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62
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| 177843052X
| 9781778430527
| 177843052X
| 4.83
| 6
| unknown
| Sep 03, 2024
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None
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Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Jul 12, 2024
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Paperback
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61
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| 1039056423
| 9781039056428
| 1039056423
| 3.85
| 1,618
| Jun 04, 2024
| Jun 04, 2024
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liked it
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**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 self-harm, parental abuse, physical violence, homophobia, substance abuse, Dementia, grief, & others. Following the red thread that links one person to the other is a tedious endeavour. One might be surprised to find that the thread is slim, nearly indistinguishable. Whereas on occasion, a person may feel as though the entire universe conspired to weave two people together, the connections we share are tender & delight in the interpretations we might gather independently of the bones that hold us up. When exploring the nature of genealogy & the intricate study of genetics, one observes the foundation on which rests human society; one must be the same as the other to merit entry to a neighbourhood, a home, or a heart. Conflicts arise through adoption, abandonment, displacement, & the forlorn forgetfulness of stories that can no longer be told. Stories speak to an intimate experience of the world. The author has in their hands the ability to weave a narrative that is powerful & overwhelming though they may decide to go the other way; choosing instead to make their story one of slow wandering worry, paved with secular stones, & false idols. Whereas Talty had experienced success in their previous work, namely “Night of the Living Rez” (2022) & most recently by contributing to the anthology “Never Whistle at Night: An Indigenous Dark Fiction Anthology” (2023), their recently published story follows a very sullen path & readers may not find the terrible tremble of the plot as engaging as in the author’s previous work. However, if they have the patience to accept that not all stories are Odysseys, that some stories are simple tumbles of stones at the base of a mountain, they may thoroughly enjoy what Talty has brought to their doorstep. In essence, this is a story about a man who lives outside the community that raised him. Charles is not an Indigenous person by heritage or ancestry, yet his entire life is shaped & sung by the voices & people of the community he was raised in. When the reader meets Charles, he is seated on his porch, watching the world go by. More specifically, Charles sits outside of his house day & night to watch the goings on of his neighbours across the river; the house where his child once lived & where his former best friend & romantic partner now resides with her husband. As he watches their lives unfold, Charles toys with his freedom to inform Elizabeth, his daughter, that she is his child. The reader must decide whether Charles is correct in his pursuit or if his silence is worth the torment, it causes him. My experience with this story is strange to quantify into words. Talty’s writing style is very simplistic, I am confident any number of readers will be able to grasp the inner workings of the story at play & leave with more than they bargained for. The stylistic choices he employs throughout the book allow an easy flow to the narration that the main character provides. At times, the juvenile reflections gave me pause: Why was I reading this story? Charles is older than I am & has lived a life humbled by regret & guilt. The reflections he provides throughout this story felt tangible & realistic because the book was not littered with prose. Though, there are times when writing with smoother edges might have cushioned the transitions of the story, Talty did well by providing Charles with the saw-toothed letters he spoke with. While reading this book I found myself reflecting on the sincerity of the accusations Charles brought to the reader. While it was true, Charles felt immense guilt for the death of his stepfather, & though it is accurate to say that he was self-involved, much of this story could have been avoided had the main character been granted the opportunity to be heard. This might seem like a silly thing to say & you would be correct in thinking this. Ultimately, Charles is not able to speak his mind & he does not have anyone who will earnestly listen to him, this is not the reality of this story. However, I find it useful to ponder the nature of his circumstances because they are too tangible to be fictitious. In life, many things take place that remain outside of our control. When Charles refused to go with his stepfather into the woods, he could not have known that the man would pursue a moose deep into the trees until he succumbed to frost & ultimately, death. What makes the plight of the main character so dreadful is that there is no redemption. His life is moving in a direction that no longer parallel’s his parent’s; he must go it alone. Talty has ensured that the cast of characters were fleshed out enough for a reader to see similarities between themselves & their environments, within the strict frame of the story. As the plot unveils itself to the reader, several key pieces are brought to light. The communal influence that has left Charles feeling Indigenous; the home that reels with the absence of his parents; the proximity to what he can no longer attain. Certainly, one may find the dilemmas that Charles ponders rather annoying, nearly insulting. However, it is not the reader’s role to judge the main character for his views nor for his moral conundrums. Rather, because the reader is not given a full scope of the reality that has surrounded Charles, they are kept in a distinctly primed position. The author knows they will judge Charles, & he bets on their heightened feelings to drive home the conclusion of this story; we are all who we are in part because of the people we meet, & primarily because of those who have come before us. The scope of this story follows one man & his troubles are valid; he has a child & his partner all but abandons him with this knowledge so that their child can be perceived as “full blooded”—a practice wholeheartedly inappropriate & reminiscent of the deranged lack of understanding that accompanies those without knowledge of genetics; blood is not mathematically fractioned, it is oil & stone into the entity; rippling monsters under the cavernous sea to boast of old stories & lore unbeknownst to the newborn. However fancifully I wish to write about this subject, the truth remains; certain communities still perceive blood, heritage, lineage, & ancestry to be something one can keep purely to the point; a tit-for-tat in the mirror of dynasties & mile-high perverse incompetency. I am not here to write about my feelings towards Charles identity. This is not my place & I would not want to add fuel to a fire that is burning ominously as it is. Rather, my reflections contain the truth of my experiences in the world as a person who is the human fraction, a putrefied equivalent of a mutt dog; a mongrel; a half breed; a silly slimy frog in a pool of swans. That being said, so are we all. In some storybooks the Prince is tender & sweet, whereas in others, she is hidden behind the beast of his own appearance. These tales are meant to guide humanity & ease their personal burdens—they are not alone. No matter the moral at the end of the fantasy, one must acknowledge that there is a role for all to play & so we do. Charles was a son, he is a father, he is a recovering alcoholic, he is lonely, he is a friend, he is frustrated, & warm-hearted; he is a human being with a complicated relationship to the world & with himself. Part of the joy of this story is being privy to the chaptered representations of his philosophy. On occasion, Charles is the Prince & in other cases, he is the magic mirror captive in the house. The character was dynamic & crafted to reflect the people we share this life with. However, there were still instances wherein I found the story to stall & I wondered what the point of such a narrative was, if my thinking had been thought & all my ruminating had been completed before the final curtain call. The story hinges on the decreased mental ability of Charle’s mother who has Dementia. The secret of her past tumble forward when she is at her most vulnerable & the author nearly reveals what happened before the reader arrived on scene but, he doesn’t. Instead, he reminds readers that the spectrum of this story is contained & sheltered in the confused fear of the narrator. I cannot fault him for this, it appears that he wrote the story he wanted to tell & he did not leave room for meandering. Rather, I mention this detail because I was waiting for something more. Perhaps it is unkind to reveal that I wanted more from a story that simmered so densely on subject matter that is objectively difficult to experience firsthand. Yet, I claim my spot here; I wanted the story to reveal more vulnerability than it had in store. Though the characters were earnest in their portrayal, the core of the narrative remained poised on the surface level. Charles does not necessarily grow from his reflections, nor does he ever truly take into account the reality that encumbers each of the people impacted by Elizabeth’s unstable mental state. I do not say this to be unkind, but rather to highlight that each character who was a parent to her tried to give her the upper hand without understanding the vulnerability that coveted her psyche. Ultimately, this is a good book & one that reveals a distinct reality for many people. Readers may find themselves drawn or repulsed by Charles & his quest to speak truth into Elizabeth’s life in an attempt to clear her blue skies. Their genuine attempts to do the right thing, while being uninformed & self-serving, made harsh the environment where their shared love grew into a matured & tender greenery. If one has the patience to follow flawed characters, one will find themselves drawn to the yellow brick road that leads to the protected centre of the story; we are who we are & no claim, chain, status, or census will change what nestles deep within; the studies & fruitfully crafted code that propels us forward until the end. Thank you to NetGalley, Penguin Random House Canada, & Morgan Talty for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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May 12, 2024
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May 12, 2024
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Hardcover
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60
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| 0374168156
| 9780374168155
| 0374168156
| 3.81
| 16
| Nov 12, 2024
| Nov 12, 2024
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** The world’s movement is rarely felt by the life forms who live on its shoulders. Ancient prophecies speak of a shift that will lead
**spoiler alert** The world’s movement is rarely felt by the life forms who live on its shoulders. Ancient prophecies speak of a shift that will lead humanity to falter & require the species to change direction; to make better choices & understand that their existence is insecure & easily eliminated. Supposing that the threat is not said in jest, one may ask what the purpose of such a reset would be. Will the forest dwellers feel relief? Will the concrete scurrying rats feel free? The world functions by default, without anything but the axis; life on Earth is a blessing, one which many human beings seek to shed. When I requested this book, I had no concept of what I would find inside. This might be a silly thing to admit but, I did not regard the title as profound insight into the plot, nor did I seek to decipher the colour scheme of the cover art to mean more than what they were—a reflection of choice. Inadvertently, I found myself reading this novel perturbed by its approach. While a more studied reader will have further criticism of the stylistic approach that the author has taken when presenting the narrative with characters whose lives are both specific & ambiguous; my review will focus primarily on the time count, the hours it took me to realize that this book wasn’t as long as I felt like it was. In essence, this is a story about despair. The author introduces the reader to Anthony, a man whose past is riddled with drudgery. This first chapter promised a great saga with lore to confound the reader & I anticipated the story to play a rhythmic fiddle when enunciating the malaise that accompanied Anthony. However, this was not to be. Price’s novel incorporates the perspectives & realities of a slew of different characters & though, at first, Anthony appears to be an ideal narrator—a character worthy of following, ever so despondent as he is—the story’s shift tumbles over the heads of those whose chapters were less riveting, one from the other. It is not easy to incorporate so many perspectives into a single story. While the main driver of circumstance is the destruction of the apartment complex, each character reflects deeply about their feelings regarding events & people whom the reader never knows. These instances are beneficial in building the realism that Price offers the reader but, while perusing the chapters, it was difficult to engage fully with characters whose value to the story remained hidden. Anthony reappears in the later portion of the book as the titular Lazarus man, having been found beneath the rubble of the building, it appears that he was there for days. Yet, in truth, the shock that Anthony experiences led him to wander back into the building in the hopes of finding purpose, a calling, or the door that would lead him to the end. There is a great deal of time that can be spent reflecting on the build-up of this revelation however, I feel great frustration now as I did then. Though the story is well-written in the traditional sense, the story itself is of no interest to me. Rather, the plot was filled with individuals whose lives were riddled with anger & grief but, while reading about the slow progressing days of their lives, I was acutely aware that my days were passing me by. More often than not, I found myself wanting to toss away the book & be done with it. I could not understand how such a story could feel like such a drag. Herein lies my main issue; this is not a story to be told in the traditional sense. The modern era of visual aids, such as documentaries films & series, remind readers that the slow progression of the redundant events in this plot, would have felt far mor engaging & interesting had they been coloured by film. This is not a stance I am averse to adopting. Arguably, all stories need to be told a certain way for them to be appreciated as they should. In the case of these characters, one may find the hours slowly ticking by without any sensation of thrill that often results from reading a good book. The telling—the transmission of this tale—felt stilted & dull. Not all stories need to feature speeding cars & lightning bolts but, at some point one must ask what the purpose is in rehashing the same sentient patter of the life that is lead by each character. Each character is dealing with an infidelity; their faith has faltered, they are engaged in a sexual relationship with a less than desirable person, they are experiencing financial insecurity, & they have found themselves in the environment of the apartment collapse. At face value, their experiences are altogether human & though perhaps less than intriguing, they are lives led by individuals & they contribute to the whole of existence. Rather, perhaps a reader who has more patience than I do will find the dreadfully slow-moving chapters that are the middle portion of this book, easier to consume. My main qualm with this book was that it wasn’t for me. I have met readers in my life, happy to consume a book because it was a book & they needed nothing further than a story & so, they read it. Readers who may connect with this approach will appreciate this story. In reality, nothing much happens throughout the entire book. The police officer is searching for a man whose wife died in the collapse—she finds him & he’s just a man grieving the loss of his loved one. Anthony lies & acts holier than thou, & is able to continue doing so because he’s not the first, nor will he be the last. Yet, with each character one is left wondering what the point is. What is the story trying to say about life in New York City? What is the author’s goal when presenting readers with a slice of life rather uninspiring to those who may not be living life in the same way? Is the reader meant to feel pity for the characters who miss their loved ones or for whom family is the collection of stray pebbles? Which part of the plot highlights the earnest truth about a life sheltered by grief? Is the narrator Anthony or Mary? Does it matter if Anthony is lying to gain praise or should a person be honest to a fault if they wish to speak on salvation? What is perhaps most odd of all is that by the end of the story, the conclusion sets nothing to right. In some ways, the reader plays the omniscient being who watches the gastric incision take place from the amp theatre, safe from splatter. In this way, the reader is able to watch poverty, praise, sorrow, love, loss, disenfranchisement, gentrification, justice, & cheating, scramble through the lives of others without adopting any value to these experiences. I wonder whether a deeply sensitive reader might not appreciate this stance more than a reader who, like me have walked the roadway of these realities & have little care for the clinical view they may offer a privileged reader who cares naught for the consequences of these experiences. I have spoken ad nauseum about how tired I felt while reading this book. The cold approach it took to present a cast of characters who lived within the confines of the same community was unnecessary. There is a possibility that I am wrong & that Price saw something in this approach that I have not, having spent more time with the faces that remained in shadow than I have reading about them. Regardless, the final product left much to be desired & though the writing was enticing & the stylistic choice of vernacular well-placed, the plot itself felt dense, while vapid of any gooey elixir. Ultimately, the plot wraps up the storylines with enough detail to highlight that life goes on. The photographs, sexual encounters, the rambling & raving, the family business & youthful hope, the changing neighbourhood & tumultuous flow of life, weave a tapestry that is daunting & humble, leaving readers with no fond feelings of gladness for the continuation of life but rather, joy accompanied by the end of the book. Thank you to NetGalley, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, & Richard Price for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Apr 27, 2024
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Apr 27, 2024
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Hardcover
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59
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| 1250894484
| 9781250894489
| 4.15
| 495
| Jun 18, 2024
| Jun 18, 2024
|
liked it
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**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 the death of a loved one, slavery, racism, substance abuse, bigotry, scenes depicting the graphic death of a minor, & others. The salivating need to redeem the sacred soul leads to follies. Characters whose plight feels burdened by reality present readers with interesting subjects. The digestion of their story is unmoored by the current of other nutrients, the substance they offer is all their own. Yet, the troubled reality of those who receive no forgiveness, no calming finality to their torment, offer stories that are given as warnings rather than common truths. I received this book in the evening. The post had come late & I had not been expecting the gift I found. I was quick to share my joy with my book-loving friends, & those whose relationship with literature differs quite significantly from my own. My enthusiasm was purely materialistic. I cannot rationalize that I receive books to review; this is something my young small-town self would find absurdly cool & to this day, a wave of humbling joy overcomes me. The background is given here because I had not heard of Vercher before receiving his book. I can confirm to you that the sunset’s gift of this story has left me longing for more of the author’s work. In truth, as I spoke about my enthusiasm, & my humbled gratitude, in response to receiving this book, I wondered if I would be the target audience. Had the publisher been correct in sending me this book? Would I be able to appreciate the labelled scars on the skin & souls of the characters? The synopsis left much to the imagination & I ruminated on what possible avenues the author might take in order for his main character to tell his story. If one is looking for a sad story, one is in good company here. Rather than adopt the genre of magical realism tinged with creatures of old school horror—the likes of which have been done before in this setting—Vercher offers the reader their own home; asks them to turn off the lights, & listen to the hum of silence, deafening them with anguish. In essence, this is a story about grief. The main character begins to speak to his son who died in a car accident, with him at the wheel. The chapters follow the narrator as he attempts to push through the wall of bricks that he has built, unconsciously, around himself. He shimmies over mounds of regrets, sadness, & hollowed-out spaces that reflect his shortcomings to himself. The story he shares with the reader is complicated & simple; he is sad. However, the main character is also angry; his failure to be a better person resulted in years of frustration for his son & left him reeling in his last moments, grasping for safety with a parent who was never there to offer it. While reading this story I began to wonder how I would explain it. What words would I use to recount my experiences with the plot & how would I describe the setting? Did I enjoy this story? Was the moral of the story tangible? Did the main character experience growth or regression? Was this a story that all readers may be able to appreciate? Though I have come to find the answers to these questions less easy to present in writing, the answer overall resides squarely with one’s own awareness of society. In recent years, the subject of ethnicity, race, nationality; the abstract demise of community, & the Land, have circled spaces intended for open discourse. Those among us who have been made to perish lock-jawed in the dirt find that the trees that shade their unrestful repose have grown strong; ignorance cannot survive forever. Yet it does persist. The reality that led the tomb to be shattered; the intentional sinking ship; the fire to the crops; the genocidal intent to eradicate; all these things live in the bones of those who wander the earth desperate & hopeful to find what has been lost to them. The main character has experience with these subjects on a more intimate level than simply through discussion. It is here that the reader will choose their path & decide how they will interpret the story. On the one hand, a reader may revel in the magic that colours the perimeter of this story. The main character experiences a shift in his physique as he slowly transforms into a jellyfish. He spends days fearing the worst, losing sleep, & speaking to shadows, only to return to the water from whence he originated. On the other hand, readers may interpret the dual narrative as a secret whispered to those who saunter the shores of experience; the exposure to a broken fraction; attempting to live life not wholly one part, but neither insufficient in either. As a person who empathizes with the reality of the main character, I found the dialogue that circled his truth to be presented authentically. Chapters explored the shifting tide of the diminished attention span, as those around him who are one with the identity they hold, discouraged him from expressing himself further, noting that no one cared to read about that anymore. The frustration will surely mount in readers who recognize the truth in these statements; though, it is certainly powerful to share, what feels like a majority of people are not listening to understand but to suck dry the oyster so they may declare themselves full. The narrative presents readers with snippets of blatant reality. Not everyone is given a spot at the table, some people aren’t even told that there is a table, left altogether unaware of a gathering. What may render this honesty difficult for certain readers to stomach is that it is presented by a character who is nearly, entirely, unlikeable. Readers who are led by logic & whose own days have been brimmed with an intimate acquaintanceship with humanity will have no trouble discerning value in what the main character is trying to communicate, even though he was a negative force in the life of his child. I found the inclusion of such negative traits an interesting choice. Certainly, if one is among the crowd of those who tire of conversations that include race, one may decide upon this being the perfect reason to duck out; people are angry & so why listen? On the other hand, I appreciated that the main character was redundantly flawed. This did not discount his reality. Indeed, if one studies the flow of the main character’s regression to a sea creature, the puddles of a grief-stricken parent, or simply the sorrow of a person who is intentionally misunderstood & ostracized because of what others see in him, this story speaks clearly about the empathy that is lacking in our communities. Why is it so difficult to accept that anger expressed is not an indication of fault in logic? As the story progressed & the main character struggled to stay face, the plot explored the burly nature of imbecilic reasoning. Characters flew on to the page to express that seeing is believing & then quote the Bible as rationalized jargon that may support them in their crimes. These people wanted to continue to enslave the souls of those who perished deep into the earth, denoting value in success for a job well done rather than an intricate understanding of what it means to love someone. By this I mean, that a person who loses without the ability to see, once more, what has been taken; a person whose sight witnesses despair & the similar, if not same skin walking villains protrude through the gentle flow of life; this person will never grow beyond the ignorance they wield. Certain aspects of this story lingered without giving the reader further clarity into their presence. The main character speaks of his grandfather who was a terrible man; What does this mean? What changed in the days they spent together while the main character was a child? Did this man express racially derogatory sentiments? Did he leave the property—the plantation—to Malcolm because he wanted him to know that no matter how brilliant his melanin, how deep his brown eyes, or how thick his locs were; deep down he would always be the product of malice? I cannot begin to know the answers to these questions though, I believe that the book does not necessitate me having clarity into the burdened soul of a bad man. Rather, I believe this book wants readers to reflect. Why would any of this have taken place? Readers like me may wonder at the forgiveness that is not given to the main character. The soothing nature of the water sings back to him as he escapes the burden of being the person that he is in a world that does not accept any portion of his identity. There is no winning in a system where a person needs to break off pieces of themselves to fit keyholes & purport terminology that is neutral & inauthentic. I was glad to see him enveloped by the water that cups the land, the ecosystem that shields life from humanity. Ultimately, this book was interesting & perhaps that is enough. When I think back, I am troubled by the aggression of the main character & flummoxed by his intentionality when treating others poorly. The flashbacks as his son grew up offered this story well-needed intimacy with the narrator, without which readers might be left wondering where to offer their sympathies. Truthfully, I felt moved by mournfulness as the narrator revisited the death of his child; the destruction of a life that had yet to experience the good that does thrive in the world, due to the unfortunate seething anger of his parent. This left me with deeply wounded gloom. My appreciation of this story mirrors the familiar twinge that beats deep in my mind. The sleepless nights & chatter with Grandfather Moon; the seething torment of rivers burdened with molasses; the life that seems utterly devoid of the tranquillity satiated by the ignorant, & an existence that is kept in the profoundly cavernous shadows of the self, unspoken to those whose boisterous cries decry an end of all things passed, though their pruned Capillaries drip downstream. Readers may cherish the story that speaks truth into darkness even if only for the ghosts. Reprieve from misunderstanding & a hollowed existence for the fault of a shape that has been disavowed though crafted originally by a spirit whose mania romanticized the very scoundrel it created, is all but absent. Such is the nature of the tormented, invisibly apparent, tremors of sorrow. Thank you to Celadon Books & John Vercher for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Apr 07, 2024
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Apr 07, 2024
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Hardcover
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58
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| B08LDXW9Y2
| 3.86
| 64,813
| Jul 06, 2021
| Jul 06, 2021
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None
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Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Apr 03, 2024
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Kindle Edition
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57
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| B009ANF1VQ
| 4.02
| 611
| 1981
| Oct 20, 2011
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None
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Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Mar 15, 2024
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Paperback
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56
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| 0316769029
| 9780316769020
| 0316769029
| 3.96
| 225,269
| 1957
| Jan 30, 2001
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it was amazing
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**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 suicidal ideations, suicide, the death of a loved one, & others. The journey of discovery is the talisman of death; the torpedo of destruction, the same canal that leads the head between trembling legs. Understanding what makes a life worth living—philosophizing the ideology of creation & the stupor of perfectionism within a nebula—hinders the freedom to exit. What rational mind seeks out the cavity of darkness? Which part of the Cerebrum sets the intention to watch itself perish? The destruction of the world, the folding of the universe, & tremor of the faltering waves, rising only to plummet, set human beings alongside those whom they deem meaty morsels of secondary value. Great minds have calculated the equations I reference in my reflection. Nietzsche’s plea to be still & intentional in the face of the void is hopeful unless one recognizes that he may speak truth from the profound black of the tunnel itself. How far along the road are we that we may forget from whence we started? Does the material we collect—the pottery & soil, the ground bones & shimmering tar—allow a more insightful experience or one that places us alongside the dead & gone members of our kin who perished in an oil-soaked sadness that swallowed them from within? Salinger’s work is too few. I am regretful in a way that rocks my bones against invisible wind, that the author did not publish more. Inside the hollow space where we meet, I long to hold out hope that he has kept his work private, like woes, dusty in an attic where I shall never reach them. By nurturing a silly & unfounded hope, I grant my mind a reprieve habitually starved from my person. We are all in a boat where the oars are sparked with chips & molten with webs though, some of us have had a cleaning service to better prepare them for a hearty sail. Whereas others, sink face-down into the crepuscular sea. There will always be room in my contorted brain for words that ooze ointment. Salinger’s writing style is as delicate as soufflé & as tender as sherbet on a curious tongue. His prose makes seamless the mesh & mould of a tired & hopeless narrative that follows characters who are chronically misunderstood by the rowers of boats slick & new. Allegorically, the brain, like this imaginary boat, requires a curve or the stern will never advance through the turbulence caused naturally by the environment. Yet, these same unskilled sailors whose weapons include a worm’s soft skin body behind the eyes, find it their hero’s call to state mastery as a mystical failure. The poet’s call toward stanzas that seek to imbue a numbing commitment to the creed presents readers with a divisive plot. Simply put, this story toys with the character’s cognizance of their intellect. Grown to age in a home in New York, New York, Franny & Zooey were raised by a slew of older siblings, each better read than the other yet no more in competition with each other than Yeshua & his vapidly driven palls. Both characters understand what it means to grasp material; they know how to incorporate knowledge into currency & their daily lives watch them perform acts of perfectionistic grandeur to audiences that admire them from shaded whispering willows. In its essence, Salinger writes about the ransom demanded by life from those for whom the Great Mystery is nothing but a childish rhyme unstructured & debilitated by willful ignorance. The story follows the titular siblings as they sit in the company of people who do not match them intellectually. The pair discuss, both together & in their singular, grovelling, state of despair, that the mind’s fury & potency towards comprehension has offered them the oyster’s pearl. The author does not necessarily seek to present a new concept. The original protest that bliss is kept, nurtured, & flourishes in ignorance has long held weight in society. Unfortunately, scholastic abilities have consistently plummeted as ravages against intellectual properties, both theoretical & institutional, leading the insecure to forget their place. Everything comes at a cost; to remain able to moronically wander through life without a tedium of worry one must accept that the profound nature of existence will escape their grasp. Perhaps, these statements are rather crass, one may even deem them cruel. Certainly, I am no stranger to the world, nor was Salinger & yet we both approach the burden of knowledge from different sides of the same bolder. Such is the beauty of the stereographic stone. However, Salinger’s characters meet me at the tip of the curve with annoyance & flustering lungs boiling with despair. What is a person to do who has no choice but to see the world as it is? The reader meets Franny through her correspondence with her boyfriend. She appears a very superficial girl on the page & rather than believe that something has changed within her from the moment at which she wrote her letter to her arrival at the train station, one may choose to believe that Franny has intentionally done her best to play the role of the naive & innocent young girl. What becomes quickly apparent is her struggle with herself. Whereas Franny is accustomed to sitting at the table with people of high intelligence, people who are driven & understand what they have yet to know; the world is not a mirror image of her childhood home. Franny’s realization plagues her. She cannot focus on her post-secondary classes as the professors seem to her ridiculous & small-minded. Her dinner with her boyfriend sees her become physically ill at the prospect of having to hide behind a veil for the rest of her life. Whereas it might appeal to her to speak the truth, that everything means nothing & that there is no shame in admiring the void that wanders close behind. Franny reads texts of old philosophers, some of which are not attributed to a specific author, in the hopes of shedding light into the darkness that has encircled her. Unfortunately, rarely does philosophy leave a reader’s soul weightless. Franny becomes gravely ill & returns home. Zooey’s introduction to the reader reads as tedious. He is also introduced via the written word however, in his case, his older brother, Buddy, leads the reader through his correspondence & back into the story at play. Zooey is a man of great acting abilities whose intellect has distraught him since his youth. He spends time discussing semantics with his mother, who wanders in & out of the bathroom speaking about, what are meant to be dismissible worries. Neither Franny nor Zooey has a firm grasp on what it means to be a person in the world; a person who thrives in society & a person who can wander the world making friends with those whom they deem lesser than themselves. Do not mistake me, neither character is intentionally shallow. Rather, they struggle with carrying the array of knowledge they have & maneuvering within a world where others do not have even a fraction of what they hold. The book’s dialogue covets the inner turmoil that each character experiences. Franny’s physical illness may be interpreted as early signs of pregnancy or she may simply be homesick. On the other hand, should one be seated in the humbly stacked living room alongside her, one will note the Nihilistic struggle of the Existentialist. Franny’s struggle feels personal to me; her willingness to wander the halls of a school in the hopes of being taught something as yet unknown to her reeks of a despair that I appreciate as an autodidact. Rather than simply leave the story to profit off philosophical theorems, Salinger encourages the reader to find themselves in the confusing study & calculations of religious schools of thought. The learned disciple will be better suited to reflect on the texts that are mentioned. However, as a by-proxy devout child who once eagerly carried the theories of belief in her mind for an hour every Sunday, gnawing the flesh over the following days until the return to bent knees & ominous bells; Micheal Kozlov & Arsenius Troyepolsky’s “The Way of a Pilgrim” (1884) slithers within my grooves like the Great Beast Himself. The formulaic nature of religion may appeal to those for whom the trees & rivers are not enough. I should not wish to insult any believers; I acknowledge the tenderness that might be amassed whence allowing another to comfort that which remains inside you. However, as a reader & a veteran curious dissector, the Book of Virtues has never made much sense to me. I prefer stories that follow logic & insert sense into their folds. It is altogether more enjoyable for me to speak the language of the proverbial symmetry of life rather than question the intentions of a man who wishes me the gruelling heat of self-admonishment. Zooey’s company in this approach sinks me deeper into the well. As Franny remains intent on enunciating the Jesus Prayer, also known as The Prayer (“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”), the reader must choose whether to feel empathy towards her or maintain a neutral observer’s stance. I return to the written words I have shared above. I too once kneeled at the feet of the Lord, spitting poison against my childhood person, calling to his gracious & demoralizing ear to pity me. Franny’s approach to the Jesus Prayer is not from a point of view of hope nor is she performing the repetition with the desire to be heard. Rather, as Zooey explains, Franny’s need for security in the logical patterns of the world has led her to mantras in which she might find comfort in the spoken word. The will to proceed, speaking to a King of Kings, or a Son of God, or perhaps to the great wide nothing, does not alter Franny’s enthusiasm. Her physical illness as a consequence of knowing too much but not yet understanding what to do with her awareness & knowledge has left her in a position of vulnerability. It is only once Zooey heeds their mother’s call for help that Franny begins to make a breakthrough. Perhaps those with siblings may find themselves once again in good company within these scenes, for it is not through malice or frustration that Zooey calls to Franny & speaks her name, rather, he does so with the desire of unburdening her of her hero’s journey. The relationship that the siblings share sets the tone for their life. Their eldest brother committed suicide & yet, his presence is strong among them. They speak his name as though he were simply in the other room; no sibling is without the other even when alone in the woods. In some way, this security in one another allows them to better approach the deconstruction of their frustrations. Whereas some people seek religious teachings, the siblings—our beloved characters—lean on one another. I found the nature of this book overwhelming. I took my time reading a few pages every night, praying silently that I could make the story last longer than the few pages Salinger gifted. Like many prayers, mine went unanswered. I turned therefore to the dogma I know well; life. In my experience, Franny & Zooey are people I know. In secretive & cunning ways, they are the Brain of my childhood TV programs; the literature lining the shelves of the adults I cherished; & they are my very own siblings, sneaking through the house with me, discussing the minutia of existence & teasing the borrow of a beloved book. Ultimately, what makes Salinger a brilliant author is his ability to weave a shadow over the sea. His premise follows the animalistic need to behoove the isle of hymns. The songbird of his prose merits remembering as his gentle palm washes over the ink his nail beds watched form into words. In a truly perverse fashion, Salinger has made characters real, setting them into the room with the reader, hoofed feet & firm delicate cheeks leaning tenderly over the Philosopher’s Stone. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Feb 08, 2024
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Feb 08, 2024
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Paperback
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55
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| 1982187646
| 9781982187644
| 1982187646
| 3.45
| 33,306
| Feb 01, 2022
| Jan 31, 2023
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liked it
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**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 sexual exploitation, unlawful confinement, substance abuse, disordered eating, distorted body image, infidelity, suicide, mental illness, & others. Generations of people are engaged in discussions with others who intentionally forget what it was like to be alive. Whereas their lives feel at present like an eternal struggle, they are unconvinced that one should be allowed a peaceful existence because equality is more valuable than the upper hand. When speaking to these people it is easy to become confused. Do they believe in the goodness of an easy life or do their values see struggle as the moral compass of humanity? I can appreciate that it is difficult to see others experience ease when your own life has included turmoil. However, where along the line do we forget what it is to be an individual who advocates for society as is reflected in the inner workings of their community? The narrator of this story is a woman who will be disliked. She is written in a way as to entice readers to dislike her; her views are warped & rather dull, she places little emphasis on the realities of those around her & forgets that her life took place over many years, others have not had this kindness. When we meet, she speaks to the reader via her manuscript & then shifts her point of view to speak to the reader as though through a memory. Her tone is dry & yet she wishes the reader to know that inside her is a sexually conniving person whom others have desired to know & therefore, the reader should feel this pull too. Characters, like real people, will be flawed & incomplete. Not every set of people we meet will be our soulmates nor will every book we read contain a tale that speaks to our soul. In the case of this book, the story that readers are offered is one of a shallow woman. She does not want to change & therefore the reader must decide whether it matters to listen to her narrative or if her ramblings are an utter waste of time. In its essence, this story covets the point of view of a woman in her late fifties as her husband undergoes an investigation whose purpose is to decipher the damage done by his sexual relationship with students at the University in which he is a Professor. To be clear, I will often be using the word relationship to describe the jointure that brings people together. I highlight this because the investigation purports that the sexual pursuits of the narrator’s husband, John, were done against the will of the women who were involved & therefore, he acted in ways that left those on the other end of the age gap, feeling unsafe. The narrator is a person who does not care about the safety of these women because she has been a woman her entire life who did not care about the safety of other women. The opening chapter of this book tells readers all they need to know about this person & it would be foolish to hope that she could change; she does not want to & therefore, she will not. This first chapter explains that in her youth, the narrator sought out the eyes & attention of older men. Readers can assume the age of the men in these situations to range from appropriate to grandfatherly. What the narrator is conveying is that she was interested in their approval & so, felt inclined to ignore the inappropriate nature of the statutory rape she experienced. The line that is toyed in this story is rather thin, I might almost say it is invisible. As society dredges the plankton it planted eons ago, our current bunch must now deal with the repercussions of dreadfully polluted water. The moral compass of the reader will lead them to feel annoyed & even possibly horrified that a woman could forgive the nature of her husband’s wandering eye because she believes that all women have the agency to choose whether or not sex is consensual. This leads me to be in a tricky position. Can I say that I understand why the narrator feels this way? Do my values impede me from holding sympathy for a person lost to the waves of a changing tide? I did feel annoyed with the narrator. The sexual exploitation of young women is not something I take lightly; I remember being young & I remember the danger that will meet me on the sidewalk outside of my home, to this very day. I didn’t understand why I had chosen this book at random & what it might be able to give me that I would find of value. Certainly, the author has written in ways that are vivid & sickening; the narrator felt real & for that reason, Jonas’ book is a success. I feel that my time was neither wasted nor do I feel the need to defend the main character; she isn’t very insightful but, few people are. Where does this leave the reader? I will not beg readers to steady their pace & to make it to the end of this book. The conclusion & the story itself will not offer you anything you have not seen in life before. The characters are all sexually explicit; they care little about other people & rather a great deal about their own reputations. The events that circumvent the plot are tedious & rather dull. Sometimes they sit to eat in the kitchen in a home & other times they are in a restaurant. In some cases, their mind plays tricks on them & then in other cases, they see in real-time that their fears have come true. People move in & out of each other’s lives so often in this story, that it feels needless to become involved. Characters who experience life differently are silenced & sullied to the sidelines as this is not the story for People of Colour; believing as she does, that these people have too much imagination as it is, the main character rolls her eyes; her a middle-aged White woman who has profited off the underbelly & shaved armpits of sexual freedom, understands all—how quaintly realistic. While I read I found that I didn’t care. Of course, the main character might feel that her sexual relationship with an older man in her youth made sense because he thought she was smart; this is how she went through her entire life. What I found to be interesting has more to do with her desire to remain ignorant than the venues she undertook to pretend to not understand other people. One of her beloved students tells her that because she is not White, John would not have pursued a sexual relationship with her. Rather than listen, the narrator guffaws & tosses this discussion to the side stating it has nothing to do with race, ethnicity, et cetera, but rather more to do with personality. Why does she do this? Can a reader believe that a studied person can be stupid? Why was the narrator not able to realize what was very clearly in front of her during this discussion? Was it easier for the narrator to ignore this person’s concerns because she acknowledges that people with different skin tones will not experience life in the same way? Or perhaps was she eager to console herself & her need to do so superseded her desire to see clearly. This is not the only example of a situation in which the main character acted in such an imbecilic manner. The reader is meant to regard the students’ concerns about the narrator’s marriage to John as immature & crude. Whereas in reality, the narrator is deliberately ignoring the world around her in an active fashion. Of course, she might truly feel that John has done nothing wrong. As the Head of the English Department maybe he just loves the attention that comes from being acknowledged but, it’s never really only about that in life, is it? Readers watch the narrator go out of her way to dislike her husband & play mommy-dearest with her daughter who is beyond maladapted, leading readers, including myself, to wonder at the actual value a person like this might place in society. Beyond the wee economic additions amassed via her spending on expensive cheeses & wines, the narrator does a lot of nothing much at all. It is difficult to appreciate her, yet, holding a tertiary view—one more so meant for anthropologists—I came to find her awkwardly deranged existence wildly ridiculous & I wanted to see how it ended. This is not meant to come across in a tone of malevolence; I was interested to see why she tied up Vladimir & why she cared about having sexual relations with him at all. Why did Vladimir decide to have sex with the narrator? I could not imagine her as being very warm or very pretty & perhaps not everyone who engages in sexual intimacy needs that a person not reek of desperation & crow's feet but, still, I could not fathom his pull. Perhaps once again we come to oversimplifying the issue. Maybe he just liked the undivided attention the narrator gave him. Does this make me a prude? Am I a person who cannot understand the animalistic needs of people who go out of their way to do silly things in a stroke of convenience? Throughout this story, I wondered why the narrator was intent on having things forgotten. I can appreciate that victims of exploitation & the morbid realities of life may choose to view these events more forgivingly; this is their right. However, this is not what the narrator has done. In an effort to maintain control she has cast everyone into the fire, leaving her alone to tend to her wounds; but a scar cast from flames never fully heals. I have wondered about the conclusion; two people fell prey to the flames of their deliberate ignorance, & nearly died as a consequence. Will a reader care about this? I did not. I enjoyed the imagery of this scene & the story as a whole more than I felt inclined to engage with the characters & maybe, this was where the author needed me to stay. In some stories, characters will wander the periphery of the page with the reader’s fingertips. In other cases, a reader will feel abysmal hate towards the entire bind. Rarely do we come across a story that is simply a story; a piece of inked bark cast from the mind of a person who held it closely. Ultimately, this was an interesting story. It poises the reader to reflect on subject matter that is clear cut; pondering the possibility that the liberal nature of acceptance might leave shadows unaccounted for. The stance of the reader influences the plot, the characters archer their way through splintered spruce, leaving the main narrative scaled by the carapace of a prodigal animal. Perhaps most searing of all is the calculated meditation of the characters when faced with the vulnerability of others who found themselves alone in the woods, facing a wolf with no clothes. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jan 10, 2024
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Jan 10, 2024
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Paperback
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54
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| 0143136399
| 9780143136392
| 0143136399
| 3.81
| 7,016
| Aug 20, 2020
| Jun 15, 2021
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really liked it
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**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 sexual assault, rape, bigotry, Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), domestic violence, mental illness, & others. There is seldom that tickles that delightful part of my brain like an Irish story. The setting is both nostalgic & freckled; a place I have known & yet, not a place I possess in tangible terms. The landscape of this story has all the facets of a tale as old as time, a mystery, a romance, a hero, a monstrous family lineage, & the truth. The mere fact of being able to transport the reader to the place of their softest dreams is not enough. The author who presents the delightfully troubled Irish geography must also ensure his characters are flawed, not tropes of the familiar & overbearing cartoons, but neighbours to the eyes that greedily roam the pages on which they live. As with many of the books that I love, I came across this one by chance. The plot of this story was unknown to me, the synopsis rang an indistinguishable bell & before I knew it, I was devouring the tender beige pages as though the end of the story would be ripe with justice & reprieve. In essence, this is a story about a family living in the Irish countryside. There are two (2) families; the family of wealth & land ownership that allows the family of their workers to inhabit the cottage that sits crookedly on their land. The members of each family intermingle in a devilish dance, at once rivals, lovers, enemies, & friends. Readers find within this book the story of growth, development, despair, & hope. Each character encounters the worst version of themselves through their own choices; their lies colour their skies & yet, the clouds remain white, unscathed by the dirt gripping their thumbs. While reading this story I wondered whether I would recommend it. It would be untruthful to state that I dwelled on this question, rather, it was a passing thought as I quickly stepped through the series of events that took off from the page. Now, as I ruminate, I believe that this book worked its wonders on me because I was unaware of what it was. Sure, I did understand that a mystery was to unfold & a girl ran away from home. I also understood that people kept secrets & they put their noses down. I acknowledge that, if this had been made clear to me, I would have expected something from the story. Instead of going into this book with notions of what I hoped to find, I allowed the author to share his tale. One does not always have the opportunity to follow the piper & in some cases, this musical trust leads to the reader’s disappointment. However, I often enjoy allowing a book to do what it does best, regardless of the outcome; I enjoy being told a story. I find it impossible to touch on each of the characters in a way that would be sufficient. I read this book rather quickly & then when the end was near, I slowed to a deranged limp; I could not go on. Whereas the beginning of the novel saw me intrigued by the economic & social status of Moll’s family, I was rather disenchanted with her son & nearly missed the love that cloistered the conclusion. By incorporating such varying chapters, all via the segregation of the religious texts of these same people, the author both prevented & allowed the reader to find interest & lack thereof, in different sections of his story. Though the beginning held the most intrigue for me with the author’s introduction of Moll’s sudden & unexplained departure, the tone of the story allowed for the mystery of her disappearance to remain semi-unimportant. Certainly, there was value to her vanishing act. However, the reader will find that the scenario that plays the first fiddle in this plot is the scene. The motive of the story is to be alive. No character hounds another for answers though their anger sometimes leads them astray. Readers who appreciate this approach will find themselves in good company. Yes, the characters are flawed & it can be frustrating watching them hover so close to the scene without divulging themselves but, this is the beauty in being told a story, none of which the listener has any control over. Suppose for a moment you had your eyes closed & the soothing voice of your favourite narrator began by describing a small house, a laneway, & a girl who left one morning while her parents slept, without uttering a word. Your eyes might be peeked; your brain eager to piece together the intention & the unfathomable result of such a choice. Such is the result of a good story. I will admit that though I am a great lover of stories, neutral as the receiver of such gifts, my vivid imagination grants me a space among the grass of the laneway & the window panes as Moll got up one morning, earlier than the dawn, & took the bus out of the county, a transit that led her out of Ireland altogether. It is no secret that judgment ensues. Surely, there must have been a serious reason for leaving & I was correct. Moll is in love with the matriarch of the wealthy landowners, & the matriarch is in love with her too. The reader is only given the key aspects of the truth moments before the story comes to a close & I wonder whether or not they find this beneficial or not. Speaking of my own experience, I think this was beautifully done. The purpose of the narrative is not to sit & rumble judgements about Moll’s fit of anger or her having a son with a man she was never in love with (romantically speaking). Neither is it the reader’s role to berate the characters who could not shelter their child nor protect Alexander from the driver who killed him. What is the role of the reader if the author has intentionally kept away the truth? Nothing is more valuable than a listening ear. One did not need to know that Moll loved Alexander for the security he brought to her; the tenderness he showed her in gentle reminders; to understand that love comes in many forms. The reader might be angry & annoyed that Alexander walked Moll home every night without encouragement or that he fell in love with a person who could not give him what he deserved. Yet can the reader say with certainty that this is what Alexander wanted? I find myself unable to truly critique the work I have observed. I reflect on the characters & their transgressions but, not from a perspective of disappointment. Rather, I feel inclined to care about the characters. Reading this book reminds readers of the delight of storytelling. From my personal, & delicately intimate point of view, reading this story reminded me of sitting with my family as they began their tale; once a dark & silent morning, perhaps a rumbling sunny afternoon, within the deepness of night & dreams, a story was weaved & there I sat within the particulars of a movement that swept me away. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jan 05, 2024
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Jan 05, 2024
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Paperback
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53
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| 1668014238
| 9781668014233
| 1668014238
| 3.85
| 18,668
| Jan 30, 2024
| Jan 30, 2024
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liked it
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**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 self-harm, attempted suicide, parental neglect, grief, parental abandonment, mental illness, & others. There is a particular aspect of fanaticism that renders the make-believe frightful. There is no looming monster under our bed, nor any perched ghoul on the roof. The part of our brain that engages with the imagery of these tales utilizes its power to remind us that the scales & oozing secretions could be present; they could become real threats, if, at any point, the brain decides upon a narrative shift. In a world where there are no fantastic beasts, we rely on the sharpened edges of stories, crafted from the sedentary troubles of terrible humans to rivulet the dark of night & send us tormented under folded sheets. The experiences of those around us shape the world in which we live, without our realizing that the craftsman’s hands are ailed. When the reader is introduced to Enid she is painted with crusted colours. The main character of this book is insecure; she has no fixture; she is on the precipice of snapping; she is uncertain. Like in many of the books I have enjoyed reading, the author has offered a morsel of time for the reader to masticate. Enid’s insecurity is an Everest, making her person fragile porcelain where once she was a stone. When Enid was young her life became a secret. It is never very pleasant to speak on things that hurt us & for Enid, her quotidian was filled with gelatinous beasts salivating in every corner. Her father, a man she hardly knew, had a short stint relationship with her mother; they became pregnant; Enid’s existence in the world knew him only as a shadow. Her father chose to invest his time with a woman who became a mother to two (2) daughters. As the story goes, what was first is now last & by the time it mattered, Enid’s father was dead in the ground & the cacophony of women left behind, responsible for healing the wounds he inflicted. While reading this book, I was reminded of what it promised me; a story that would comfort readers—the worst thing they had ever done wasn’t so bad. Perhaps it was pessimistic to believe that this story couldn’t achieve what it set out to do. I have been in the world too long to fall prey to the eagerness of what is promised; we are not always so lucky as to see our hopes transform into concrete reality. Rather than take my apprehension personally, this story continued on its course. I am glad that I was allowed along for the ride. Enid’s life is a strange one & that is not because it is unusual. Rather, Enid’s life is strange because it is palpably tangible. In Enid, I found much of myself & if readers allow for the discomfort of personal recognition, they might too. I can imagine that for Enid, living life in a house that was never a home was difficult, especially because her mother attempted to make it into a place of safety. Yet, both became enshrined by despair; her mother was no match for her mania & Enid, was left alone in the hallways awaiting the latch of the lock holding the bedroom door separating them, in place. This story deals primarily with mental illness & disorders. Nearly each of the characters is plagued by some form of torment. In this way, Austin has allowed her story to be real. The reality is that many people experience the repercussions of intergenerational trauma; what the reader is faced with in this book is the beginning of what might surely become a long series of pains. It was admirable to see each woman within this mangled family tree attempt to prevent what they felt could happen. The daughters brought into the world by loving mothers & an angry absent father, offered to each other the promise of comradely. Their efforts were wrought with distress but, most of all, hope. I was perhaps enamoured with Enid because she experienced much of what I have. Her paranoia & distressing anxiety were home to me in my childhood body & as I grew I became aware that the world was perhaps filled with colours in a palette I could not see with my eyes. How the author incorporates horrible things into her characters is earnest & I applaud her for that. I am hopeful that that Austin did not live these experiences firsthand hand though, the delicate nature of her storytelling slithers with the possibility that she sees in the dark too. Regardless, her ability to present eager or apprehensive readers will Enid & her life make her an author I will revisit until she decides to write no more; with shelves settled from the stories she held inside. The exploration of trauma & the denigration of brain matter as a consequence of illness is no easy feat to present. Readers might find themselves utterly upset by the story. It would be entirely acceptable for them to place the book aside, never to weave their hands across its back, ever again. That is to say; this story is upsetting. Enid is suffering & unable to find her way but, at the same time, she is strong & dangerously forceful in keeping her place in this world. The fact that she climbs through her window to avoid someone, or that she refuses to speak frankly with her mother about her feelings does not dismiss her essence; Enid is a force. I have written some points relating to Enid’s experiences & the story itself circles these in ways that feel rather trite to recount in a review. I have sat with my thoughts as they relate to this story for some time; what do I think, how do I feel, what is there to say? There are few stories among the thousands that I would simply pass on to others, wanting them rather to read what is written than hear what I have to say. Austin has a strangely melodramatic way of writing. Her characters are unlikeable & mean; sometimes altogether annoying. Yet, page after page, I could not loosen my grip, because they were human beings too. The romantic entanglements that took place as a backdrop to the main plot added a layer of dimension that felt authentic. One might relinquish their fear that Austin has simply added lettering for the sake of checking boxes or shades of blue to confuse the sky. Every aspect of this story made sense in that it was relevant. When Enid sent templated text messages; when she sat in the shower with the person who turned out to be the love of her life; when her mother wore lipstick; & when she thought about space & time; she was Enid & the reader grew to know her as one might any other important person in their life. Though I have added many sentences of praise, I would not advocate for this book for all readers. I will not shy away from saying that a handful of readers will miss the beauty in this book entirely. I admit that it is not my place to decide for them what is worth their time & what moral they should take away from careful writing. However, it is my place to state that this is a beautiful book. The facet that renders it lovely is the innate & intricate care that the author has brought forth. Readers are lucky to grasp the bind that holds love; the likes of which never disappear for it is in ink & stone. Where does this leave me & how might I conclude a review that is certainly lacking? While reading this book, I knew that I would not be able to compile all that is of value from this book into a single review. I found Enid’s earnest & tender recollections about special & interesting facts about space familiar & nostalgic. I wanted to whisper through the pages that life would not be unkind to her forever; tomorrow she would meet the reprieve she surely needed, as I saw it coming down the lines of chapters formatted just for me. Somehow, this experience has left a part of me within the pages. Humanity is a harsh critic, I will never lie & say that all of my reviews are kind; I have been harsh—nearly cruel in my comparisons & analogies. Words are very important to me. In the silence of hours, the twinkle of the eyes or the breath of a syllable can bring me back to the life I am leading. I have always found books to be among my most precious possessions; the discoveries I cherish like gemstones. When a reader meets a character like Enid whose life is torn apart by what she cannot describe & she is faced with people who cannot see her, the days of existence are very long; I say this from experience. Austin’s talent for truth & terrible honesty will have readers giggling & gruesomely sad. Enid is an innocent child; an innocent adult; she is an innocent person who placates herself by behaving as a phantom in her life. I cannot fault her for this. She is intelligent & hopeful; she is thoughtful & eager; she tries her best & sometimes, she doesn’t even do that. But above all the mistakes & her horrible incomprehension of existence, Enid remembers the stars & the galaxies & she thinks of them when she wants the people she loves to know that, she is thinking of them too. The most beautiful thing we have while alive is the knowledge that the entire universe is of its own; we are within it like a beating heart. Enid’s social claustrophobia & transferred revulsion stemming from the shadows in her memory are not cancer to her cells; she has healed in the only way she knows how. Therefore, I must ask; Who is this story for? Which reader will read the tale of a woman sick from the dark confines inside? Who among us will be eager to know Enid & her flaws? Me. Ultimately, this is a story about a woman who was once a child in a home where she was scared. Her fear manifested itself into paranoia & a demented sense of self. The loathing murmur of certainty has eaten her alive; no one is seated at the table to witness her cannibalistic demise. The reader has arrived at what is possibly the most ideal time. The reader will walk through the halls of a silent home, where behind the doors people are crying; terror brooding; rouge wasting; babies growing; the sky darkening; laundry sagging; dishes moulding; & a clock ticking the time passing as though counting down to the final moment when Enid remembers who she is. Thank you to NetGalley, Simon & Schuster Canada, & Emily Austin for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Nov 21, 2023
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Nov 21, 2023
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Hardcover
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52
| 
| 0393866645
| 9780393866643
| 0393866645
| 3.78
| 3,830
| Jun 14, 2022
| Jun 14, 2022
|
it was amazing
|
**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 Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), violent crime, murder, the death of a loved one, grief, gun violence, rape, sexual violence, suicide, self-harm, the death of an animal, animal abuse, & others. When written by an author with talent, certain stories can be like lightning to the skeletal system that holds us in place. There is no tender way to speak to the ways in which the mind can lose itself to pain. It has become more commonplace to speak of the value of a healthy mind; the care that should be given to the ailing; the patience we all need to offer. In reality, when soaking wet the rain feels like acid; mental illness is not easy, it is not kind, it is not smooth or palatable; mental illness is painful, it is destructive, it is turmoil, & pain. I cannot fault the fallacy of misunderstanding that follows the innocent intent of the majority. It is nice to know that we are known, if still misunderstood. In some sense, to meet people like Bonnie is a privilege. The world is very different for each of us & I remain inclined to acknowledge that we experience it in varying ways too. Sometimes, the small things feel like the end of the world; it is not bad to feel overwhelmed by the stone in our shoes. What becomes tricky to communicate is the monsoon in the heart that wallows the mind in dead water. People familiar with life & its many facets will find in this story a character who merits a second chance. What is interesting about this story is the impact it has on its readers. Should you have come to the place where reviews live, you will see people degrade Bonnie & claim she is a horrible person who was impossible to root for. I cannot fault them for their opinions. What I would like to propose in this critique is the opposite. Certainly, Bonnie is complex. She suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) & in my unprofessional opinion, shows signs of Schizoaffective Disorder. Our ability to share with one another has muddied our understanding of complex issues. One might feel nervous about speaking to a cashier but this does not mean that one has an Anxiety Disorder. A person who lives with conditions that shape the mind & in turn, the world around them, do not experience life in the same ways as those who do not. Once again, I cannot necessarily fault people for not grasping the complexities of mental illness & mental disorders; if one is sheltered, one cannot know. Admittedly, I am rather happy to know that people experience life free of the burden that shadows out the light. Unfortunately, due to this, conditions like the ones I listed above leave people upset, disgusted, & rather repulsed with the person in question. When exploring the realities that Bonnie has experienced throughout her life, it would be simple to conclude that she has had a rough go. While growing up she lost her father to suicide; her mother fell into a Depressive episode due to grief; her mother attempted suicide; her mother died in palliative care. Her best friend adopted her into her family. Bonnie was welcomed into a home with a father & a mother; a brother, & a sister. She became a surrogate for the childhood she never got to experience; when she slept she was sound & secure. Rather than accept that this was an experience that would advocate a change which Bonnie would be unprepared to deal with, the people in Bonnie’s life perpetrated actions that allowed her condition to worsen. This is not to say that it was their fault; Bonnie is responsible for her person. What is perhaps rather more difficult to accept is our participation in the lives of people we meet in passing & in whose precious time we nestle our hours. Without a loving home, Bonnie would have had nothing to compare; her life would have remained a series of unfortunate events. She was accepted into a home & then these same people allegedly spoke badly about her when she was healing. There is no easy way to reflect on the events of this book. I cannot fault the foster family for their uncertainty & annoyance towards Bonnie. In life, many things transpire; some regularly bad & others wonderfully good. At the end of each day, we remain in our own company & have the responsibility of owning the experiences we had along the way. There is no point in initiating change in a person’s life if the goal is to throw this same kindness in their face & reveal lies; cracks in the foundation of trust they thought they had with you. The recollections that Bonnie shares with readers speak of a terrible thing. When Bonnie finally felt able to trust that life would not leave her out in the open alone, her adopted family was gunned down in their convenience store; Bonnie was violently sexually assaulted; & life was no more than a burdened reminder of everything she would never have again. Throughout this book the main character is unlikeable, I will not pretend otherwise. For readers whose experience with the world is perhaps sheltered, or ground in the soil of a single neighbourhood, their time spent with Bonnie might feel altogether horrible. Bonnie does not have any redeeming features. What the reader will have to decide is whether or not she deserves forgiveness for the ways in which her brain chose to change as a consequence of the events that she experienced. Again, to a certain extent, we are all responsible for the ways we act in the world. Bonnie did not need to leave the dog for dead by starving it & abandoning it in the woods. Bonnie did have a choice as to how she treated the innocent animals; she chose abuse & death. I will not ask the reader to forgive Bonnie for the malaise she created in a sea of blue. Rather, what I want to draw the reader’s attention to is Bonnie’s inability to be a functioning human being. Discussions surrounding mental health & disorders often integrate some of what I have already written; people are responsible for themselves & their actions. To be ill is not an excuse & an excuse is interpreted as being something that would automatically pardon or wipe clean the blood on the blade. The contrary is, in actuality, true. People who are ill do not have the benefit of clear thought. Of course, journeys to heal open wounds help individuals flow through the seasons with more ease but, for some, the innocence of life is lost forever. It is positive to include details about a person’s mental state so as to better understand the facets of the illness or the disorder; in this way we become better informed as to the ways in which a brain can hanker down & demerit the life it is keeps breathing. This is true in Bonnie’s case. Bonnie is a person whose personality is degrading; she is mean, insensitive, cruel, shallow-minded, simple-minded, & harbours a desire to mistreat others. As she maneuvers her way through memory lane, she presents the reader with a fulsome version of herself. This approach is odd given Bonnie has very little ability to see things in their entirety & rather views everything in fractions. Perhaps, the author felt inclined to write Bonnie as a person who lived entirely in a darkness of their own making; a person who remains disinclined from turning on the light. On the other hand, readers might feel that Bonnie is lost in a catacomb that mazes under a city she has never visited. Regardless of a reader’s interpretation, this story allows them the opportunity to regard advanced stages of trauma on the brain. As her dream house is built, Bonnie allows herself the feeling of excitement; soon she will evade the human world for her personal paradise built in the likeness of “Three’s Company” (1976). I have never seen this show & for most of the book, I had to check records for references to the cast or search for photos of the scenes; most of what took place left me feeling apathetic. Instead of wondering at the distance between myself & Bonnie’s comfort, I chose to look for my own. When I was young, my grandma & I used to watch episodes of “The Golden Girls” (1985) together. As I grew up, I found myself going back to the series over, & over again. Since my grandmother’s passing I meet her in the televised security of a story I know well; one that does not change in the ways of life; a series of events yet unknown to me. I am inclined to believe that many people will understand Bonnie’s desire to live inside a place she deems as safe. In the world in which we live, safety can be a passing fancy or a concept one rarely encounters. Rather than roll the dice, Bonnie chose to take things into her own hands—I cannot blame her for that. There is, however, a difference between having a favourite show, film, album, blanket, food, or hat rotate through life with you & what Bonnie has chosen which is to say; it is normal to find comfort in various aspects of life. It is unhealthy to shed the skin you live in to nestle through a groove so that you are never felt by life as a whole, ever again. Though there were parts of this story that left me confused; the convict, the pets left behind by a contractor who knew a woman to be deliriously unwell; the storm; the best friend; the story as a whole tells the tale of an experience that deserves to be shared. One is lucky to never understand what it feels like to want to hide in the ground forever. Ultimately, within this story, I found myself picking apart the plot to reveal the inner workings of a mind that could not voice reason into the malady it suffered. Surely, Bonnie could love the cold stone facade of the wandering convict & surely, she would have it in herself to love the story that allowed her to perish within its antiquated design. As the train track & Christmas village that waited yearly for its time to make way into the hearth; Bonnie’s life will probably never be healed, wait & pace the halls of confinement as she did. Inside the dark there is always the form the human eye cannot absorb. In Bonnie’s recollection she murdered her friend. Perhaps, she murdered the woman she loved & instead of admitting this to herself she wrote herself a letter in her lover’s hand. Perhaps, instead of murdering her best friend, Bonnie lashed a knife against her own skin. There is no set conclusion to this story. The reader will not receive the reprieve of a final moment between the characters they met within this book. When all is said & done, that was not the point in their meeting. Readers, people at writ large, will probably never meet someone like Bonnie but, they will rewatch their favourite series; they will settle to re-watch their favourite film, replay their favourite song, & tell someone close to them about the intimacy of their prized piece of art. Within books, one is granted the ability to live a life that does not belong to them. We grow as individuals when we expose ourselves to the wandering eye of the skylight; the omniscient being that heaves monstrosities in our mind. Though, I would not like to be in Bonnie’s shoes, I wish her well. I am hopeful that stories like this one remind us of who we are. Whether one is at ease or weighed down; one is in this life, if only for a moment. In as much time as it might take to read this book, one is given permission to forgive the horrible violence of invisible illness & the ways in which it cauterizes the self; preventing thy own freedom from within. Thank you to NetGalley, W. W. Norton & Company, & Ashley Hutson for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Nov 06, 2023
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Nov 06, 2023
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Paperback
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51
| 
| 006099505X
| 9780060995058
| 006099505X
| 4.03
| 36,541
| 1967
| 1994
|
it was amazing
|
**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 self-harm, suicidal ideations, political prisoners, promiscuity, internment camps, the consequences of war, & others. A momentary feeling of bliss accompanies the transparency of passages sedentary in their gloom. Stories of great adventures, confusion, meddling lore & demise; nothing is as miraculous, nothing so dreadful as a full heart made empty. How is humanity to cope with a rat race with no prize? For whom does the bell toll? In good writing—for there is such a thing—the story blooms in such a way as to stifle the sinuses & wreak havoc, pain & a dwelling madness, in the mind of the reader. What does this say about the author? Who has it in their heart to descale the throne of all its adornments, pearls & emeralds; tenderness & hope? When I came to the realization that the literary universe was speaking to me, I felt at home. Keeping an inventory of my books is not an exact science, I have tendencies & enthusiastic needs just as any reader. Upon the afternoon organizing my books to be packed away, I found the ruby of soft skin, striking lines & simplicity in my hands. It had been unbeknownst to my best intentions that my library began filling up with Kundera’s work. We found ourselves in intimate conversation as I smiled & held his efforts silently in my hands. I feel immense sadness at the author’s recent passing. Kundera, in a single book, has made me a maniac of irresistible longing; the shimmering gold of a pool unperturbed by our skeletal tendons. My experience with Kundera has made of me a reader who lost something of themselves in the book, something I might come back for later, but which I know is in safekeeping. I behold a maddening that grows. At once, a story of the political turmoil of the previous Czechoslovakia, the irony is certainly not lost on readers who will find themselves taken prisoner of a love story that was not meant to be. Rather than endeavour to speak reason into this desire, Kundera presents the delicious & divine irony of human experience. Might a reader find themselves faced with a story that is lacking in the gruesome reality of political overhaul, they may be encouraged to take the time to reflect on the earnest reality of change; the joke is that nothing is very funny in the moment, we often laugh at atrocious things once they have passed. Yet, in all of this, the despair of a ravaging Communist Party does strike a nerve. What principal action is the author trying to convey & what message is the reader meant to transcribe? The main character in this book is Ludvik Jahn; a thirty-seven (37) year-old man on the run from mundanity, working in a field that is far less taxing than the one of yesteryear but which brings him little in terms of genial enjoyment. Ludvik provides an enrapturing narrative. His introduction to the story leads one down a murky creek that requires the unwitting & utterly devoted trust of the reader. For those amongst us who may be more prone to derision, perhaps hold a tendency for hesitation, Ludvik will not appear as intensely romantic as he did to me. The narrator is flawed beyond a shadow of a doubt. His recollections of a youth filled with privileged hope of the unabashedly ignorant court a promised demise. Ludvik is not a person who has known no pain nor had his youth allowed him to escape the tumultuous nature of his country. After WWII, the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia gained power over the country. The year 1948 certainly brought a cataclysmic level of change to Czechoslovakia; reeling from a war that involved them & troops that would never return home, this new political power endeavoured to repeat the all too familiar desire of the mongrel; deliberate banishment of doubt via the excommunication of innocent lives to the underground & beyond. Writing this review as a Canadian, I will not shy away from presenting my utter ignorance of the matter. I have a very singular view & experience of Communism as it exists via a Western lens. To this day, any sneaking whisper of this political affiliation is deemed a crass & demoralizing stance against freedom. Rather than riddling this review with my political stance, the inclusion of my experiences with Communism as a Westerner is rather tedious. It will come to the surprise of no reader that most political parties seek unwitting devotion from their affiliates. When learning about Communism in school, I was perhaps rather lucky in that I had a teacher who was earnestly passionate about his student’s access to knowledge; a person who wanted us to understand & learn. Even with that being the case, I found myself faced with a situation that I knew nothing about. The cruel practices of the Party members as they exiled Ludvik & many others like him drew a curious tilt from me. Was his luck at maintaining his lifeline a stroke of pity or was this Communist agenda rather uninterested in mass murder so soon after the fall of world peace? This review may highlight that there is a rather steep hill lined with stones of the pieces of knowledge I have yet to acquire. I am not ashamed of this. Part of my enjoyment in reading is learning. I want to always be in rooms, alongside the company of others, from whom I have much to learn. I have little to no desire to be placed in a library lined with things I already know. I have no need for the egotistical comfort of the patronizing label of all-knowing. In this way, I found familiar comfort in the demise of the characters, whose mistakes rounded back on them & forced the story into uncomfortable territory. There is little need to rehash the lunacy of internment. Ludvik explains his experiences in absolutely demoralizing ways. Whereas once he was a man eager to make a name for himself in the political party that represented his beliefs & supported his system of values, his exile saw him faced with the old adage of philosophy; What is a man without principle? Ludvik’s time working in the camp, where he was stripped of demeanour & singularity, all but reinforces the narrative at play; irony in finding oneself at the mercy of a system without logic. However, perhaps this is an unfair conclusion. The men who were sent to these camps were meant to feel forgotten. The purpose of their labour was to enhance the State & remind them that the superior being—the political Party & all its bright young pupils—would lead the way to success without them; there is no place for the failing ache of man. The days spent toiling away on projects for which they might never see the fruit of their labour, highlight the unfortunate consequences of their relationship with the State. It is perhaps not my place to pose judgment on this approach; they were allowed to live after all, & yet, this is an ignorant stance. Many individuals have been led to understand that life is perhaps the most brutal form of existence, wherein death may act as a reprieve for the tumultuous tenors of humanity. The hours spent mining & the wishful delights of the men in the camp brought forward an earnest set of sentiments. Readers will perhaps decide that they feel nothing when reading about the plight of these men, concentrated in degrading lines & sour stenches dripping down their backs. The reader who is incapable of appreciating the deluge of neutral ache that rides high as the tide of abandon might find this book to be a colossal waste of their time. I am inclined to believe that the joke lies within this experience. How many times must we, as a species, repeat the same scene before it is understood? How tediously must we speak our lines until they become real emotive phrases set to rumble in the frame of the onlooker? I found these passages to rival the budding romance between Ludvik & Lucie. The friendships that struggled to strengthen ties between the men saw me closely anticipating a happy ending. The finality of the disappearing companion through awkward decisions & faulty logic made me sad, but, such is life. Readers who are familiar with the finality of a parting glance will find it in themselves to pour rivulets of empathy into these sections. The crimes for which these prisoners are liable are perhaps not so serious as to lose all hope & freedom. Through the laughter & promiscuity, the sneaking around & the patronizing overlords; Ludvik meets Lucie, a woman living in her own shadow, tender in her disconsolate love. In me, I felt the seething, cool, drowning flow of waves speaking of sanguine, buoyant rhapsody. I have never been one to flounder in the face of rosy cheeks however, I found the developing angst of a multifaceted love, charming. The purpose of including their relationship might serve to highlight the growing despair of the person who is already down on their luck. However, one might also be induced to interpret this relationship for what it means at face value. Ludvik’s hunger for revenge never leaves him. In all the days spent toiling underground or placating physically intimate relationships, a part of his spirit is moored to the docks of a port that no longer exists. Readers might find this reality nostalgic & forlorn. The pieces of ourselves that grasp like the raw talon of the stork to new growth while our feet furrow into emaciated soil leave the body no choice but to be serrated from its core. What the narrative of Ludvik’s life becomes as a consequence of this is a jaw-toothed burden. One may wonder what the title of this book is meant to reflect; which part of the story is hilarious & cheeky? Where in the grunge of tedious imprisonment & forgotten culinary skin is the reader meant to intone humour? The main character himself finds the events of his life hilarious in the nature of their ludicrous reality. His experiences transcend the monotone sentience of black-hearted revenge & transform into the great nothingness looming as the villain in stories without an end. By roping in other people into his cohort & grandiose sense of justice, Ludvik becomes the Master of a Divine Tragedy impoverished by his lack of earnest retribution. This is a story with multiple layers of moral lessons, like the culturally significant dipping layers of a red Devil’s Hell; the story presents a charcuterie board of rotting culture, tenuously flavourful faith, tactile facsimiles in bone chewing gummy ribbons of lust & invisibly perverse romanticism. In some ways, this story is an annoying tale to consume. Helena’s character is absurdly tedious to listen to. How does one fall in love with someone they do not know? How is the reader meant to feel any level of empathy for a woman who cheats on her husband in a bid to be loved by a stranger? Fundamentally, her character acts as a pawn in this story; revenge comes at a cost. Rather than focus on the delirium of her gruesome encounter with Ludvik, who is just as much at fault for her raving infatuation as she is, the narrative provides a multifaceted dimensionality to a two-sided coin. Helena the other woman; Lucie the love of Ludvik’s life. Religion & folklore; belief in culture or the divine. The life of every character seems to represent an extreme. On the one hand, there is a need for forgiveness to achieve freedom of the self. On the other hand, the ties to be braided from the systemic culture of the people allow for a more fulsome existence. In each of these quadrants, there exists a sullen deficiency. Kundera’s approach to writing about the dynamism that exists in the life of each individual is where the humour of this story resides. When prefacing a funny story, the orator opens the stage to the curious gaze of his listener. Becoming transfixed with a love that will never be fulfilled isn’t funny in the way of hilarious jokes or silly riddles; it is funny in so far as it is part of the great bulbous joke of existence. It is funny that Ludvik had to come back to the little grey town of his youth, where his mother died without a final goodbye & in which all his hopes grew buried, to come to find that the darkness of eternal pain is but a shadow on the soul. This is not funny at all but, such is the humour of humanity. What is comedic divinity? Who plays the fool when the pawns are set on the neutered board of yonder by an omniscient phantom intent on incubating rules that can claim neither victor nor vanquished? To love something is to see it flourish without you, ultimately & purely independent of your person yet, influenced enough by your existence to touch your skin with the softness of a spring breeze. In the layers of an underworld, quaint & corniche, mimics the dawn of a brooding delicacy auto-asphyxiated in the salivary glands of the osseous jaw of our kin. Ultimately, the life lived with vengeful regret & the life lived in supple secrecy are both excrements on the being whose primary role is to partake in doozy dances & agile odysseys of flamboyancy. Emphasizing a god to rival the failures of man is pointless; Who can imagine a creature more tormented than us whose dreams see them wander through a territory of their own creation? In this nightmarish reality of gastric demure & undulating catastrophe the uncomfortable humour sprouts wings like the swine from a frozen Hell & languidly burning Heaven. Irony is the joke; the funny bits are the terribly sad consequences of being no more or less than what we are. In this book, Kundera presents the trepidation of the coy reader as they wander through political upheaval only to reveal eye sockets hollowed of sight. Phantom limbs & devious longing, monstrously clear in rhythmic greedy famine nestle in the tender bits & pieces of the wandering man whose lust for a lost love plagues him like jaundice sickening the iris from light. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Sep 24, 2023
|
Oct 22, 2023
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||
50
| 
| B01NAGF7TI
| 3.66
| 7,045
| 1914
| Dec 06, 2016
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** Graphic memories of youth feel similar to raindrops on thirsty skin. Few writers can achieve the delicate balance of reflection in s
**spoiler alert** Graphic memories of youth feel similar to raindrops on thirsty skin. Few writers can achieve the delicate balance of reflection in such an intimate way as Joyce. Readers are met with parables succulent in nectar speaking truth to a life that is mildly well-lived. This story is no exception. The reader cannot pose judgment on the main character—a person they hardly know—as the crevices of an entire life remain cloistered from them as the words drone on. The narrator of this short story is aged; past the years that linger in the mind yet not antiquated, he shares with the reader a delicate moment in time. When he was young, he lived in a house that once belonged to a man who died. Whether or not this is relevant to the story at hand is inconsequential. The opening scene pressures the emphasis that the remainder of the story seems to lack. The tension that the reader feels between the main character & his love interest is all but imaged. Yet, the crude lingering of death remains. I found myself unable to move past the introduction. Whereas I was interested in hearing what the main character had to say, I was not invested in his recollections. He claimed to be in love with a girl who was a sibling to one of his friends. He spent time watching her through the window & sought her out every morning on his walk to school. He promised her the world without having any real understanding of what it meant to live within it. I cannot fault him for his gallivanting fancies; I was young once too. However, some memories are rather more poignant for the person themselves than for any listener. I found the desire to showcase romance & love interesting in so far as they are innate emotions we often see portrayed in various mediums. However, I did not much care about their plight in this story. I cannot rightly say what kept me saddled outside of an emotional connection to this story. Suffice it to say, I do not think that every story will draw out an emotional feeling from the reader. Perhaps, Joyce simply wanted to recount what it might have felt like to live in proximity to beauty or, perhaps he wanted to draw into words the incomparable & ethereal sense of longing that lives inside the heart & mind. Regardless of the reasons for which he wrote this story, the main character broaches the disappointment of adulthood as he cusps the horizon walking into the eve of a new experience. One is certainly able to draw some level of empathy towards our eager narrator. He desires a love that is intangible to him; a tenderness that lives next door. Ultimately, his experiences felt cold & dry to me, whereas this moment in time could have been translated to feel like a wound sliced to the back of the knee. Though, I suppose, this situation isn’t as serious as all of that. If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK•. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Sep 17, 2023
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Sep 21, 2023
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Kindle Edition
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49
| 
| B08CSYQCQX
| unknown
| 4.09
| 211,218
| Jan 10, 1892
| Jul 10, 2020
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** As the Canadian skies lumber the weight of smog from provinces far away, I find myself further looking forward to the stories that w
**spoiler alert** As the Canadian skies lumber the weight of smog from provinces far away, I find myself further looking forward to the stories that will fill my days. During this time of weather uncertainty & an absent summer sun, I have come upon many quaint stories that hold special places in the minds of readers I have come to know—people I enjoy discussing books with. Here I found myself interested in the dread that befalls the woman held back by her beloved as he closes the door to her & the poisoned paper of the yellowing walls. It’s certainly a treat to read stories without any preconceived notion as to what I may find inside—I prefer it this way. In this case, I knew that the raving lunacy of the main character was shuffled to the forefront by the delirium of her husband. Rather than be met with that, I found myself pacing the pages waiting for the plot to thicken. This is certainly a story that marks its date of publication & somewhat remains nestled in the century. Though the gender roles & strict impositions fencing women out of society remain a blasphemous factor of our reality, the narrator of this story enjoys her life. The teetering narrative factors in the reality that remains relevant today; Are women allowed the freedom of choice? Would it be strange or wrong for a reader to view the narrator as a product of her time or, more directly—as an ignorant flimsy? Perhaps a reader might venture to question why the narrator never revolted against the man she trusted. However, one might be led to wonder why she would do that at all. It is not difficult to empathize with the narrator. She is married to a doctor, a kind man who seems to tend to her every need, even when he does not believe there to be a need at all. She is also a mother to a young child & she is privileged enough to have help in the department of child-rearing & housekeeping. Her life, for the time & the present tense, is rather quaint, if not, perhaps, a tad bit boring. Her ravings about the wallpaper come at the cost of the trust those around her have towards her. Here we find ourselves in the conflict. Given my prior knowledge of this story being a tale & spectacle of female freedom, I was initially less interested in reading what I knew to be present. Rather than debate the details of what it might mean to be faced with yellow—the colour of joy & splendour—in her downward spiral, my mind loomed over the logistics. This family resided in a long-since abandoned country home in the hopes of renovating it. Anyone who has ever lived or walked through a house under renovation knows that the sights & smells are potent enough to drive you mad. In the case of this story, the narrator is faced with far more toxic material than would be permitted today. I saw very little reason to linger over semantics as the narrator’s husband is confident in his hope that she be still & remain engaged with her own healing journey. I am not one for tender whispering words of willows & petals; his almost pedantic soothing found no reaction from me other than eyes floating over printed letters. Yet, I suppose the reader is meant to linger. As the narrator writes journal entries cataloging her own opinions of reality we watch her loosen her grip. Yet, wouldn’t anyone if kept sedentary in a room for weeks on end? Perhaps I am meant to feel revolt at the narrator’s husband & brother asking of her to be still & silent upstairs where the breeze flows freely. I might even be meant to believe that they were wrong—no illness plagues her. It does not, however, feel correct to bemoan medical practitioners for what they did not yet know. To them, the narrator described feeling ill in ways she could not quantify. After dedicated physical exams, they could find nothing wrong. As with most toxins, the immediate effects might not necessarily be reflected on the outside of the body. Medical knowledge of the lasting effects of using toxic materials in everyday products had not yet reached its peak. Casual & enthusiastic discoveries of tools & products meant to enhance life & all its wonders included substances that masticated the skin & the system of human tendons. Makeup included lead, mercury, arsenic & other such damaging products. Household items were no exception, primarily those dealing with aesthetic additions to old homes. In the 1880s the American Medical Association was quoted as having stated that between 54-65 percent of wallpaper used in the United States contained arsenic. This was often done in a bid to ensure the wallpaper lasted. It was also to the benefit of the vibrant colours, as often noted in vintage paintings. Multiple stories include the divisive stance that arsenic played in Victorian society. Its use in wallpaper was considered standard practice. However, the commonality of its inclusion in wallpaper was soon deduced as the cause of grave illness & in some cases, death. Readers note that the narrator soon begins to feel unwell after a short period of time in the house. She describes the shedding wallpaper which is a disgusting yellow—highlighting the state of decay which might be attributed to many things. Her husband boasts about the wonder of remaining on the higher level of the house as this would allow his wife the ability to enjoy the weather. However, it is in part due to the weather (the elements) that the toxic poison in the wallpaper so quickly takes effect. By the mid-19th Century, there was a rise in mass deaths as entire families fell prey to arsenic poisoning via their colourful wallpaper. As I pondered these facts I was reminded that this short story included aspects that could easily leave readers with diversified experiences. Whereas I first concluded that the narrator might be experiencing Postpartum Depression or symptoms in line with an excess of stress, the story moves past these lived events (i.e. the birth of a child) in an attempt to bemuse the reader. The narrator was very likely sensitive to her environment. Her newborn child would indeed have fallen prey to the poison in the wallpaper & might have died without either parent realizing it. Whereas the narrator ponders the essence of being stuck behind glue to mask the disrepair of her life, in a similar fashion to the cruel yellow wallpaper, the reader is meant to deduce what the truth of the narrative is. Certainly, readers may note the metaphorical aspects of a housewife in the Victorian era sitting alone in a decrypt home, complaining of an invisible illness, to mean that women were not believed, did not matter, & were better left hidden inside. Though these things may be true—they were certainly plainly true as integral parts of how many societies worked (& continue to function)—this is not the only way to dissect this story. The narrator is essentially on a speed run of arsenic poisoning. Her husband’s medical expertise is no match for the decomposing & shedding paper that adorns their bedroom. As the story draws to its close the various characters are seen staring at the wallpaper as though seeking answers. One is almost inclined to believe that someone in the house knew more than they were letting on. However, if that were the case, why did they not share it with the group? Might we deduce that this is a case of malevolence the likes of which Mr. Rochester might shy away from? Or, is this simply a case of people going out of their minds with a sickness they cannot see, inside a decaying house, all alone, away from society? Ultimately, this is an interesting story that sets in motion a series of events that might entice the reader to conclude any number of things. The narrator’s husband can be both loving & settled on being the sole decision-maker of the family. The narrator can feel cloistered & live a life unbound from the perils induced by having no extra help. The wallpaper is a reflection of the poverty of society & the inner torment of a single woman unable to validate her own thoughts. The notion of forgiving beautiful things for the harm they might cause us & the pain they concede to our person remains the tender artery of society. The narrator was given time to be well, time to recover & space to be her own person, all of this while inside, the sickness rotted. In the midst of this, she comes to find that another version of her lies suffocated behind a poisonous sheet of pretty paper. Her child is a passing fancy in her mind; her husband, the fainting man in the doorway; her final moments a rope licking the ceiling from throat to toes. If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK•. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jul 10, 2023
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Sep 10, 2023
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Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
48
| 
| 1982153083
| 9781982153083
| 1982153083
| 3.68
| 81,670
| Feb 07, 2023
| Feb 07, 2023
|
it was amazing
|
**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 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 that contain reflections on the injury of an animal, infidelity, sexual promiscuity, sexual abuse, violent assault, physical abuse, bigotry, homophobia, substance abuse, suicidal ideations, self-half, grief, suicide, & others. Marvellous things happen when the world’s bleak interface cracks. The clouds adopt a white crisp as snow & the marooning sense of unease that caresses the soul embraces the soothing song of desire. Art, in all its mediums, grants humanity the opportunity to remain in waiting. The display cases & bound spines of melody & rhythm welcome malevolence inside the rib cage & scratch at its tender confines. One is found when seen through the eyes of reflective surfaces; recognized via the nodding axis of tender familiarity. Though the romantic wavering feeling of hopeful community does linger in the spiritual effervescence of many, the long-winded symphony as heard via the transistor aid reverberates a dull & tired moaning, one few might consensually seek out. The insecure narrator, the unreliable narrator, the voice clear & attuned to despondency; the story following the ravings of near lunacy though, perhaps too droll to be a fabrication; have long perused the periphery of high-brow literature. Classically dedicated readers endeavour to resound the monstrous characteristics of the simply human individual whose stocky presence crafts a claustrophobic shadow over an otherwise deliciously ghastly story. This approach to storytelling is nothing new which is not to say that it is an easy feat to achieve. Traditionally horrible people exist in abundance, everywhere. Their inability to be the perfect Eden of all things incurably faulted renders them the outcasts of a burdened society of malaise; the imperfect posing judgment on the mistakenly brazen choices of another. Literature that approaches telling such a story is very difficult to write. One needs first to understand which story they wish to tell & for whom. Is the reader meant to feel a level of humanity within the flawed main character? Is the character meant to reflect the earnest incasing of every reader? Are the passing ineptitudes simply flaws or are they evidence of incalculable evil? Is the reader meant to feel morally superior to the main character? Are the events translated intended to reek of nostalgia or of putrid poison? What is the goal of the story that presents the reader with the worst version of themselves? I am of the belief that no one book will ever appeal to every reader. However, I am also of the belief that the reader is responsible for understanding their own preferences. I say this knowing fully well that I have bashed my skull against the covers of Romance novels on too many occasions to count, in the hopes of finding something inside to love. The genre is not meant for me & it may never be. There is no shame in admitting that the joy seen in the enthusiastic faces of a variety of readers is enough to leave one with the longing to try. Yet, at the end of the day & when all is said & done, one needs to understand that not all books are meant for all readers. I am happily seated outside the aisles where the frivolous easy readers find their match—I support them tenderly from my antiquated rocking chair. The effort undertaken by the author to present such a rounded jumble of annoyance was a success. Greta, the main character, is a person I would be loath to meet. Her entire life is a lie yet, one can hardly begrudge her much given she seems to suffer from a psychiatric condition that leads her to believe that bugs live in her scalp & glass is lodged in her foot. The parameters of her mental state are complex & yet, lined with window panes. Her dreadful personality is desperate to be appreciated yet, she offers the outside world little reason to feel drawn to her. At the ripe age of forty-five (45), Greta is a failure in every traditional sense of the word. She has no real ambition to speak of & even if she did, she feels no desire to seek it out. Her life has been plagued with boredom & a tedious waddle that follows the footsteps of the emotionally profound & intellectually stimulated people whom Greta wanders behind. Her career has been a series of jobs, none of which she was very good at, formatting a resume of positions that neither speak highly of her abilities nor do they render her a valuable candidate for any environment. Her days are filled with nothing & she seeks no form of betterment. She speaks in passing bigotry, often referencing vintage & lazy racist remarks in an effort to present her thoughts as tangible, relatable pieces. Whereas, in reality, Greta’s bigotry reinforces a metronome that denotes the banal passing of time, slugging the hours of boredom in her brain, which may lead to only one conclusion; Greta is a loser. This story follows Greta as she transcribes the conversations that take place in a therapist’s office. For readers familiar with the activity, Om & his therapeutic approach reek of something unruly & gaunt; rather unlike the scholastic study of illness & coping that one sees approached with tenuous tact in real life. The conversations are often superfluous & rather silly. I am certainly posing no judgment on the troubles that perturb any person who might have found themselves reflected in the characters who visit Om. However, one is inclined to giggle; there is no science employed in healing practices, no intentional pacing to the conversations that would lead one to identify the sessions as anything other than paid time with a friend who once read Sigmund Freud’s “Zur Auffassung der Aphasien” (1953). To study humanity is to be faced with the portrait moulded through crooked strokes. No character in this book exists as a classic & cunning representation of any person in the non-fictional world. On the one hand, the reader will see the faces of all the traditionally troubled; those who suffer a form of addiction, those whose pain has built the beast on which they ride, those for whom damage is a normalcy without a clock to tell the time. Illnesses that massacre the mind are very complex to represent authentically, in any form. So much of our studies on maladies exist on the shoulders & spines of the people who were lacerated & bound in an effort to understand the invisible. Truly, the study of the mind will never reach a conclusion & like a critique of work separate from the writer, diseases of the psyche will develop independent of rationale & understanding. In this way, the reader is encouraged to gauge the state at which they meet the slew of characters. Is Om really a phoney doctor or is he simply presenting a deconstructing activity in a different light? Is Greta really a basket case or is she simply chronically unwell? Is Flavia (Big Swiss) really a strong-willed person or is she numbed to the human experience? The list goes on. It is to the discretion of the reader, entirely, to decide whether or not they believe that people can exist in multifaceted ways. The author requests the readers’ participation in her book. She seems to have written from an omniscient point of view, standing on a balcony with space for us too. Throughout this book, a moral conundrum is put into question; who is the antagonist? Very few authors can succeed in writing a slew of villains, naming them family & friend. In this case, the winning gold medal of praise must be attributed. Greta is not a person whom many people would want to befriend yet, Sabine has done just that. People were eager to take a chance on her & hope that their tenderness would rub off. All the while, Greta remained incapable of living life in the laneway of reality. Can the reader blame Greta for her shortcomings? Once again, the reader is at the liberty of deciding whether or not they should or could grant Greta leeway, or whether or not they should or could be empathetic to her experiences. I could not say with conviction that either decision would be right or wrong. Greta has done mean things. She has acted in ways that are cruel & self-serving. She acts inappropriately with her dog, she lies for the sake of getting the upper hand; she uses secrets as currency & ignores other people’s feelings in a bid to shelter her own. All the while, Greta cares deeply about people. She is sensitive to the changing appearance of people who might be suffering inside, due to physical or mental illness; she is tender when someone is unsure of trying something new; she is calm when the situation could be explosive; she views the unease of healing in other people as something she can support them in achieving. Whether or not Greta was right to lie to Flavia is not really the point. Flavia lies too. Both women flourish in the lust they cultivate in a field of lies. What I found myself deriving from this narrative was more so the crocked grins that adorned the faces of the brutalized. Perhaps the reader is meant to read this story in increments so that they have time to reflect. At times, the story seems to want to be more than what it is. Yet, it never pushes the bounds of a territory it cannot colonize. The plot rides over stony mountains & allows the reader to pass judgment, sometimes laugh, & frown at the series of events that the characters choose to engage in. In essence, this story was authentically human. My appreciation for this book soared when I found myself wanting to pick a side, to name a protagonist & their villain. The goal is not to state the ideology that is best, the world is filled with people who misunderstand one another, in ways that can be traced back to their own shortcomings or, in niche wonders, in part, thanks to their own experiences with the world. Flavia is of the belief that drawing attention to a trauma is weak. Is she wrong? Greta is of the belief that every bad thing that has happened is the reason why her actions are the way that they are. Is she wrong? Om is of the belief that sharing experiences is a neutral exercise in interconnectedness. Is he wrong? The people who are harmed in this story are each & every one of the characters. To break someone’s trust is horrible, so is pretending to love someone, & so is lying—arguably these all fall into the same category. The reader’s feelings will be hurt by this story because, in some ways, the narrative is focused on them. It will not be news to any reader to learn that some people think in the ways the characters do. This is neither here nor there, it is a simple fact of existence. Can the reader move through this book without calling to mind their own philosophy? While I read this book, I found myself at times wondering how people like Greta were able to survive in the world. I thought about people like Flavia with sadness & the disparaging entities of the tertiary characters as grooves to a hard pill to swallow. Ultimately, my impression of the characters & their own coping mechanisms does not account for much; I am neither their friend, their lover, nor their psychologist. I am a reader who, for a single moment in time, met them through the sound of their voices, reverberating in the walls & across the grassy fields of the town. My judgement & harsh criticisms of their personal beliefs do not alter the actions they chose to take, nor would my opinion lead them to change theirs. We meet each other in silence & cunning confusion, in this book as we would outside. For all of these reasons & many more, I found myself romantically entangled in this story. I can attest to feelings & divisive inner violence that inked its way over the smooth pages in ways that make me laugh out loud for, there I was in a story about strangers, all of whom I felt apathetic towards. How quaintly the story became something more than the tiresome moans of a grown woman with so little self-value. The narrative that at once presents the reader with someone who is easy to dislike—a breezing being to hate—opened itself to the reader who had the patience to finish its body, satiated in a meal ripe with nutrients & glazing budding delight. Once again, this is not a book for everyone. This story explores the crass reality of horrible trauma. The characters in this book experience brutal assault both by their hands & that of strangers. Their days are vapid & tired yet, they are just as much a part of life as you or I. This is a book about people being human beings &, as we all know, none of us is at the liberty of hurling any stones with bodies such as ours, filled with such fragile bones. For readers who will be able to appreciate the distanced stance of viewership & at times the teasing desire of immersion that is presented & offered in this book, they will surely find in their hands a story to rival their favourites. Ultimately, the toothy grin on our own faces is the monster’s favourite lover. We find ourselves in the tender embrace of soothing proximity with the people who live in this fictional community; a shamefully earnest account of the real town & real people whom we meet every day. Sensually we peruse the streets where we find ourselves immersed in the secrecy of interpersonal relationships & the voracious vampires that clobber & coo for their feed. This is our own home & though it might seem overzealous & unkind to compare our mushy beating organs to the goldstone facade of the beast, we are so much more than the mortal membrane that garnishes the earth when it ends. The characters circle & chant the tune ingrained in the skeleton of humanity; our very own love story with the immovably imperfect life we lead. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Sep 03, 2023
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Sep 03, 2023
|
Hardcover
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47
| 
| 0802162045
| 9780802162045
| 3.58
| 13,470
| Feb 01, 2022
| Jun 27, 2023
|
it was amazing
|
**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 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 that contain reflections on animal abuse, the death of a loved one, fertility, abortion, the sexual abuse of a child, the death of a loved one, grief, parental abuse, neglect, & others. Veronica is a woman with a story to share. As is often the case, her reflections stumble; the narrative that is presented to the reader reeks of a solemn manuscript, kept ripe in the confines of an archival system long since abandoned. Maneuvering her way through four (4) decades of peril, amorous sentiments, confusion, equations, & lore, Veronica presents the reader with a series of events unbound by logic. Her life story is plausible as much as any fairytale or decrepit fable; the reader longs for a settled story & they find one hidden between the shadow boxes of new walls, built around a childhood sheltered by curious, strange, eyes. This is not a book that I feel many readers will appreciate. Fans of Literary Fiction & afternoons seated on uncomfortable ground peering deeply into new wounds; this story will hold rubies & gems for readers who appreciate stories for what they are—tales to be told & intrigue to behold. I would not be quick to recommend this book to casual readers. That is to say, readers are perhaps more likely to feel a sense of enchantment towards publications that follow a patterned logic but which are quite hollow of the morbidity of secrecy. This book follows the narrative of a woman who feels inclined to share. This is not a book that contains a tale both otherworldly & trite. Readers will be asked to hang their inhibitions at the door & settle themselves into a room caved in with harrowing memories & distrust. Should readers find themselves immersed in this book as I have, they may be uncomfortable with the tide that wipes clean their memory of any valid semblance of time. I find myself now, seated uncomfortably longing to pull the blinds down & attempt to regain the sentiments I held while reading this book. Yet, here I am without much to invest in this review. Rather than feel that memory has failed them, readers might be inclined to conclude that this story resides within the book & not within the mind. As a consequence, one needs to return to the apartment in the drumming heat of Rome to illustrate the complexities of a life destroyed by tedium. In essence, this story is riddled with what might be complete lies. The main character opens the story by inviting the reader to believe that her brother has died. One soon learns that this is a habitual event. Under the all-seeing eye of a matriarch who does not seem invested in the well-being of her children, but rather more engaged in the societal perception of what it means to be a mother; the main character & her brother wallow in a childhood absent of stimulation. Their days are passed inside an apartment without access to the outside world. Having a patriarch who fears illness & pollution, they meander their days in a space that grows walls. The walls do not grow on their own. One might be inclined to look into the metaphorical significance of each of these events; are the walls that their father builds meant to create individualized space within a collective entity? Why are there so many walls & how does the patriarch gauge where to build these walls? None of the philosophizing done by the reader comes to any secure conclusion. We wade back & forth through a series of recollections that engage the reader to wonder, question & prophesize what all these things might mean. Rather like in real life—the one experienced outside the confines of the book—none of the questions one has, are granted a reasonable answer. Moments pose shade to the healthy development of the main character. Inappropriate encounters shape her into a neutrally traumatized individual, one rather disinclined from sharing with a room of people whose ears are deaf to her existence. Perhaps, I felt inclined to listen to so much rambling because within each section of recollection, there was a simple facet of truth. I do not need the narrator to be honest with me, I am rather disinclined from caring whether or not the story is altogether fabricated; the point is to be present. Veronica met me at a point in time when the summer nights felt long & my life was changing. Tomorrow is certain to bring a series of new challenges whereas outwardly, the waves have nestled still to the depth of the river. Perhaps, because my mind was accepting of the banality of recalling a fraudulent painting & the worried rambling of a story that had yet to be written, I found myself absolutely immersed. This story does not need the reader to accept it as truth, rather the story is a story & that is all there is. Veronica suffers as much as anyone else & perhaps more so because her existence is sheltered between words written clearly but whose meaning is altogether lost on the stable mind of the observer. Each character in this book felt like a stranger waiting to make their way to centre stage. The antagonists—the villains & predators—malevolent winds gusting brutality against the windowpanes of Veronica’s childhood home. In this way, I believe this book to hold a secret that it does not wish to speak; something undoubtedly dull, common, & magical. Readers might find themselves struck by the discussions of infidelity & love or, they may become stuck in the parables that guide them down city streets into disparaging apartments housing unknown people, dead to the story at play. The beauty of this story is that it will hide itself from the desired recall of the brain; where it hides, I cannot begin to know. One may be sitting, casually enjoying the autumnal breeze, only to find themselves pondering the rejection of Veronica’s writing. One may find oneself perusing the events thrice only to regain a semi-smidge of valuable information. Why was Veronica unable to write a book review? Why does she remember her interactions with the author who does not remember her, time after time? Why is Veronica so tender with her brother while their relationship seems to foreshadow distrust? Why does Veronica remember her father so vividly as a man she misunderstood in all ways, even as a human being? The recycled perception we have of Veronica is the same one she shares with us. She lives authentically via a lifespan that paves the way for us to walk several steps behind; she is too far away for our questions to reach her with any severity or urgency, simply as whisperings in the wind. Should readers be inclined to spend some time with Veronica they will find that she is unlike anyone they wish to ever meet again. Her recollection is plagued like a deathly disease with shallow emotions & trite structuring. Yet, she is also fully engaged in a horribly boring narrative that she is in love with living. I am not sure that I am in any position to fault her for that. Ultimately, what I found to be the most endearing was Veronica’s commitment to herself. Teetering the line between the end & the beginning, Veronica colours her world in ways only another artist could do, yet, I trust that she understands this & she knows that I do too. This story flowers pathways paved in cement with uncomfortable silences & shadowy leaves of dying trees; every single breath between a new train of thought is a station to an unknown location yearning for the passenger to break free of the tracks. Like glue, the reader puts as much effort into keeping this story together as the narrator & for that, we are bound together like staples & straw; mangled by our own romantic perversion to recognize the person unknown. To navigate through this story is to forget & recollect all at once. Veronica is a person all her own, her parents are people who live down the road & her long life is one that another might hope to live. I deeply appreciated sharing the space that the author crafted. This book is grim & illuminates the strange sentiment of insecurity that exists in all of our memories of a time when walls were built around us to redirect the life we were living. I will come back to this sequence again & I hope once more, to be met with Veronica as she settles in spiky blades of grass to convince me of something that might be altogether too earnest to be real. Thank you to Edelweiss+, Grove Press, Black Cat, & Veronica Raimo for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Aug 25, 2023
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Sep 03, 2023
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Paperback
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46
| 
| 0316769177
| 9780316769174
| 0316769177
| 3.80
| 3,580,886
| Jul 16, 1951
| Jan 30, 2001
|
really liked it
|
**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, the death of a child, violent crime, scenes depicting graphic death, grief, physical violence, substance use, insinuations of the sexual assault of a minor, & others. Classics are often misunderstood. The reputation that precedes certain works of literary fiction has malnourished the minds of future readers. In this particular case, the main character is described as an edgelord; something of an emotively downcast rodent roaming the streets of New York City with nothing much to say & time to waste. Yet, in taking the time to absorb what it is Holden seeks to share, the reader might find themselves embarrassed that they spoke of a person they failed to understand. Certain works of fiction act as representations of the reader. One is certainly in their right to read anything they want. However, it is in the virtual social world of labels & quirky unfunny jokes that collectors of unashamedly whimpering spines litter shelves with judgment. Should a person have felt inclined to read all the books in the world they would still be misunderstood. What does the enjoyment of this Classic piece say about the reader? What this story seeks to explore has perhaps less to do with the circumstances in which Holden experiences the events & rather a great deal more to do with the levels of empathy & understanding the reader can muster. It appears that many readers forget that to enjoy a story is to find themselves a part of the world of humanity; the tales that shape the imaginary world & the dreams that shed their misty darkness to walk freely in the lovely world of the day-to-day. Holden introduces himself to the reader as though he were in an intimate conversation. One is never explicitly told why he is sharing with the reader, nor is the reader given insight into the pull to divulge past events. As the narrative unfolds these aspects do not seem to be of great importance. Suffice it for the reader to know that the protagonist wanted to share. Should a person make it until the end they will find that the initial questions are answered. When we divulge we pour parts of ourselves & our experiences into the listener & we are liable to lose these gems altogether over time. The plot of this story is a series of events that follow Holden Caulfield as he is expelled from school, returns to New York City, spends a couple of nights alone, & finally returns home. As I stated in the introduction, I had no knowledge of this story save the casual mention that was spread in passing by folks who found it to be a shocking piece of literature. I had not met anyone until recently who found it to be a good story & I admit to you now—I think that is a great shame. I am not a new reader & so have experienced the by-proxy relief that reviewers & eager mouths feel when they thump down a book. I have written several reviews that are rather heavy-handed, expressing displeasure at a story that I came to find lacking in all the ways that disappoint me the most. Yet, in my mind, there is an ideal reader for every story. My reviews are not some niche word of spiritual enlightenment—they are my experience, my opinion, & a great deal of research, formatted into a critique. Keeping that in mind, I find it rather dull to meet other readers who do not view the pastime as I do—as something to be enjoyed. It is no secret that I have read books that I severely disliked. Yet, I would gladly recommend them to people who I know would love them for what they were—a story meant to be consumed by an eager reader. That is the name of the game. Therefore, I wonder at the tedium that accompanies hating someone like Holden. As I made my way through this story I recalled a number of comments that prefaced my read. As a result, I am left confused. On the one hand, I will certainly acknowledge that this is not a book that everyone will adore. The storyline is very jumbled & acts like any regular discussion might between two friends. Rather, this story nearly feels scholastic—Holden might be discussing events with a mentor. Therein lies the first piece of magic in this book. I am older than Holden, not old enough to be his parent but, old enough to remember the decade that spans the years since I too was seventeen. While reading this story, the reader is allowed to view the series of events just as they are. The reader might be the same age as Holden or they might be older than I am now. Either way, the monologue at the carousel & the excessive smoking will be interpreted in different ways by different readers. The point is not to pose judgment though, that is what we are inclined to do. It seems practically impossible that a reader will listen to Holden talk about his annoying roommates, his casual swearing, nonchalant lack of schooling, repeated disappointments, love affairs, & eager money spending as anything other than points of contention. As an adult, I was interested in the reasons why Holden was inclined to act as he did. With patience, I came to find a character who lived life in a similar fashion to me. That is, as an existentialist. Few books accurately explore what it means to experience what Holden has in the short years of his life. Certainly, we cannot expect him to tell us how he feels—we’ve only just met. Yet, as time goes on, the reader learns that within the monologues & short-lived dialogues, Holden is a person who is dulled. In his youth, his younger brother became ill & later died from Leukemia. He allows for very small openings into his emotional state. These take place when he describes something else entirely. He might be sitting writing a paper for someone else or he may be describing that he can’t punch as hard as the other boys—the intimate nature of Holden is in all these things. It is exceedingly sad to be made aware of the uncommonly desolate nature that this character experiences on a daily basis. His memories of his younger brother exist in all facets of his life. Holden mentions that he often brings Allie up at random, just to remember what it felt like when he was around. He describes the immense guilt he felt after Allie’s passing as he ruminated on all the things he wished he’d done better as an older brother. His own physical nick came as a consequence of a surplus of grief with nowhere to go. Readers may be inclined to fly over this revelation as quickly as Holden. Throughout his recollection, he seems to want to open himself to the reader in an attempt to find comfort or perhaps validation in his experiences. To lose a sibling so young & to such a terrible illness is a horrible thing to have to experience. Around this same time, Holden’s older brother went to fight in World War II. His parents grew withdrawn from grief & the difficulties of living a life absent of the love they brought into it. That is not to say that Holden’s parents are antagonists. Seasoned readers—in life & literature—will clock this situation for exactly what it is; the confusing time in which a young person begins to disagree with the agency their parents exude in life as individuals & the conflict that arises from wanting to be independent themselves. This situation is very real & raw. Holden deserves to hear, from a confidant & a friend, that the worries his parents have about him are not cruel—they worry because they care. One hopes to find that in the house of Holden’s teacher. After a quick visit with his younger sister, many tears shed, & the panic to leave the home where he knows life will once again meet conflict & misunderstanding, Holden calls on a person whom he deems very smart. They have a heart-to-heart & Holden falls asleep on the sofa. Mr. Antolini wakes Holden by patting his head. This scene is disturbing in that it is difficult to read. At once a man who is meant to be a mentor to Holden, the inappropriate nature of his compliments & the gesture itself read as morbid. The reader is not given enough information to settle this experience as being of an innocent nature. One is inclined to believe that the gesture of patting Holden’s head as he sleeps is in fact meant to be of a paternal nature, especially after he mentions speaking with Holden’s father about his future. Yet, Holden himself mentions that he has had unpleasant experiences at the hands of adults before. Whether or not Holden is hinting at having been sexually assaulted or if he simply means to say that adults feel it their right to touch him, the reader feels the pull to believe that Holden knows best—because he does. If one wakes up in the middle of the night, after experiencing a panic in the cold streets of winter—already worried about the future—only to be touched by a person with whom you shared no physical relationship (hugs, arm nudges, long handshakes, etc.), this situation would induce panic in the hearts of most. I was glad to see Holden find his way to a safer place & I was eager to see him return home. The complexity of his experiences translates into the way in which he interprets the world around him. Whereas he originally expresses a seeming disgust towards people at writ large—if not a neutral apathy—Holden’s feelings soon become a loathing for what he ponders he might never have. The path to success is not one that he has graduated from. He flunks out of school & returns home to parents who do not know where to turn. He loves his siblings but he is at a point in his life where he cannot spend time with them & they are at different stages in their own lives. To find one’s place in the world is confusing enough. Holden has the burden of missing someone he loved because they died. He has the burden of a heart that struggles to heal during a period in time when mental distress was still not well-understood or approached with dignity & tenderness. Holden is fighting against himself. One sees this in the ways in which he expresses the ease with which he wants to disappear; describing his absence as being better for all involved. When all is said & done this book explores the difficulty we encounter when being misunderstood by our own person. The struggle of climbing a ladder behind people who seem agile & eager; the sorrow of loss & dreams one does not feel they are able to hope for. Holden is a downtrodden character but he is also funny & kind. He thinks deeply about his relationships with others & tries to be present in his experiences with them. We see this reflected in his recollection of the student who was attacked in his dorm & subsequently murdered. The humour & deep thoughts that linger like stars throughout the day in Holden make this story a heartwarming tale, shared with readers who are asked to be kind in return. Everyone deserves the benefit of a moment’s reprieve from the rocks that weigh them down. My hope is for Holden’s story to be understood & for readers to be gentle when listening to the farfetched ramblings of a person who is trying to unburden those who love them by giving up hope that their lives could be different. Ultimately, Holden is a soft soul. His reference to the Robert Burns poem “Comin’ thro’ the Rye” (1782) is a trinket of gold in the sea of dead skin; a small morsel of ember set to blaze the forest of its darkness. This book is beautifully written & is for readers who find themselves open to exploring the realities of diverse peoples in this life. Though Holden’s struggles see him free to splurge on cab rides & endless cigarette packs, he is still just a person struggling to walk the blocks of the city where his trauma torments him; whispering in his ear to beg the deceased for forgiveness & eternal presence; not to be abandoned by love in the concrete slabs of cemeteries & cold stones of the sidewalk. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jul 31, 2023
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Aug 03, 2023
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Paperback
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45
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| 4.36
| 1,327
| unknown
| Oct 28, 2014
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really liked it
|
**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 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 childhood sexual abuse, sexually explicit content, insinuations of cannibalism, self-harm, body mutilation, & others. Saturated like the body after its first swim, the ruby ribbon holds snug to the skin. I cannot remember her name but she was young. I do not know her face but it was worn. The main character shifts through the human form via the stitch of the ribbon she adorns. There exists too many occasions for harm to be done & far fewer moments for pain to be felt. How openly we seethe the tilted coffin at a wake as revulsion of the finality of our participation in this play. Though this story has been told before, as many stories before it has, the reader might note the tender syllable of possessive dread lingering within the spaces between words. What is the purpose of the metaphor that houses the secret? Is it rational to seek out the key for a door lathered in pine needles & dust? Machado’s take on “The Girl in the Green Ribbon” which is known to date back to at least the 19th Century, covets the female narrator as she explores love & devotion. Her life begins at an unknown period in time. The reader acts as an incubus Cumulus. Rather than encouraging the narrator to heed the warnings of speeding landmarks & graphic topography, one soothes the skyline; witness only to morose clusters of her demise. This approach is certainly not uncommon. The majority of stories require the silent reader. Though, perhaps what makes the habitual seem claustrophobic, in this case, is the nature of senseless suffering christened to the nameless women of the story. I have sat on my experience with this story & have come to the conclusion that there is no accurate exploration, no resounding critique that would ensure appropriate & accurate reflection. I know what this story meant to me. I feel conflicted in expressing this truth because this story hems itself to a shadowed life. A different point of view is neither wrong nor is it sheltered. This leaves me to wonder about my own analytic ability. I will certainly miss points & these will be important for another reader. I have always stood by the fact that criticisms—reviews & reflections—are incredibly difficult to construct from a wholly neutral stance. In this case, the charm of a review is symbolic of the reader. I will not pretend otherwise. The premise of this book is simple, a young girl has a special ribbon that she wears around her neck. She does not want it to be touched, nor does she ever remove it from around her skin. When nearing the end of her teenage years, she meets a boy & she falls in love. Their experiences conflict with devotional levels of syrup & sour lingering. They escape into the town to rendezvous; allowing the tender parts of their skin to meet like fresh flowers to the soil. When it comes time to be present, express the essence of themselves, & create space for their unified bodies in the world of romance, marriage, families, & adulthood; the narrator remains divided. At once a deviantly void young person, the narrator is able to entice the reader to fill her shoes. The explicit nature of their sexual encounters voices the ache that results from breaching the skin of new growth. These scenes allow the world around the characters to linger in something of a performance. The narrator fingers the glassy lake water with tales of the unknown while her partner lusts after what he knows are dressed in her laces & bows. The reader remains suspended over the scene like a hangman waiting for the final filament of the rope to tear. The anticipation of the worst is never fulfilled. Instead, the story moves forward to culminate wives’ tales & spooky stories; something here that happened to a stranger, another thing there that happened to a person totally unknown. Throughout the flashes of new experiences, the narrator catches hold of the reader. There is a particular tenderness that is experienced when being asked to open one’s hand & allow the slice of the newborn skin, unaltered by the elements, to bleed into the palm of another. One might be tempted to ask the narrator if this situation is as serious as all of that. Perhaps this is where we come to a crossroads. Personally speaking, this story found me rather annoyed. It is well-written, using proper grammar & verb conjugations. It is also smart, employing the appropriate turns of phrase & metaphorical descriptors. It is neither all-encompassing nor detailed, which leaves me riddled with longing. Though I appreciate the subtlety of dry wit, I want to be overwhelmed when I read. I seek the author who knows words better than I do—who can tell me a story with my trust in their pen & pocket. I want a story to sink me into torrential river water while my mind struggles to remind me that I do, in fact, know how to swim. This story did not bring me near the rocky shore nor close enough to smell the stink of decaying weeds & fish—reminiscent of the southern Ontario shore of my youth. Rather than host my feelings in letters & sentences, this story kept me outside of the home. The tantalizing grandeur of a poet uninterested in rhymes appealed to me, even though we could never communicate to be understood. The very personal experience of watching the monster wade through darkened waters in the middle of a sunny day evoked in me the need to knock down rows of boats that might free me from the island. Therefore, I come to my favourite question; who is this story for? Readers might be inclined to interpret this story as I have. The consequences of abuse, the morbidity of trauma, the Scholastic Theology of meaning; all but unanswered by the woman holding the pen & the girl whose voice was amputated by the need for solicitous secrecy. Therefore, perhaps this story is for me or, perhaps it is for you. The ideal reader may not be so much one person as it is the plea for the versant ink to be released onto something that is no longer skin but, just as rigid as the bones it lived in. The requirement of this story from the reader is for it to be explicit & yet it remains hollowed out in anticipation of the intestinal girth that the reader will offer in return. Certainly, the ribbon might hold together the limbs that have been severed. On the other hand, the ribbon decorates the bitten morsel of the body that has been consumed by the vampire. The antagonist in this story is clear—men are the ghouls & goblins, the flesh-eating parasites, the decrepit undertakers, the foul-mouthed demons in darkness, & alien figurines one needs special glasses to see. The author explores a generalized reality in a strict fashion. The recollections shared by the main character highlight the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of a male teacher; the women she meets loose parts of themselves to the gruelling fangs of the cornucopia of male figures in their lives. This story leaves no room for a dual experience. I find myself uncomfortable at the insinuation that women are castrated corpses mangled in vines. I am uncomfortable imagining that the experiences outside of our control seer themselves through our skin to leave us looking like ribbon-wearing fools. Why in this world do we need to wear our scars to bear? I am not so much frustrated at the metaphorical approach as I am with the reality that human beings perceive themselves as serrated plaster—damaged goods. To part the seas equally in this way would require me to be able to communicate that which I have smothered; the silent hum of a nearly friendly & coy past which haunts me like a poltergeist. I view the main character as perhaps too unworldly or less enthusiastically inclined to be strong & brutal in her resistance to pain than I would like. Yet, when her head falls off I find that I have been seated on the floor, waiting, the whole time. I suppose that regardless of what I hoped to find within the main character, what I was left with was the same thing I find in real life. The invasive species that tortures a gruelling heatwave of terror is the same one I have come to know; the one I have met, the one whom I cannot name; the one who has wandered back around the block with a chuckle on the face. It is unfair to say that there is only one villain in this life. Therefore, what I hope to infer from this story is the concavity of desolation that results from losing oneself to the world. The ribbons hold pieces of the body together. In a similar though strangely deranged fashion, this story permits the reader to nestle deep within a chosen section until they are ready to leave. The words know thy name & the chants are familiar lullabies; this is all pretend. Ultimately, I find myself unable to resist the desire to break apart every word. The destruction of the reminder that the rose need not be named at all to chowder the forest, seethes me with mustard in the orifices of my eyes. Like a fire, once lulling & bright, the smog of the parables softens the uncanny familiarity of the ribbon-wearing city. Amongst the citizens, some victims of the fanged killer, others lovers of the husband in lives long since passed, we waltz through streets & market places. Our terribly eager faces mask the exposure highlighted in a repetitive fashion within this story. The lesson of trust, the lesson of speaking up, the lesson of us. The hazards without neon signs & exclamation points; without carved skulls & the detonation of our person—all but the comfort of hope that no one will know. In each of the sections of this story, the reader is reminded of themselves. The cluster of wood chips stripped from the Baobab tree; the pruning greenery, once, a long time ago, the beautiful un-charted life cauterized from people like you, & like me. If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK•. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jul 14, 2023
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Aug 03, 2023
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ebook
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44
| 
| 1668011654
| 9781668011652
| 3.64
| 17,769
| Jul 11, 2023
| Jul 11, 2023
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really liked it
|
**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 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 suicide, parental abuse, financial insecurity, homelessness, substance abuse, pregnancy, abortions, debates in relation to being pro-choice, mental illness, & others. Human society exists on the corner of a crossroads. Simultaneously we walk the streets of riches & decomposition; never certain of our position in the hierarchical structure of wealth & security, we mince our meagre existence to compound fear into submission. Tomorrow is a day far away from the one we are experiencing & yet it remains the messenger of the future. Our savings & settled structures lay in anticipated wait. The city streets of every great nation denounce the cruelty of its own people as they sidestep their coin-tossed fate. The imaginary labour that prevents poverty; the lucky clover & soul-bearing sale, our bid to ensure we are not the dried crust of a life that weasels alongside the empire towers of the capital city. Our dedication to forgiving the bladed knife of effort is lost on us. Perhaps we opt to believe that what we have is based on merit, like the religious titans of old who pillaged our minds with a need for forgiveness & sin. This leaves little room to incorporate a diversity of nuance. No single person has left untouched the sin of the species. What constitutes the merit of a good life? Who is the innocent that wealth seeks to protect? In Etter’s novel, the possibility of a teetering utopia hinges on the individual’s belief that their choices are a result of a match made in heaven. The premise of this story dedicates itself to readers with language that is soft & metaphorical in a tangibly simple approach. The main character, Cassie, is nearing the completion of her first year working at a tech start-up whose main goal is the collection & sale of personal data. Cassie is consumed by despair. Having grown up in a small American town, several States away, she finds herself calling her father for reminders that her current position in life is better than the alternative. The premise of this story meanders the engaged mind of the reader as they seek to pinpoint an antagonist; someone who might be responsible for the collapse of validation. Cassie is an interesting character as she is the optimal representation of a culture of people who have to work to survive. This statement is not meant to exclude anyone nor shame the lives that are led down different pathways. Simply, Cassie is tethered to her career, ever so much as she hates the person she has become while working in it. The necessity for a salary might lead a person to feel that their personal value is representative in the system of numeric sequences. In a world where our possessions act as a representation of our successful accomplishments, whilst our inner turmoil is allowed to be sheltered & bathed in loathing; one loses sight of the self. Cassie toys with her living condition & her grocery bill; she needs a home but not one that costs her over three (3) grand to maintain. She needs food but not enough to impoverish herself in the stores of the ignorantly wealthy. The reader grows frustrated with Cassie as the narrative moves forward. Why does she make such stupid choices? Why does Cassie work at a job that requires the sacrifice of all her personal freedom? Why does Cassie live in an apartment that surpasses her means? Why doesn’t Cassie advocate for herself? Why does Cassie allow her thoughts to drown her in sorrow? No one question necessarily has a simple answer. The terror of this narrative is that any one reader might find themselves reflected in Cassie. Are we to bemoan one another for a collection of books or film posters? Is it wrong to want to enjoy a streaming service or a selection of sweaters? Where do we draw the line between life enjoyment & living in excess? For Cassie there is not necessarily a clear definer of security nor does she possess the ability to gauge her own needs. This narrative presents the main character as though she were living in a dystopian world gone utterly awry, yet, this world is our own. Cassie’s corporate job resembles the corporate world of snakes & ladders. I also work in a field brimming with sea urchins & sour weeds. Many people benefit from the pull of performance; what others think of our accomplishments matters more than the success itself. While others find the cold lonely chair of architecture without community rather malevolent. No one has a black hole circling their skulls but they do wear the darkened circles of skin under their eyes & the dreary look of extroversion. I cannot blame them—I am one of them. My life is just as much a part of the corporate culture as Cassie’s. We go into an office space & we are expected to perform. No one shares meals until a person’s intent is clear. Yet the people littering the street with their inability to be like the corporate crawlers act as a reminder that the freedom of privacy remains up for grabs. If one does not go to the lunch, does not show up to the greeting; does not have their camera on, is not dressed presentably; or does not look eager to be there; they are reminded that others around them want it more. One need only step aside to make way for the forward movement of the eager as they greedily relinquish their independence for the machine. Yet, I do not believe it is as dreadful as all of that. I rather enjoy my job. I appreciate all the freedom that my revenue accords me. However, I remember when I had none. The story explores the very real probability of falling between the cracks. This reality has recently gained traction as our society experiences the cycle of community. Our ability to share knowledge has been tinged with the malaise that awakens when information is misrepresented—situations fraught with lies. Our social networks heave the weight of misinformation in a bid to save the lost minds of the unlucky. Mock documentaries, homemade presentations, & intimate conversations showcase the disparity of wealth that exists across North America. Cassie’s Silicon Valley is no different than the one presented in YouTube shorts & reel formats to eager viewers who wish to know more about their own neighbours. Though her days see people set themselves on fire & sever their bodies against moving trains, the differences between fact & fiction grow fewer as the novel progresses. Cassie falls pregnant with the man she has been seeing, casually, for some time. A great debate rages inside her, bringing long-since suppressed experiences with Catholicism to the surface. She does not tell her partner that she has become pregnant nor does she share the news with anyone—which is her right. The city streets reek with human excrement & her office space closes in as she is repeatedly told that her performance is falling short. There is no space for a new life in the decaying forestry of fire. The experience changes Cassie. Previously a bonified Easter bunny, she shadows the black hole that salivates at her demise. It is difficult to read about Cassie’s final pensive moments before she commits suicide. The termination of her position in a company in which she poured her entire life; the home that is too expensive in which to reside; the friends who are enemies with scales of performative intrigue; the family that was cold as a marbled stone; Cassie sees no way forward. One is left flummoxed but accepting of the end. Cassie’s despair is nothing new. According to her, she has been experiencing a loathsome dread for the majority of her life. When it was time to intervene, the streets were silent with the hum of a stoned heap; no one comes running when we have no jogging mates. Though this view is morbid & rather sad, the reader notes the absence of real connection within Cassie’s world. Her romantic relationship cannot move forward, the man she loves is prevented from loving her—one does not actually know if he wants to fall in love, or simply enjoy the confines of the spaces within Cassie. The family & friends, the society at writ large, no one cares whether Cassie loves her job or whether she becomes like the sleeping man under her window—insane to the high achievers. The putrid resemblance of our societies is shocking. The author colours the world of Cassie’s surroundings with clear lines; no one escapes their role in the fallen kingdom. One is explicitly seen throughout the pages. Perhaps, the disentangled reader might wish to evade capture. After all, the majority of the characters in this story are crude—downright horrible—people. Who wants to be faced with the masked killer clown doused in makeup so uncomplimentary? Unfortunately, the extremes presented in the character makeup are not meant to be a friendly reminder. One can regard Cassie as an out-of-touch adult who has now been faced with the realism evoked in the hearts of the world. Regardless, some of her traits flare on the skin of readers. Ultimately, what Etter has done is present the viewer with a home movie; has masticated the familiar features of childhood into alien skin. We watch & listen as the plot thickens; will Cassie kill herself? Death to the self is not so different from death at the hands of a stranger though, we might be inclined to trust the hand we know. The black hole that gobbles the protagonist will litter stones & sticks into the city street, reminders along the curbs for those without homes. What is the reader meant to deduce from this narrative? Can one be inclined to be honest & truthful? Can one pursue truth in the theatrical extremes? This story explores what it means to be human in a time wherein being human is existing in two worlds. The icons of our profiles mirror only the lies we tell ourselves. The sidewalks know the thud of our step & the kneeling pressure of our psyche on our heels & bones. Who we are is perhaps not so different than the neighbour whom we watch rise up to the hillside to kill his own son or, so the great visionary joked. The magic of the mirror is that one’s mind might intentionally lie. Rainbows, butterflies, bumble bees, & honey are sweet nectar to the human species. Inside of us lies the hidden Hyde that saunters the night in broad day, waiting to play victim & villain to the self; the morosely intelligent, studied, & learned mind of humankind. Thank you to NetGalley, VERVE Books, & Sarah Rose Etter for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jul 24, 2023
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Jul 25, 2023
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ebook
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43
| 
| 0593297946
| 9780593297940
| 0593297946
| 4.39
| 15,753
| Mar 2020
| Feb 15, 2022
|
liked it
|
**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 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 an animal, mutilation of an animal, mental illness, feelings of intense overwhelm, & others. The narrator is allowed to guide the story at their whim. In some cases, the narrator is unreliable; a liar whose sole intention is to be heard. Other times, the speaker & weaver of tales swoops in from the shadows to tour the reader; a welcomed presence in the slew of the unknown. Within these contexts, the reader is able to gauge the flow of the story. When stories were the passing time of all hours of the day, the wealthy luxury of the long afternoon; the reader is inclined to wait, & wander the various city streets as the narrator speaks. The desire for a promised meaning, something mirroring the rationale of the modern reader might be all but abandoned. Is the story in our hands worth reading if it loses its way? My introduction to the story at hand was unintentional. I have been known to swipe clean the bookshelves from their trite & overzealous covers; in something of a game of cat & mouse, I seek out the cover art that will riddle the membrane with unease. In just such a fashion, I came upon this story. I was promised nothing yet, I found myself pondering the morale of a story without cause. Perhaps, I should berate myself for falling prey to a story which follows a narrator that simply wanted to transcribe a moment in time. Perhaps, I should berate the author for including such mundane material in the midst of a malarkey of marvel. The plot is practically nonexistent though, to say it was absent would be a lie. Its present singes on the cruelty of lost love. When Gonzalo meets Carla they have been fondling the confines of their youth, eager to shed the shells that bind them to capricious catechisms. Their relationship proves to be the story’s focal point; one it reminds the reader is the beauty of the story; love. As the narrative diverts its interest one develops a longing to return to the original focal point. One is suddenly cast into a journalistic endeavour without intrigue & scathes the cornerstone of an abandoned mining town in the hopes of encountering what was lost. This is crass, I acknowledge that. I promenade the periphery of the circular nature of this story & find myself at odds with my own feelings. When first embarking on my reading experience I found that I have no reason not to embellish my love for the story. Who writes about young love in such a disconnected fashion? Is the narrator a member of the cast of characters or, simply, as I am, a proxy for the warm light of a story much enjoyed? I trusted that the book would lead me through the lives of characters I cared about. It would be unjust to say that the book lied to me—it never explicitly told me what we would be reading about. I cannot help but feel disappointed. At once a casual tale of the bane of living existence, the first half of this book grew into a memorable account of two people & the lives they lived individually & then, together. I might not recommend this book to anyone. Certainly, the reader who enjoys the mundane tale of two young lovers broken up over their own paths, only to meet again, via a truly uneventful written approach, are few. The charm of the first half of this novel is in its tragically dull & plain language. Gonzalo is a poor boy who wants to write beautiful things in a language he has yet to master. Carla longs for intimacy & categorically evades its grasp by remaining incapable of understanding it. Together, they move about the tedium of life in ways that evoke within the reader nostalgia. A tinge of longing for the youth that saw them hopeful that life, in all its cycles & intrinsic habits, might be described so enthusiastically. I found a particular enjoyment & appreciation for the relationship that grew between Carla & Gonzalo in their adult years. Having lived so much of their own existence voyaging their own valleys, it felt like fate to see them reunited & under such strange circumstances. One is almost inclined to hope that their reunion was meant to be. The reader might forget that tragedy often accompanies the stories of fairy wishes & glass slippers; never far behind the prince charming is the whistling lagoon of bones & toil. The writer was able to invite readers to regard the awkward transition of this relationship through rose-coloured glasses. In so doing, they might also observe their own daily habits as magical. Forward down the laneway of adulthood, the characters mix up their emotions, thinking of themselves as fate-bound soulmates, the kind which is often sung about, when in reality, neither was meant to last in the life of the other. I was utterly entranced by this portion of the novel. An at once strange story to tell, I found that each of the passages held something of value. I do not know whether I learnt anything revolutionary or insightful but, I can say with confidence that I wish we had left off here. Though, I admit, that is rarely how stories go. After their breakup, Vincente—the young boy breaching the adult age of society—meets a woman whose name I wish I could continue to forget. Pru is an American journalist who anticipates the charity of all those whom she meets. I am being cruel; she is simply a sad woman roaming the countryside of Chile after the breakup of a relationship that was rather more the enamoured tangle of limbs one feels in nighttime fantasy. I am at a loss for a way in which I might translate my absolute dread, developed by reading the second half of this book. I marvelled at the page count seemingly diminishing as I rallied my forces to strike the pages over, all the while braced in a trance the likes of which there was no return. I make no apologies for this harsh sentiment—the second half of this book felt like an utter waste of time. Pru’s character was dull; she rummaged the same questions, self-loathing, & stuttered inability throughout each of her scenes. Why was I to care that she interviewed poets? There is no comfort felt by the tie to the conclusion, at which point Vincente & Gonzalo sit in tandem & discuss aspects of their past. I am inclined to believe that the second half of the novel stalled because there was no charm; there existed a woman strange to the country who misunderstood her surroundings, wrote about it, then published her findings when she was good & ready. Her backstory proved to be dramatic in the operatic sense of daytime television. I couldn’t find it in myself to care. There were multiple instances during the never-ending interviews wherein I flirted with the possibility of tossing the book over my balcony. I am glad that I sauntered until the end, not because any of what was said changed my mind or altered my feelings. Rather, I finished the book & that was all. Unfortunately, my lack of enjoyment outweighed the magical sentiments I encountered in the first half. I had tasted something unfortunate & sour; like coming to realize that the strawberry candy is actually frozen cough syrup rather than a smooth treat. This might not be the case for every reader but, I have a particularly difficult time forgiving wasted time & mine felt stripped from me. With that being said, there are so many aspects of this story to enjoy. The narrator is the writer & the observer; the reader is whoever is present to meet the parcel of language meant to be transmitted. I appreciated this dissociation from the story. The narrator encourages the reader to feel included in something that is ongoing which results in the events taking place to be doused in an intimate cologne; one that lingers in the nasal cavity despite the cough syrup lozenge searing the mouth. I remain unsure that I know who the ideal reader is. There is no doubt an audience of godly patience & infallible charity will welcome every aspect of this story as a tale worth being told. As for myself, I will retain the beginning as the moment that held promise & shall forget that the mountain slopped to the rocky hillside of banal verses & shallow rhymes, flowering the desolate cranium of the poet brave. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jul 22, 2023
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Jul 24, 2023
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Hardcover
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my rating |
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62
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| 4.83
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not set
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Jul 12, 2024
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61
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| 3.85
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liked it
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May 12, 2024
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May 12, 2024
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60
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| 3.81
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liked it
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Apr 27, 2024
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Apr 27, 2024
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59
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| 4.15
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liked it
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Apr 07, 2024
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Apr 07, 2024
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58
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| 3.86
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not set
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Apr 03, 2024
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57
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| 4.02
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not set
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Mar 15, 2024
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56
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| 3.96
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it was amazing
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Feb 08, 2024
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Feb 08, 2024
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55
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| 3.45
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liked it
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Jan 10, 2024
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Jan 10, 2024
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54
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| 3.81
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really liked it
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Jan 05, 2024
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Jan 05, 2024
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53
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| 3.85
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liked it
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Nov 21, 2023
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Nov 21, 2023
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52
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| 3.78
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it was amazing
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Nov 06, 2023
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Nov 06, 2023
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51
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| 4.03
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it was amazing
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Sep 24, 2023
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Oct 22, 2023
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50
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| 3.66
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liked it
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Sep 17, 2023
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Sep 21, 2023
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49
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| 4.09
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liked it
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Jul 10, 2023
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Sep 10, 2023
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48
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| 3.68
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it was amazing
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Sep 03, 2023
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Sep 03, 2023
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47
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| 3.58
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it was amazing
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Aug 25, 2023
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Sep 03, 2023
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46
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| 3.80
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really liked it
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Jul 31, 2023
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Aug 03, 2023
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45
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| 4.36
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really liked it
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Jul 14, 2023
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Aug 03, 2023
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44
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| 3.64
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really liked it
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Jul 24, 2023
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Jul 25, 2023
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43
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| 4.39
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liked it
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Jul 22, 2023
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Jul 24, 2023
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