**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on religious extremism, sexism, bigotry, self-harm, mental illness, mania, & others.
Religion is a lingering facet of human society. There has always been a need to believe in more than the self. Alongside this comes the desire for structure. It is certainly attractive for every hour of the day to have a purpose. However, humanity’s self-motivating ability is great; Why would we need someone else to tell us what to do? What is the purpose of a system of beliefs that alter our free will? There is hardly a straightforward answer to either of these questions. Suffice it for humanity to rest easy, contemplating the essence of a creature devout in celestial abilities whose features resemble the mirror’s reflection but whose consciousness is unbound by the valour of malice that pungently exhausts the land.
This story follows a female religious devotee; she leads a church, she reads, & she is mistaken for a follower though she is the leader. She is a devotee of the philosophy of belief; the concept of something other than herself. Her character is nearly inconsequential to the story, so it matters little whether she is of flesh & bone or small choking hazards—plastic. Rather, what is most fascinating about Kaye is the fact that she does not matter at all. She has a husband & yet this man has an entire life, fulfilled by his independent enjoyments, one is left wondering where she factors in. Her church functions independently of her sermons & one is left wondering what part of the Lord’s whispers reaches her ears at all.
While reading this book I found the time swiftly passed me by. I was not preoccupied with the length of the book, the ticking of the clock or the sun’s passage in the sky. What grabbed my attention was the premise; a woman whose faith seems utterly devoid of belief. That is not to say that Kaye has no system on which to rest but that her essence floats like moats in the summer’s sun. Readers will find in her a character that is shallow & grave like the hole whence the body lays in final tranquillity. This is not a bad thing.
In certain cases, the main character of a book is the vessel by which the reader becomes immersed in the narrative. Kaye does not offer readers the opportunity to know her, she isn’t even the person translating the story into palatable chapters. This story is told by some omniscient being, rather unlike the God Kaye has grown to believe in, the narrator understands that Kaye is a woman without much gumption. I appreciated the tertiary narration. At times, I wanted to know who was telling me the story as I felt this might have engaged me further in the rather ridiculous series of events. However, the secrecy of the recounting—the disengaged words from no one in particular—felt intimate & led the story in the direction it needed to go.
Readers who have a firm grasp of various systems of belief, of the houses that bind religions & their facets, will have a better time appreciating this story for what it is, a philosophical question on the foundation of ideology.
Though an archive of religious knowledge will be of use to readers, it is not necessary. One may lean on the narrative to appreciate the depth; Kaye is a woman in a man’s field, she is a woman hearing the word of God, she is a woman speaking the word of God—always thought to be a male entity—to communities led by male figures. Certainly, this is a simplistic view because it is easily ascertained. One need not live in the city center to understand the vast nuance of gender freedoms. However, Kaye never really questions herself in this sense. She is aware that people do not regard her as an authority figure because priests are men & Kaye is a woman.
The simplicity of this fact needs to be considered as it contributes to the downfall of the main character. Had she not met a man in the park maybe she would have been less sympathetic to his ramblings. Had she seen a homeless woman would she have bemoaned the society that led her there?
If Kaye had not been in a heterosexual relationship would God have whispered pleasantries about faith & comfort into her ear to be shared with her community? If Kaye’s mother hadn’t foretold of her daughter’s failure, would Kaye have chosen a path to success? Kaye’s father is not mentioned. Her husband is mentioned only so far as to highlight that he rumbles through life like a tumbleweed; believing in this, incorporating that, & not paying close enough attention to anything in particular to be considered devout.
What is the author trying to convey? Which of the characters is the antagonist? What I find to be a great drag is when turmoil & fear are built up to be a storm but are, instead, raindrops across a garden’s bed. That is to say; Kaye is a person who ponders the truth of her ideology. Her entire system of belief is based on the alternative—a woman priest rather than a male, a traditional church rather than the new-age bigoted lot; devotion on park benches rather than pews; prayer with hands held tight rather than palms facing the sky. Is Kaye different for the sake of being different or does she believe that this path is the right, bona fide & absolute road?
The narrative lacks consistency. When I speak of torrential rain it is in line with what the novel attempts to promise. The scene in the park & the ultimate loss—homelessness—are represented as small dandelions in a field of green, nearly indistinguishable in the grand scheme. Kaye’s reliance on published works might lead readers to conclude that her beliefs are rather seeded in the English language; it does not matter what is written so long as she can read it, consume it, speak it, & live it to be true. When she meets the man who claims to be a planet, a star; a nucleus of the Gods; Kaye poses no objections.
Who is Janus? Due to the nature of this story, one that poses itself as a rather sour satire, I found the answer to this question invisible to my eyes. What would have led Kaye to believe a man she met in the park? What was it about his speech that brought to light the providence of what he foresaw? In ancient Rome, Janus was the God of Doors; he saw what was coming down the line & how it tied into the current state of being. His ability to gauge time allowed him to act as a clairvoyant. His status in ancient Roman religions & mythology declared him as the God of gateways, change, transition; the beginnings, ends; & archways.
Picture yourself standing in a public park in the middle of the rain. A stranger approaches you; a person with perfect teeth but no home. This person offers you a sermon, stating that you have made the wrong decision & you should change course immediately. What do you do? If you live in a boisterous city, this situation has probably happened to you before. I have stood in grocery stores & had similar experiences while contemplating the cracker selection. This makes Kaye’s mental turmoil difficult to understand. She loses her way after a rapid-fire conversation that offers little in terms of morsels of nourishment; Janus says little to Kaye & yet she is consumed by a mania that was triggered by the invisible.
Can the reader conclude that this stranger—Janus—spoke worry into her broken mind? Was Kaye’s temperament likely to crack, regardless of the person who visited her in the park? What made Janus claim that Kaye’s future would need to be altered for her well-being? What part of her lax & rather unburdened existence posed cause for worry?
As I am not the God of Doorways, I am perhaps poorly placed to ask such questions. Yet, the reality is that this story took place in our world, in our day & age with a person who was viscerally integrated into the casualty of modern-day society. Why did she believe a prophet in the park? One can understand reading books & believing the words they share; this happens all the time—this is part of the reason that drives book bans; people have very little critical thinking ability & so become immersed in whatever fiction or fancy is presented to them (think: the Bible).
What I am saying is that the author was unintentional with their premise. It is fine & dandy to have a character fall head over heels for ludicrous stanzas, but this scene felt foggy in the worst way; it was incomplete. There is no motive behind anything that happens. The free will of each individual in the exchange reads as cloistered behind the mind of the author. This plays well into the premise, that God is playing dolls with humanity or that the Prophet—whichever one you believe existed—is a spoilt child longing to alter the narrative of their plastic toys. However, one still needs to ask why.
When one is sitting in a religious institution one is not waiting for mystery. One listens to a speaker who has punctuation to add to folly. One is present & attentive waiting for the parable that will nestle their worries. For Janus to appear in the church after Kaye experiences fever-induced mania does not read as the miracle of prophecy. Rather, this scene feels like a manic episode. One is left feeling rather sad for Kaye as she sinks further into the mud of her mind.
Perhaps this is the point. Is religion a muddy stream seeking to sink anyone who steps foot in its waters? Does it matter that Janus came to Kaye rather than her God manifesting himself in Gabriel or the burning bush? Is the essence of all-encompassing ideology that one loses oneself in their philosophy? What would have become of Aristotle if he had wandered the streets of another city? What if walking across the water was a metaphor for performing that which feels impossible? What if no one hears God because he does not have a voice?
The eclipse of methodology encourages this story to nestle firmly in the absurd. Kaye becomes the familiar face of every person you might know which leaves her disappearance an impossible case to close. Was Kaye a real person to begin with or was she simply a metaphor for the cosmic domesticity of humanity’s insecurity? Is the story’s narrator the author or another omniscient being intent on grotesque exposition in an attempt to instil the bedtime story with a proverbial warning; hold steady to your beliefs or any droplet of rain is likely to turn your life into a monsoon; beware the aimless roamer; hasten your scripture or the pages of your life with slice you to pieces.
Ultimately, the reader may select their interpretation. Religion is a personal philosophy. One may wish to believe that they are unique in their care for the land or their tenderness of a stranger’s well-being yet, cultivated in the woods & within the sewer ways are the gathering of these same drowning foes. Making their way into the cerebellum from the gentle nerves behind our skin; ideology is that which we are better off ignorant of understating least we opt for the drowning vessel carrying feet that can neither part the seas nor walk through waves to safety.
Thank you to NetGalley, Cemetery Dance Publications, & Nicole Cushing for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
Merged review:
It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on religious extremism, sexism, bigotry, self-harm, mental illness, mania, & others.
Religion is a lingering facet of human society. There has always been a need to believe in more than the self. Alongside this comes the desire for structure. It is certainly attractive for every hour of the day to have a purpose. However, humanity’s self-motivating ability is great; Why would we need someone else to tell us what to do? What is the purpose of a system of beliefs that alter our free will? There is hardly a straightforward answer to either of these questions. Suffice it for humanity to rest easy, contemplating the essence of a creature devout in celestial abilities whose features resemble the mirror’s reflection but whose consciousness is unbound by the valour of malice that pungently exhausts the land.
This story follows a female religious devotee; she leads a church, she reads, & she is mistaken for a follower though she is the leader. She is a devotee of the philosophy of belief; the concept of something other than herself. Her character is nearly inconsequential to the story, so it matters little whether she is of flesh & bone or small choking hazards—plastic. Rather, what is most fascinating about Kaye is the fact that she does not matter at all. She has a husband & yet this man has an entire life, fulfilled by his independent enjoyments, one is left wondering where she factors in. Her church functions independently of her sermons & one is left wondering what part of the Lord’s whispers reaches her ears at all.
While reading this book I found the time swiftly passed me by. I was not preoccupied with the length of the book, the ticking of the clock or the sun’s passage in the sky. What grabbed my attention was the premise; a woman whose faith seems utterly devoid of belief. That is not to say that Kaye has no system on which to rest but that her essence floats like moats in the summer’s sun. Readers will find in her a character that is shallow & grave like the hole whence the body lays in final tranquillity. This is not a bad thing.
In certain cases, the main character of a book is the vessel by which the reader becomes immersed in the narrative. Kaye does not offer readers the opportunity to know her, she isn’t even the person translating the story into palatable chapters. This story is told by some omniscient being, rather unlike the God Kaye has grown to believe in, the narrator understands that Kaye is a woman without much gumption. I appreciated the tertiary narration. At times, I wanted to know who was telling me the story as I felt this might have engaged me further in the rather ridiculous series of events. However, the secrecy of the recounting—the disengaged words from no one in particular—felt intimate & led the story in the direction it needed to go.
Readers who have a firm grasp of various systems of belief, of the houses that bind religions & their facets, will have a better time appreciating this story for what it is, a philosophical question on the foundation of ideology.
Though an archive of religious knowledge will be of use to readers, it is not necessary. One may lean on the narrative to appreciate the depth; Kaye is a woman in a man’s field, she is a woman hearing the word of God, she is a woman speaking the word of God—always thought to be a male entity—to communities led by male figures. Certainly, this is a simplistic view because it is easily ascertained. One need not live in the city center to understand the vast nuance of gender freedoms. However, Kaye never really questions herself in this sense. She is aware that people do not regard her as an authority figure because priests are men & Kaye is a woman.
The simplicity of this fact needs to be considered as it contributes to the downfall of the main character. Had she not met a man in the park maybe she would have been less sympathetic to his ramblings. Had she seen a homeless woman would she have bemoaned the society that led her there?
If Kaye had not been in a heterosexual relationship would God have whispered pleasantries about faith & comfort into her ear to be shared with her community? If Kaye’s mother hadn’t foretold of her daughter’s failure, would Kaye have chosen a path to success? Kaye’s father is not mentioned. Her husband is mentioned only so far as to highlight that he rumbles through life like a tumbleweed; believing in this, incorporating that, & not paying close enough attention to anything in particular to be considered devout.
What is the author trying to convey? Which of the characters is the antagonist? What I find to be a great drag is when turmoil & fear are built up to be a storm but are, instead, raindrops across a garden’s bed. That is to say; Kaye is a person who ponders the truth of her ideology. Her entire system of belief is based on the alternative—a woman priest rather than a male, a traditional church rather than the new-age bigoted lot; devotion on park benches rather than pews; prayer with hands held tight rather than palms facing the sky. Is Kaye different for the sake of being different or does she believe that this path is the right, bona fide & absolute road?
The narrative lacks consistency. When I speak of torrential rain it is in line with what the novel attempts to promise. The scene in the park & the ultimate loss—homelessness—are represented as small dandelions in a field of green, nearly indistinguishable in the grand scheme. Kaye’s reliance on published works might lead readers to conclude that her beliefs are rather seeded in the English language; it does not matter what is written so long as she can read it, consume it, speak it, & live it to be true. When she meets the man who claims to be a planet, a star; a nucleus of the Gods; Kaye poses no objections.
Who is Janus? Due to the nature of this story, one that poses itself as a rather sour satire, I found the answer to this question invisible to my eyes. What would have led Kaye to believe a man she met in the park? What was it about his speech that brought to light the providence of what he foresaw? In ancient Rome, Janus was the God of Doors; he saw what was coming down the line & how it tied into the current state of being. His ability to gauge time allowed him to act as a clairvoyant. His status in ancient Roman religions & mythology declared him as the God of gateways, change, transition; the beginnings, ends; & archways.
Picture yourself standing in a public park in the middle of the rain. A stranger approaches you; a person with perfect teeth but no home. This person offers you a sermon, stating that you have made the wrong decision & you should change course immediately. What do you do? If you live in a boisterous city, this situation has probably happened to you before. I have stood in grocery stores & had similar experiences while contemplating the cracker selection. This makes Kaye’s mental turmoil difficult to understand. She loses her way after a rapid-fire conversation that offers little in terms of morsels of nourishment; Janus says little to Kaye & yet she is consumed by a mania that was triggered by the invisible.
Can the reader conclude that this stranger—Janus—spoke worry into her broken mind? Was Kaye’s temperament likely to crack, regardless of the person who visited her in the park? What made Janus claim that Kaye’s future would need to be altered for her well-being? What part of her lax & rather unburdened existence posed cause for worry?
As I am not the God of Doorways, I am perhaps poorly placed to ask such questions. Yet, the reality is that this story took place in our world, in our day & age with a person who was viscerally integrated into the casualty of modern-day society. Why did she believe a prophet in the park? One can understand reading books & believing the words they share; this happens all the time—this is part of the reason that drives book bans; people have very little critical thinking ability & so become immersed in whatever fi...more
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on capital punishment, crime, murder, terminal illness, sexual violence, body mutilation, & others.
I wonder what part of a story makes it worthwhile. The objective delight of consumption could arise upon the opening line. The slither of lingering hope that the middle might offer a forgiven delayed delight is altogether murdered by an end. This question exists in me alongside my wandering reader’s eyes. Few readers do not enjoy King’s writing. Their eager iris shift to encompass the dark as they share the tender frights they encountered along the abundance of stories the author has left along the way. I want to feel what they do but am left abandoned by hope alongside the highway, alone at night; waiting for a moon or a headlight.
In this short story, a man dies of colon cancer. He lived a long life filled to the brim with events, as is likely to happen throughout life. When he dies, he wanders the halls of a cold institution & meets a secretary of mortality who offers him the opportunity to return or die forever. The premise seeks to address our battle with mortality; our tendency to either want to be gone or stay forever. This story fails to consider that horrible people will do horrible things & this is neither shocking nor surprising. Rather than host sentences of tender discomfort, the dialogue feels trite; forgetting itself & the characters it created to offer the reader the chance to insert themselves in the morbid display of intentional criminality.
The main character in this book is a man like any other. His life was rambunctious & cadaverous; he roamed & screamed, he took for granted, cherished, & grew his ego. He was a father & a husband, a brother, & a son. The narrator is a person like any person might be & as is our habit, he holds dear to his heart, a terrible secret. This secret ostracizes him from the crowd; he is no longer a man like any other man, no more a regular person but rather a sexual predator. While at college, the narrator offered the girl he brought out on a date as a sexual conquest to his frat brothers; leaving her to rot in the basement where they each took their turn raping her.
This secret is revealed to the key holder—the secretary of revival or the perished soul. This man is a man like any other man, too. The reader will not learn too much about him because these details do not matter. Suffice it for the reader to know that this man, allowed hundreds of women to die in a fire in the warehouse of his business. This man is not a man like any other man; this man has a secret that convicted him of murder. Together, the two (2) men banter about their misgivings & misdeeds. They pester the other about who might have committed the worst act; who deserves to be the secretary in Purgatory & who deserves the chance to desecrate a woman all over again.
I found this story rather odd. What is the point? What is the reader meant to get from this story? That all men, no matter what kind of man, are bad men? Is the reader meant to conclude that murder is worse than gang rape? Is the reader meant to feel sympathy toward the narrator as he hopes to do better on his return to life, even though they know he’s had this chance before & he never took it? What is the purpose of a story where everyone is both poorly written & despairingly boring?
Rather than feel like a well-rounded narrative or a diligently thought-out philosophy about the rivals & perils of man, this story reads as the wet dream for an incel with an ego problem. How utterly devoid of inspiration or depth; this story presents readers with the same scenario that exists in the non-fictional world of their life & yet it asks them to forgive the men who demonize their surroundings because they are just human beings & human beings aren’t perfect. Again, I ask; What is the point?
The victim in this story is not the reader’s qualm with religion or the possibility of reincarnation. The victim is a woman; once again brought down by the claws of men. What is the philosophical question that is meant to be posed in this horror of all horrors? The writer includes a section wherein the narrator asks himself if his victim remembers anything at all. Is this man brain dead or simply sticking to what he knows; an intentional devious ignorance?
As a consequence of characters without edges or depth, I was left feeling excruciatingly annoyed that this brutal man was allowed the chance to come back & live a life where he would perpetrate violence again. Perhaps, this is the point of the story. Perhaps, this story was written with the ignorant & naive reader in mind; a person who has never wandered the streets of life where the eager harassing voice of a sombre male figure chases them down sidewalks & into their own homes.
Maybe, this reader is interested in the premise that presents the duplexity of a person who was loved & had every opportunity in the world to be good but, decided to vandalize the sanity & safety of another person—a woman—because he was a man who had the freedom to do so. I cannot say for certain, as I am not the author. However, what I can say, is that this story left a sickening bile slithering around my teeth; a wave of anger that in this short story, I found myself once again as the person forgotten in a scene that highlights the graphic nature of predators whereas the shadow figure of the depleted is meant to wander through rays of sunlight, silent & stone-faced, holding steady to the rubble of a secret they hold.
The morose nature of this story reminds me too much of a riddle without cause; a rhyme with no nature; the jagged age of a social encounter gone awry. The moral grey matter of this story is not, in actuality, the demure of a neutral shade but rather the Jade Egg that lingers in windows & across clear skies & open fields. The terrible person in this story did not need to come back to exist already in the body of someone else. The life after death or the death that wanders alongside us in life is perchance the occurrence of a choice we did not have the freedom to make.
If you would like to listen to this story, please visit this link...more
**spoiler alert** In art, one finds the monstrous stroke of a pendulum oscillating feathers & gunk from the brush stroke of the unknown. There is scar**spoiler alert** In art, one finds the monstrous stroke of a pendulum oscillating feathers & gunk from the brush stroke of the unknown. There is scarcely any logic behind the malevolence of a painting that sucks the soul from voyeuristic patrons; no moral to be gained from the tremendous overhaul that exists in the looping ledgers of old. When readers are met with the gore of a decimated figure, they may be inclined to pour colour into the darkened lines of the shapes that cloud their minds as they seek out a clue to the riddle of a story with no clean end.
Within the old home of a friend, our narrator comes to stay while post-mortem proceedings take place. The house is something out of a dream, more closely resembling the flourishing wealth of extroversion & luxury; meant purely for entertainment & reputation. The main character is a lover of her friend who, herself, has lost someone dear. The two find themselves near the end of a transitional period of mourning that will lead them down a new road. I should not like to say that a pursued life after death, especially in the case of our two heroines, is an adventure. I am more of the belief that the end of the life of a loved one reveals the terrible portrait of the claustrophobic tomb that it is.
To begin at the start, our narrator adopts the reflective tone of someone who has overcome the story at play. Readers soon lose their hold on logic as Jackson’s story delves further into the absurd. One will need to accept that the backward glance of the narrator is not as it seems; one will need to trust that the author has something in mind. Having been a fan of Jackson for many moons, I was pleased to discover that LeVar Burton had brought this story to life with the dull numbing ache of a broken heart & the sullen enthusiasm of a veteran reader.
After her husband’s passing Y—the close friend of our narrator—is set to spend a final night in her marital home before moving forward in her life. She sleeps under a painting that is in disrepair; old & rather flimsy, she fears it will crush her in her sleep. The next morning, she is gone. Her vanishing leads others to the professional opinion that she committed suicide but, our narrator knows better. She waits for her in the room with the painting until she sees Y appear, exasperated & troubled, waving her down from the tiny laneway in the art.
What ensues is a captivating exercise in longing. Both women are in the company of those who appear to be ghosts—Y’s grandfather & an aunt, both long since departed & deeply insane as a consequence of what might appear to be their captivity.
I found the descriptions given to the house inside the painting to be deeply perturbing. It was not so much that the house might be haunted or that the painting is filled with ghosts that troubled me but, rather, the reality of having a consciousness intact while trapped eternally without hope of a saviour.
Though this story has no clear ending, I am not of the belief that the purpose of telling stories is for them to be cleanly ended & ready for the consumption of all. Rather like the characters, many readers may be cloistered in various parts of the story without escape. The death of a loved one or the entrapment in a tomb of living nature; the disappearance of a friend; or the possible suicide of someone who was once cheerful; this story presents the total inability of humanity to be unscathed by its experiences.
There is a key intimacy that is hidden within these passages, one needs only the patience to arrive at the destination meant special for them. I admit that I thought rather tirelessly about the bodies of the ghosts being tied to a tree in the forest of the painting for all eternity. Were these figures evil or were they simply a product of a magical moment that saw them burdened by their victimhood?
Ultimately, the story that we tell ourselves, as the reader, may not align with the actual story we have read. Did the women escape? Did they sacrifice someone else in a bid to regain their freedom? Why was the painting left hanging alone on the wall? What made the painting magic? Just as we become nestled in the familiar spaces of words that speak seemingly, directly to us, so too does the story transform into a whispering tale of gore the likes of which another reader will interpret entirely differently.
Overall, a story might only be as powerful as its reader. Granting words permission to enrapture the distinctive sense of self; making the listener a foolish grotesque whence fear pours out; this is a story about the reader & the women who encouraged trickery with simple letters & godly patience.
If you would like to listen to this story, please visit this •LINK•...more
**spoiler alert** The concept of haunting is understood to mean something dreadful. Depending on the recipient, a recollection of terror might suffice**spoiler alert** The concept of haunting is understood to mean something dreadful. Depending on the recipient, a recollection of terror might suffice to confirm that indeed, ghosts do exist. On the other hand, the mind of the logically primitive demands dedication; facts & equations should be included to assure the listener that the entirety of this story cannot be left up to the orator's ineptitude.
Many readers of Horror find ways to deconstruct stories—I am one of them. It feels so much more intimate when an author is writing from a dual perspective—two stories for the price of one. The reader is granted the gastric & antiquated monster that shocks the sense & gifted the monstrous nibble of webbed scales that will remain with them long after the fear of ghouls subsides.
Readers will certainly receive no judgment from me; whether one chooses a story that mirrors the world of their own or in which the tale of romance is gifted with promise—the purpose is entirely to their discretion. When Wells wrote this short story I wondered about the reader he had in mind.
I wonder if, perchance it was to himself that he dedicated the final proverb; the closure of all that can never be had again. To ponder this stance is a neutral undertaking. I should not dissuade any reader from selecting this story. Rather, I find myself wondering who this story is for, at its core, because to dissect its meaning is to reveal the jewel of the reader, rather than the inner workings of the tale itself.
On a day like any other, a friend of a friend came around & shared something with the man we have in common, the narrator. Lionel Wallace had a story to tell & to our friend, he shared the moment that changed his young life, many moons ago. In its simplicity, Lionel came across a door hidden in a stowaway street. He entered & to his great surprise, he was met with a fantastic slew of magical beings, all eager to see him, all eager to play his favourite games.
Our dear friend sat & listened, having known Lionel for many years by this time & he wondered what would entice a person to share with another the particulars of the end of their normal life—the existence that is prefaced socially by being the acceptable way of life.
The reader listens silently as Lionel’s narrative sees him voyage through the years of his life always seeking to find that which was lost to him. His youth was directed by the dictatorial strict nature of his father & the subsequent decades found him mirroring the tendencies he adopted in his youth; always looking to make his father proud.
Early on, the reader might begin to wonder what this story is about. Lionel is a child when the world behind the door is revealed to him. The logistics of this entryway are never known to Lionel & are therefore never shared with us. The reader is left to wonder if every child has their door or if, subsequently & in turn, children parade through the doorway when it is their time.
Once again, I believe that the author was writing two stories. Though this is not a scary tale of monsters & terror, Lionel is a person who is haunted by an experience. Throughout his life, he sought out the door & was even subjected to physical violence & harassment as a consequence of sharing his experience with classmates. Certainly, the oddity in this story is that the room behind the door was a wonderful experience.
Readers may be inclined to believe that all of this magic hides a more malicious intent; the storybook of Lionel’s life revealed to him through the crevices of great & decapitating trauma. I am rather more of the mind that this small glimpse in time haunted Lionel because it was the only one of its kind he ever experienced.
One must empathize with Lionel & to the best of their abilities, call on their own experiences with a castrated memory of old. Suppose there was a time in your youth that left you feeling as though there was a part of you that was left behind. In this scenario, you might have been any age—the time of day matters more to you than it might to a critic. In this memory, you remain alive & boisterously tied to your body which has since moved on.
These moments are not always kind. Sometimes, these mirrored Changelings act as saviours to the part of us that was to survive the long haul journey through the years. This moment you recall is similar to Lionel’s. Perhaps you were met with a toy or the feeling of your toes between the sand; the ruffling of bedsheets, the tinge of an autumnal rain; we tend to experience these things in a state of overwhelm, were it as though a part of us knew we would be fractioned off.
I do not find it difficult to understand Lionel. His desperate attempts to tell his story to the narrator feel claustrophobic & marvellous in ways that life has the possibility of being. The dreamy sense that he holds towards time & how few short hours remain to him as he allows the door to pass into another memory read as deplorably sad. We come now to a curve in the road; a winding bend that prefaces the demise of the orator behind the final curtain. One is perhaps disenchanted by this point, believing that Lionel is mad; there is no magic door wherein a person lives freely of all the pressures that encumber their little life.
Lionel’s life was a good one, or so a bystander might remark. He had a successful career & was on the path to reaching even higher levels of success in government. He went to a prestigious school & found the approval of his father to feel just as wonderful as he believed it would. Yet, with each passing day, he was reminded of the world that he left behind. One cannot fault him for this. Just as we all have that part of ourselves that lives in memory within our mind—the place where we live on still, far from the body—so too does Lionel crave the jointure of himself.
He had been allowed to visit the door once before, many times in fact, & he refused. It was hidden from his view when he sought out the door with intention. The door seemed to show itself to Lionel when it felt his time was previously spent rushing to an engagement or following the hands on the clock to make it on time to a promised rendezvous.
These episodes of serendipity wherein one party seems to hold the wand to magically alter the adventure ahead felt authentic in a way that readers will recognize with the gumption of personal experience. The way forward is the only choice to make. For Lionel, this meant forgetting his heart’s desire to perform as a man in the world, the way his father told him he should.
Perhaps you have come to this part hoping for a dedicated reveal; a clear descriptor of what the door represents. My initial conclusion is that the door represents innocence. How Lionel experiences the world inside the door leaves me to feel that he had the opportunity to view what might be interpreted as his innocence being put into a book with pictures & kept safely behind a door which no one else will ever have access to.
One sees how his life changes after spending time with the magical creatures & his person is never the same; every encounter with the door, even in passing, leaves him with a sickening nostalgia for what he cannot regain once lost.
Yet, with that being said, I also accept that the door could be anything. For readers who are inclined to decode every activity within the door & for readers who believe it to be a rather morbid rupture from life’s tedium; the door could at once be the malaise we carry or the finality of our person via any number of events.
As with the recall exercise from earlier in this review, this special place that is held by the readers themselves holds the meaning of the door. Certainly, for Lionel, it might have been a case of purity or the possibility of viewing life through the lens of tenderness. However, in my mind, his final moments in life reveal the wound that lies where his innocence toward the world once nestled.
Ultimately, the author has done a formidable job of welcoming every type of reader. The relief one might feel when sharing a savoury secret or, perhaps a tender flesh of a memory, calls to the better nature of all those who have been allowed the opportunity to engage freely with someone else.
The narrator in this story acts as a confidant but, our friend is also recalling the events to us in something of a bid to shake the sadness from losing his friend, Lionel. Maybe we are supposed to comfort him; caress the parts of his mind that illustrate the dead body of his companion as he last knew him. Alternatively, we act as Pandora’s box; the reader holds the sullied ligaments to free the storyteller from their pain, if only for a moment.
What I appreciated the most from this story was the seamless writing. I found myself in familiar quarters, immediately engaged with being the gentle listener as I was sure to hear something outlandish & painful. What I was met with instead was humanity; our all too common grievances with the nature of our existence paired with the monstrously loving hearts of our peers, when given the chance to trust in them & in return, be gifted the comfort of raindrops to the river.
If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK•...more
Stories remain an essential part of our lives. Without stories, we lose focus on the greater picture &, arguably, we lose the essence of who we are. FStories remain an essential part of our lives. Without stories, we lose focus on the greater picture &, arguably, we lose the essence of who we are. Few stories amongst the thousand published yearly have made their way into the conscious state of the masses. Without needing to have consumed the original manuscript or sat through the tragically periodic change of the planets, one is able to muster enough information by proxy to participate in conversations. In this way, we have become connected through the reputation & lore that these stories carry through the ages.
I have long watched the trilogy set to film from the original books. I was never a great fan of the Fantasy genre or of movies depicting scenes of catastrophic war but, within these visuals, I found something by which to tether myself. That being said, I am a bibliophile. On account of many of the ways in which my brain interprets the world around me, I am seldom drawn to film. It is a wonder that it has taken me as long as it has to endeavour to read this first book. However, it’s not so much a mystery to me as it might seem.
When I was growing up, I knew which books I liked. This is not something that has drastically changed as I have aged. On the contrary, I have become more certain that specific tropes, approaches to writing (stylistics, prose), etc. are not (generally) things that I enjoy in the written format. That is not to say that I avoid these things at all costs. Rather, my life is short. I have a specific amount of time on earth—time that I am unaware of—I do not want to be chasing after books that all but check the marks of works of literature I am sure to loathe. There are too many books in this world that I want to read, I have no time to spend reading that which is not meant for me.
I avidly believe that some readers are kept in the author's mind when crafting their work. I have come upon stories that I found to be great & horrible bores but, I know other readers who will love them—because they are not me. Part of being a reader is understanding what is contained within a book. A story is meant to be consumed by an audience. Whether this means that one person grasps the tendrils of the heart of the premise or a thousand readers share in circles of wonder; a story is meant to be told & appreciated.
Here we find ourselves at a crossroads. I did not think that I would be the target audience for this book but, I read it anyway. Halfway through, I found myself wondering why I was reading this at all. Should I push myself to finish a book that I was not very much enjoying, for the sake of boasting to have read it or, do I lay it down for the reader who will love it? I did finish this book but, will not be moving forward with the final two instalments at this time because, when all is said & done, this was not a story that I enjoyed.
It is always strange for me to be faced with an author who is a talented writer but a dreadfully uncharismatic storyteller. Tolkien is a phenomenal writer. It would not take a studied & learned individual of English linguistics to declare that Tolkien knew his way around the language. The story works only so much as his passion for translating experience into consumable words. If I have taken anything away from this experience it is that writing & storytelling are two different things; Tolkien would have been a glorious correspondent but a tedious conversationalist.
This criticism is said with tenderness. I am familiar with the reasons why he decided to write this story & I am not trying to take that away from him. As a fellow Sisyphus, a mountaineer in my mind & heart, I applaud Tolkien for taking the time to try.
It is very difficult to do anything when the world is shadowed to you by your own clouds, stapled to the crevices of your mind by terror. Here we have a long journey through a world that seems more eager to name the danger that exists than we are in our own. Tolkien brought to life characters who were ignorant & downtrodden but, they remain eager, to this day, to see goodness prevail.
One is left asking if this alone is enough. The parallels that exist between this story & the society in which Tolkien lived are enumerable. One might ruminate on the similarities between the Hobbits & the Frontline soldiers or the landscape that is heaving with darkened riders. I would have liked to be able to write a review that was critical of the comparisons but, I found myself bidding my time. The primary reason for this was that none of the characters emit a depth categorically necessary to the premise. Frodo is a Hobbit & that is what we know. The first book spends three separate occasions reiterating the history of the ring so that when the first book closes off to begin the second, one is left with nothing to remember but rambling in the woods & a tree that consumes everything that it hates.
This brings me back to my comment about being a good storyteller. When one writes, one either chooses to believe that the reader is smart or, chooses to pander to the mind of a person who is not paying attention. Tolkien wrote in circles about the same thing, over & over again, without reason for doing so. We understand the history of the Hobbits because he told it to us in the Prologue. This information is appreciated if a bit excessive. Why did Tolkien not approach the entire story in this way? This book was written during a period in time when the attention span of readers was not 15 seconds. Why is he acting as though the reader cannot remember that the ring fell into a river?
Did the author forget his own story or did he believe that after a thousand & one poems of sing-song nature, the reader might have forgotten why they should care? I am certainly not trying to be cruel but, I found my patience wanting. There is no need to have three separate occasions in which the entire history of the ring is reiterated down to the last detail—we already know this & now the information is redundant making the story dull.
I might have understood the need to draw out the details. Perhaps, when Gandalf first began to explain the history to Frodo he believed it best to keep some things hidden & when Aragorn was explaining his participation in finding Gollum to learn more about the ring, he was waiting for the right time to say everything that he knew. Instead, every character feels the need to dictate things that we have already been told.
Is the culture in this world that no one knows when to jump into lengthy retellings? Everything that might have been useful for Frodo is kept silenced because people believe that Gandalf is the only one who should be speaking the truth. Fair enough but then why are we all constantly ruminating on the ring—maybe if we made more tangible progress on the path we mightn’t need to regurgitate the same intention behind the journey every five minutes.
In all this story is boring. This is not the work of someone who understands what goes into an enthralling story. This is the work of someone intent on forgetting the world in which they live. I do not begrudge him for that. I do not think this story needs to be read to be appreciated. It is enough for readers to share their experiences to keep the book's essence alive.
Perhaps if we all remember that hardship can be found even in tender places, we are better set & ultimately prepared for the troubles that befall all of humankind. Perhaps in stories, even the ones we do not enjoy, there is something like a token we might keep with us. From this book, I am reminded of the gruesome terrors that loom over our world & the magic we create amid our days in the hope that when we close our eyes, the darkness might not reflect an iris that sears morbidly back at us....more
There was no way for me to be prepared for what I found within the pages of this book. So unprepared was I that I found myself laughing out loud at thThere was no way for me to be prepared for what I found within the pages of this book. So unprepared was I that I found myself laughing out loud at the strangeness of this book’s nature. In these moments of humour, I found myself with the comforting sentiment that young children will love this, as much as I did in adulthood.
There are no words within this picture book which makes it the ultimate story for those who may not be able to read aloud, those for whom words carry no weight, those for whom words are an unknown, or simply for those like myself who enjoy the strangeness of art. The beauty of this book is that it can be consumed by anyone for there are no linguistic barriers in imagery; everything can be just as much itself as it can be whatever you wish it to be.
I think that young readers will find an abundance to enjoy & appreciate within this book. I believe it will remain a story that bridges the transition between our introduction to books through our journey into literature. As the young character walks home from school, she passes the windows that reflect the soul of the house & all the people, things, & creatures within.
I am so glad to have gotten the opportunity to read this & I am so happy to be gifted the knowledge that readers will be able to have their first experience wandering through these deliciously detailed pages, as I have today.
Thank you to Edelweiss+, Kids Can Press, & Marion Arbona for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!...more
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, theref**spoiler alert** It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the subject matters of the book as well as those detailed in my review overwhelming. I would suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters which contain reflections on the death of a loved one, grief, physical illness, mortality, & others.
On the night of her 8th birthday, Nora is far from being in a celebratory mood. She misses her mother & cannot fathom welcoming a birthday without her; life is not the same & never will be again. Her father offers her his best words of encouragement & comfort as he gifts her one of her mother’s prize possessions, a music box. What ensues is a world-bending adventure that sees Nora become the hero to an ailing woman & her two (2) desperate children who seek to offer her medical aid in the world of the music box.
My first impression when reading this comic strip was that much has changed since the times in which I used to roam the library shelves for the French comics of my youth. Carbone's work, having been originally written in French, does not accurately translate into a story that is as warm as I know it would have been in its original language. I am glad to see the diversity in plot lines; the reality that many children are parented by a single figure, whether that be a biological one or not, needs to be addressed in literature & I am glad that this is present throughout this story. However, the essence of the narrative is lost in the speedy language of English.
So many moments of this story felt like a translation. That is not to say that the translator did a poor job but that what was trying to be said could not be translated. The world in which Nora lives is brimmed with fantasy & lore; nothing is ever as it seems. However, nothing is actually given to the reader so we might deduce that for ourselves. We hardly got a moment to know Nora before we see her dive head-first into a music box to save someone who needed help. Later in the story, we learn that Nora’s mother was a nurse & that Nora learnt a great deal from her. Yet, the intermingling of her ever-present grief with this odyssey quest does not leave me with any semblance of enthusiasm for the narrative.
The story flies by in such quick succession that I was curious to know why Nora, a girl who is seemingly able to set aside her own fear, sadness, & emotions to help another person, would not be blown away by the monstrous figures that inhabit this land. We certainly do not need a long-drawn-out scene for this to be showcased but, some extra pieces of dialogue would bode well in crafting the world & the characters so that they appeared to be entities with depth & beings who lived lives outside of the scenes in which we meet them.
This aside, I believe that this story would be a welcomed series to all those young readers who might wish to see the ghoulish differences that exist within the Fantasy genre, in something of a beginner step in their journey. This book would serve as a lovely commencement to a lifetime of love for all things magical & cinematic. The illustrations by Jérôme Gillet paint this world to be one that is a rainbow of detail & sunshine. I was immediately in awe of the vivacity of the colour scheme & the effort that went into ensuring that this tale was told through the eyes of a person who sees the world for all the beauty it holds.
I would recommend this book to young readers, younger than Nora, who might be able to better appreciate the choppy transition of dialogue & scenes; appreciating the land, the sky, the background & the lore they hope to encounter in the next instalment.
Thank you to NetGalley, Capstone, & Bénédicte Carboneill ("Carbone") for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!...more
Alex & Jo are enjoying a sauntering boat ride on the river when their ears pick up the sound of someone crying. As they make their way to their friendAlex & Jo are enjoying a sauntering boat ride on the river when their ears pick up the sound of someone crying. As they make their way to their friend, the Professor, they learn that he cannot find the last Rainbow Bird & without its other half, the species will surely vanish.
Truthfully, what renders this book to be absolutely breathtaking is the illustrations. Those found within this book are the definition of whimsical magic translated into an art form. Every single picture was so detailed, so wonderfully done; one cannot help but feel conflicted. I didn’t want to turn the page because I felt certain that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the beautiful imagery, only to find another stunning picture laid out in front of me, on the next page.
The story itself is very quaint. Following the protagonists through their quest in nature as we became acquainted with different species of birds reminded me of what it felt like to learn about all the animals with whom we share this earth when I was very young. Hosting space in the plot to shed light on the beautiful things that can happen when we take the time to preserve relationships & the environment, leaves one feeling glad to have read such a spectacular book.
Every part of this story was wonderful, comforting & rewarding to read. I am so pleased to know that young readers will have such divine illustrations & stories at their fingertips.
Thank you to NetGalley, Floris Books & Nora Brech for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!...more
I think that stories that involve time travel are often harder to execute than people might think. It's lovely to write about a man in 1902 that arrivI think that stories that involve time travel are often harder to execute than people might think. It's lovely to write about a man in 1902 that arrived in the modern age & was able to adjust, almost seamlessly, to a lot of differences between our societies. However, in reality, it would not have been so easy.
The simple experience of being in a vehicle might have sent him for a loop. Our automobiles go at a far greater speed (even on the slower speed-limited roads) than those available to him in his time. Though this is one example, I often find myself nit-picking at the experience of the character who has travelled through time. The wording we use is different, our clothes, our mannerisms, our stores, our vehicles, our music, our technology, etc. I understand that this story was meant to be a cute holiday read but I couldn't get past the ease with which Charles just kind of accepted that he was not in 1902 any longer.
This book would make a great corny holiday movie. Listening to the audiobook really solidified that feeling for me. Though Kate Rudd did an awesome (superb) job at narrating the story, the plot itself would play out better in a film than in literature. I was interested in this book because it's the time of year to be reading about Christmas & love but, this is not the type of book I am usually drawn to so perhaps due to this fact, I wasn't able to appreciate it as much as another person might.
Thank you to NetGalley, Dreamscape Media, & Alexis Stanton for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!...more
Un tout petit livre, une toute petite histoire qui demeura avec moi en esprit pour toujours&à jamais.
Pendant ma jeunesse je me suis retrouvé à être seUn tout petit livre, une toute petite histoire qui demeura avec moi en esprit pour toujours&à jamais.
Pendant ma jeunesse je me suis retrouvé à être seule à ne pas avoir lu ce roman. J’aimerais bien pouvoir indiquer une raison concrète, mais ce fut tout simplement parce que cela n’a jamais adonner. Voilà qu’en voyageant de retour au Canada j’ai trouvé mon moment, après tant d’année.
L’histoire suit les aventures du petit prince qui habite une planète solitaire. Celui-ci nous fait part de ces questions philosophiques concernant l’amour&l’amitié. Nous traversons l’univers avec le jeune protagoniste tout en apprenants des leçons importantes vis-à-vis nous-mêmes êtres humains.
Il n’est pas évident de pouvoir distinguer qu’un détail de l’histoire comme étant celui qui m’a le plus touché, qui m’a viré de bord. En terminant ma lecture je me suis sentie un peu coupable de n’avoir pris un moment auparavant pour lire un roman qui est rempli d’autant d’amour.
Je vous encourage tous&chacun de poursuivre la lecture de ce livre. Je suis certaine de me retrouver entre les pages de l’histoire à nouveau au courant de ma vie&dans les années à venir....more
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