunate Events:
The Bad Beginning – 3.1
The Reptile Room – 3.2
The Wide Window – 3.6
The Miserable Mill – 3.3
The Austere Academy – 3.4
The Ersatz Elevator – 3.3
The Vile Village – 3.1
The Hostile Hospital – 3.4
The Carnivorous Carnival – 3.9
The Slippery Slope – 3.6
The Grim Grotto – 3.9

if a tree falls
if a tree falls
in the forest and no one is present
does it make a sound
and if a string of words
has no end punctuation
is it a sentence
these are questions void of question marks posed by a reading of Solar Bones questions of purpose why make a novel out of one sentence—if one may call it that—and why make it stream of consciousness and are either of these labels being placed on this novel accurate
no
not at all
because this book is neither stream of consciousness or one sentence but that doesn't mean it fails, it is not stream of conscious truly because no one—or so I believe, maybe just very few—think in such complete complex thoughts we are creatures whose minds bounce around from one incomplete thought to another rarely stopping to return to—what was I saying—this novel is better classified as a slightly rambling experiment in form, a term that is as muddied as it sounds, perhaps it's better to call it interior monologue lacking grammatical accuracy, which is often confused with stream of consciousness, neither is this novel one sentence because, as I hope we've established by now, if you've made it this far and actually are understanding this rambling experiment in form that I call a review, a sentence isn't a sentence without the
tangy taste of
Miracle Whip
that comes in the form of
end punctuation of some kind
but Solar Bones doesn't fail in story which is important since I guess you could say the point of a story is to tell a story or something, this gets confusing and the fact that Mike McCormack could write like this for more than two-hundred pages shows that he's either really skilled or that once you start a bad habit it's easy to stick with it, like
what if McCormack's intention wasn't to create something experimental, but what if he's just a bad typist
the fact I'm going off on tangents may lead a reader to believe that I am writing in stream of consciousness but I'm not
I'm just rambling
stream of consciousness would look more like, squirrel this is
nuts how did McCormack write for 224 pages like this but
once again I stray from the review at hand
which is difficult because all I want to talk about in this review is style and the definition of stream of consciousness and pointing out that a string of words without end punctuation is merely a string of words, all this should indicate how significant style is to this work and it begs questions like
why did McCormack elect to use this style
I can only venture a guess that it's because our narrator is a spirit, a fact that I don't think was made clear enough in the opening pages and that this lack of proper grammatical sentences is a case of I-don't-give-a-fuck by our ghost friend which speaking of language
reminds me how lilting the language is throughout this story, it's poetic haunting and crass, initially it's a little hard to get into the style and
I'll be honest here, I'm probably not doing it justice, but once you get used to the voice, it sort of flows easily but take too long of a break, a day or two spent in another book and
the rhythm is thrown completely off, you have to get back into the book relearn the rhythm that is the voice of Marcus Conway, spirit
if you actually read all of this review, I wish I could buy you a cup of coffee but digital coffee sucks and I'm poor, but I hope you enjoyed it and if you didn't because you found the style irritating then you may not like this book because it is written in a similar manner though it truly does grow on the reader after ten pages or so but
if for some reason it doesn't Solar Bones may drive you
may drive you
may drive you nuts

The one thing I have most appreciated about Hemon's writing is his uncanny ability to somehow twist English words and phrases into a way which shows he doesn't quite grasp English the way a native speak would, yet has a mastery of the language that far exceeds my own. For those who are not familiar with Hemon's story, let me quickly say that Hemon had only a basic understanding of English when war stranded him in the United States at the age of 27. Within eight years, Hemon had written his first book in English, The Question of Bruno, a collection of short stories. This collection shows a fluency that my own writing lacks. Hemon's writing is breathtaking.

Being a collection of Hemon's earliest writings in English, I expected The Question of Bruno to parade some of Hemon's most absurdly enjoyable turns of phrase. There is a cadence in what I've read of Hemon that is beautiful and unusual, a device that perhaps only a native-native speaker could use so effectively. Yet, I missed that in this collection. Perhaps I'm way too lazy or I've grown too familiar with Hemon's style of writing and didn't notice, or maybe early editors were quick to point out the “flaws” of Hemon's English (“You can't do that!”) Whatever the reason, The Question of Bruno didn't resonate the same way with me. That's not to say the collection isn't stellar and certainly well-written—it is—but it lacks a certain musicality that I greatly anticipated.

Of the Hemon I've read so far, I will say each book has it stellar moments and traits, but that none have quite come together for a book that knocks me off my feet. The thing is, however, I believe Hemon has the ability to do it. Either I have yet to read that book, or he hasn't written it quite yet. It's in there though. And one day, hopefully soon, Hemon's going to whip out an award winner that will catch the attention of the people.

If you've read at least two Ishiguro novels, you probably have picked up on how similar they are in tone and theme, yet how different they are in regards to story. They're such quiet stories, yet there's something which lies beneath that keeps a reader not simply engaged, but excited. There are themes of acceptance, memory, and identity. And it all builds slowly until that moment when the hammer drops, shattering the reader's expectations.

Not surprising, The Buried Giant largely follows the same pattern. This time, Ishiguro takes a tour through the world of fantasy. He transports us back to 6th century Britain, in the years following King Arthur's larger-than-life reign. While the focus of the story rests on an old couple making the journey to visit their son, the novel doesn't forget the dragons, pixies, and sword fights of Arthurian lore. As anyone who has read Ishiguro might expect, the author does a masterful job of emulating the speech patterns and concerns of the era, without letting the story get bogged down by these details.

For me, the story lost its momentum about half way through. I was totally invested in the journey of Axl and Beatrice when that was the focus of the story. Despite the introduction of other characters, I still felt like the story was about them. Then there's a shift. The story is still about the couple, but it's no longer just their story. And with the change in focus comes a change in the content—this is no slow-moving period piece, it's a swashbuckling adventure. It's still distinctly Ishiguro, especially in the final pages, but it wasn't Ishiguro at his best. It's a very admirable effort and certainly worthy of praise, but the disconnect that happened left me unconcerned with the outcome of Axl and Beatrice. When the hammer finally hit, I wasn't in tears like I was at the end of Never Let Me Go, touched as I was by Remains of the Day, or even left wondering what the hell had just happened, wanting to reread the entire novel as I did with A Pale View of Hills. A Buried Giant just left me empty. That emptiness was the single most surprising quality of this novel.

All Our Worldly Goods is a wonderfully rich novel of “love between the wars.” It is an easy read driven largely by the plot which follows the Hardelot family through its ups and downs from 1911 to 1940. It is filled with an intriguing cast of characters whom I wished to know better. The prose is beautiful, vivid, and succinct creating appeal across many genres of literature. Although I can only base what Europe was like during the wars through reading, All Our Worldly Goods has rendered the most realistic picture I have seen to date. While Némirovsky spoke of hope, the underlying tone was one of great dread; yet, during the war, life moved on for the civilians, a detail often missing in literature. Némirovsky's words were prophetic, predicting not only the ravages of World War II, but her own death two years later at the death camps. This made the novel all the more real. Touching. And relevant.The novel is underwhelming in two areas: focus and depth. It's never quite clear who or what the focus of the novel is; perhaps it is love, but this is a bit too ethereal to sustain a novel with such an epic-like scope. Once I became invested in one character another was introduced who seemed to become the prime focus and I was never quite sure who to root for; this shifting happened a few times. Similarly, I was never quite sure who the antagonist was; the character creating the greatest obstacles for our protagonist family suddenly changes face and doesn't seem so bad after all. As far as depth, I felt Némirovsky could have really gone deeper into this story. Quite a bit of ground is covered in a limited number of pages. Years and decades are skipped in paragraphs. Character development is often brushed aside in haste. Greater detail and a more specific focus really could have solidified All Our Worldly Goods as a novel of the highest grade.Perhaps Némirovsky felt she didn't have the time left on earth to delve into All Our Worldly Goods more than she did. The fact that she managed write an additional one and a half novels after this—the immensely popular Suite Française and Fire in the Blood—was an impressive feat. And I look forward to reading both of those, and maybe other works of hers.Judging her by this work only, Irène Némirovsky reminds me considerably of [a:Taylor Caldwell 33384 Taylor Caldwell http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1235579869p2/33384.jpg]. Although lacking in the scope of Caldwell's works, All Our Worldly Goods contains the same historical based story of adversity with a wonderful cast and a plot-centric story with romantic flavoring. If a reader of Némirovsky would like to try a different time period and a novel likely longer than 600 pages, I'd recommend Caldwell.