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48
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| 1627555811
| 9781627555814
| 1627555811
| 3.99
| 10,335
| Mar 1924
| Jan 15, 2014
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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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May 13, 2024
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Paperback
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47
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| 1250874971
| 9781250874979
| B0BSD5JCH2
| 3.78
| 289
| Dec 14, 2022
| Dec 14, 2022
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not set
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Mar 29, 2024
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ebook
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46
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| B009ANF1VQ
| 4.02
| 611
| 1981
| Oct 20, 2011
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Mar 15, 2024
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Paperback
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45
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| 4.11
| 45
| 2015
| Jul 18, 2017
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1
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Feb 20, 2024
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44
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| 1466831162
| 9781466831162
| 1466831162
| 3.38
| 42
| Nov 13, 2012
| Nov 13, 2012
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Feb 20, 2024
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Kindle Edition
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43
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| 1250334160
| 9781250334169
| B0CPCWL7J3
| 3.33
| 101
| Jan 10, 2024
| Jan 10, 2024
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not set
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not set
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Jan 30, 2024
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Kindle Edition
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42
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| 3.33
| 18
| unknown
| Aug 21, 2018
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really liked it
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**spoiler alert** Imagine yourself as you had been; small, unsure, growing, & curious. Back in the time that was before, you had heard stories that po
**spoiler alert** Imagine yourself as you had been; small, unsure, growing, & curious. Back in the time that was before, you had heard stories that poisoned the simplicity of the life you thought you might have. Whether it be the tormented tale of a malevolent spirit under icy water or the marooning whistler in the woods; the devil at play was in all the stories that existed in your childhood. All the more frightening were these cautionary tales when they seeped into the colourful lair of your own imagination. Adan was like you once, an innocent child who was paralyzed by the creeping fear that accompanies the scrapping claws of the demon slithering behind bedroom walls. It was a stroke of luck that I fell into this story when I did. We near the month of spooky stories & whispering darkness, leaving me all the more eager to visit the parameters of intentionally crafted horror. I have not been shy to admit that there is a particular facet of Horror that I love above all others. Though I remain a supporter of the goblin king & the ancient vampire, I need something more patient; a story so foul & detrimental to inner peace, its rivulets masticate the easy grooves of the mind. During one such night—darkness looming over the city as I prepared myself for sleep—I realized the creaks & heaves in my ears were the introductions of fear. In many ways, the scariest story is the one that reminds the reader of themselves. The most vulnerable aspects of our person when displayed with shingles of overwhelm & suffocating despair leave a reader to tremble; these are things for night & solitude, not satires of stories & ancient phantasmic beings in the middle of the afternoon. If the reader in question has it in their heart to hold steady, to leave the intentional logic & analysis that follows them—keeps them on course—to the side of their mind, over the ear & near the temporal lobe; they will be met with the dead eyes of terror written in the most jejune way; easy on the eyes & quick to the heart. This story follows Adan, a man in his 30s, as he reconnects with a memory long since suppressed. He is a father now with children of his own but, once upon a time, he was a child too. During his youth, Adan heard stories of the Multo who haunted the grandmother of a friend. The children spoke freely of the Multo & claimed to see him everywhere & in everything. Readers will remember their own misgivings towards the paranormal. Whether or not readers believe in ghosts or the disembodied spirit that lurks alongside the traditional body of the living, this story will remind them what it felt like to know that they were unsafe. While I sat in the dark, like it was my first time hearing a ghost story, I wondered whether or not this particular narrative had the power to bring me back through the years to when, I too, had been sitting with my friends at sleepovers & standing around in school hallways sharing the tales of a haunted existence that differed from the one that I had been living in secret. Without exploring my person too profoundly I will express to you that my quest for a scary story does not originate from a place of apathy; I have known deep-rooted fear. Rather, I seek out the story that removes me from the chronic tremor of what I have known. Very rarely, if ever, has a story come to my door, wiggled itself into my mind, & spoken to me of a fear I can behold. Marzioli’s writing is not artistic in the same way as a garden of yearly sophistication. His writing is attainable & thick with ease; easy to understand & uncomplicated to grasp. Due to this fact, the reader is met with no struggle, their mind is welcomed into the story as it is told to them via a friend & friends do not need the flowery language of the river water to murky an already dreadful tale. I am inclined to believe that somewhere along the line, the reality of laying in bed wishing for slumber became all too vivid for me; I remember what it was like to be small. What is of particular intrigue in this plot is the dedication that accompanies the haunted being & his prey. Many people experience a despair that ripples their souls into fractions & tethers them to landmarks over the course of their lives. Adan’s life was mundane & normal, for all intents & purposes. He was happy & at peace with the person that he was & the loved ones around him. The reminder of the nights when he was stuck in a state whence no one could save him, opened the door to the disfiguring visage of disquiet. Simply put, the Multo that haunted the grandmother promised Adan that he would find him again. I will not lie, though I sat in the darkness listening to the quiet thuds that accompanied the Multo through the bedroom wall & into the room with the terrified Adan, I questioned the logistics of a ghost that would wait 20-plus years to haunt another person. This did not necessarily take me out of the worry that accompanied my own memories but, it reminded me that in all the most frightful things in the world, there is a murmur that stutters the sinus rhythm of the heart. Does something have to make logical sense to be scary? Does the villain's motive need to have analytic validity to be terrifying? For me, the answer has always been yes though, I have found my fascination to grow when faced with the horned beast that knows no reason. The Multo, real or not, represents the end of an era. Adan’s childhood is far behind him & he will never get it back. While doing his yard work, he feels the presence of a dark force around him, certain that he is being watched. For some readers, this scene might ring true to the alert of death; the passing of the grandmother. For other readers, this is simply the moment when our main character feels the most alone. There is no way to tell whether or not Adan’s fears are justified. If the Multo is real, his life is not hopeless. The grandmother figure in his youth lived an entire & long life filled with the echoing joys of laughter & love in her home & neighbourhood. I am left wondering if perhaps the demons that haunt us lie in the distant & unreachable sections of our minds for a reason. Ultimately, I find the story that scares me is the one that reminds me of myself. The experience of being caught off guard while listening to this in the night left me with a smile on my face & an eagerness to meet my match. Though there are questions that remain—as there always shall be—I am not disappointed by what I found alone in the dark with LeVar Burton’s melodious voice whirring a shushing performance of the story at hand. It might stand to reason that the uncontrollable familiar nature of the sibling who sleeps soundly, & the comfort of a known space, is the breeding ground for the most frightful & deranged terror of all. Adan, like many readers, will be asked to prepare himself, day in & day out, for the life in light & darkness that saunters the ageless Old Serpent to his feeding ground. If you would like to listen to 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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Oct 31, 2023
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Jan 25, 2024
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Audible Audio
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41
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| Liu, Ken
*
| unknown
| 4.17
| 234
| Oct 2011
| Mar 10, 2020
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** In a world in which our decisions are not entirely our own, a moral question makes its way to the forefront; What is free will? For
**spoiler alert** In a world in which our decisions are not entirely our own, a moral question makes its way to the forefront; What is free will? For many people, freedom exists as a metaphorical concept. One is perhaps exceedingly lucky to never have to think of freedom at all. For others, freedom exists as a Mona Lisa; a beautiful thing to observe from the other side of the Q-Cord. There may exist a neutral stance; a place right snug in the middle populated by people whose lives revolve around the decisions they make to either obtain or denigrate the concept & reality of freedom, both for themselves & for others. Readers are not necessarily required to have sat with this conundrum before reading this story. The premise itself engages a thought process that will cleave readers into their categories; the free, the serfs, the philosophers, & the manipulators. The main character in this book has made his choice. While the world around him begins to offer an alternative to death—life everlasting as a disembodied voice—he opts for traditional mortality. His family is broken at the seams as members ignore his warnings; selecting to die a death neither noble nor understood. The logistics of their decision are not shared with the reader, one is left to understand that no character has a settled understanding of what it means to bury a body while transferring the soul. In this world, the norm is a deranged antiquity the likes of which human beings would rather shed than ever experience again. The premise of this story poses the question I asked at the beginning of this review though, it approaches it from a different angle. Is the main character wrong for wanting to keep tradition alive? The people that he has loved throughout his life make their decisions & yet, he holds true to the belief that they were not in their right minds to make it, unless they made the same decision as he did. Does this constitute a reality any different than our own circumstances? I found myself wondering how I might feel if placed in identical circumstances to the main character. He bore witness to his mother’s decision being overturned because her husband didn’t want her to die a death of finality; his daughter ran away to find herself among those who would choose omnivorous apathy rather than the carnivorous decomposition of our skin. All the while, what we know—our knowledge—is all the liberty we have; our body goes away & so do we. Readers might find a different way of looking at this story depending on their views of the body & the spirit. If there were any time wherein religious dogma played an active part in a person’s life, this would be one of them. For the main character, the death of the body is the final death, there exists nothing else nor should there. For others, the death of the physical body is but one step into a future realm of existence. We come to a cornerstone; What is the right system of belief? The secret antagonist of this story is the thief of choice. Without all the information how can one make the right decision? For the main character, the remaining state of consciousness that exists in place of his loved ones is nothing but a lie; a fraudster in lieu of intimate human connection. He cannot accept that the people he knew so deeply would think or act as the disembodied voices do. I am inclined to believe him. We do not become more intelligent by disconnecting from the world. This lingering state of vocal fry would not grant us any more depth than life in an earth-bound body. We kid ourselves by thinking that by dissecting our experience from the land, we might grow tall & profound in an Eden all our own. Ultimately, I am still a bit conflicted on my stance & that is not because I do not have one—this review has been very clear in presenting my opinions. However, I am also of the belief that people’s choice of prophet & promise should be respected. Though it might be hard to accept that his loved ones have been made lesser, or different, than the people he knew them to be; this is the state of the world; this life takes & changes, altering indefinitely & beyond plausible recognition. What would happen if this new state of being was the one in which we experience peace? In all the raving rambling thunders of the clouds & chilling acidic drops of the rain, humanity has found itself seeking the protected & immersive experience of life. Following sentence structures that are tangible & sticky like weeds on a vine; the premise poses a coin toss via the lottery. Would you give up your freedom for an eternity unfathomable to humankind? If your days were stripped like sawdust, what would you do with a newfound existence marooned from the beauty & despair of our mundanely heart-palpitating essence? If you would like to listen to 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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Nov 03, 2023
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Jan 25, 2024
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Podcast
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40
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| 3.75
| 24
| May 10, 2022
| Feb 07, 2023
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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 grief, suicide, the death of a loved one, & others. I have visited this story twice. It brought me into the room with immense sadness cocooned between my shoulder blades. On both such occasions I questioned myself; What drew blood from the stone? I pride myself on asking questions while I read & it is important to me to find words to describe my experience with a story & yet, in both instances, it seems to me; that the river, soothing & strong, of such a delicate nature, fostered my journey down the waterway & no effort to canoe a row would explain away the pull of its practice. When readers are met with such stories they are luckier than the clover hidden away in the field, undisturbed by ravens. One is met with the beauty beheld in storytelling & its mass impact on the species when nestled into idioms of such a delicate nature. The author did not employ any flowers in his garden of sentences & structured timelines; his story spoke depth into itself. Through the dedicated hum of his expression, the premise became the real nature of human life. In its essence, this is a story about a man who is trying to write. He meets a strange elderly man in the town in which he is staying during his hiatus. The elderly man is kind & eccentric in the timidest manner, & our narrator becomes enthralled with he who claims to possess the ability to travel through time. Beyond this relationship, the story explores the nature of impact that our memories hold over our person. Whether these events circumvent the person we wish to be & how we grow past times of old. I will not shy away from admitting that I find the task of reviewing this story daunting. The plot is very simple & yet, listening to the tranquil sound of the decomposing world around these characters as the brain died, was so moving I was dethroned of my habitual stability. LeVar Burton’s narration of stories remains among my all-time favourites. He inserts such a tender tone to reveal intimacy in language; I remain ever grateful for his efforts. While enrapturing in its simplicity, this story is rather morbid. Everyone in this story dies. That is not to say that I think of death as the destroyer of worlds, but rather, this knowledge keys the lock of elemental confidentiality between the reader & the narrator, one would be validated in feeling winded by the end. This leaves me to wonder at the purpose of this story. In all things natural & profound, the keen observer grovels for their place. Readers may interpret this story as a romantic wandering in which the death of the time-traveller is no sad thing. His suicide is but the finality of this memory. On the other hand, one might read this tale & wonder how gravelly we are impacted by the obelisk of an Atlantis in our minds. This review will not seek to lay claim to a superior deduction; I am more inclined to feel comfort in the knowledge that the world & its people will absorb finality in ways that will grant both eternity & closure to them. When trying to express what it was about this story that brought me to the forefront of such emotions I find I am inadequately equipped to express my own inclinations. The tendency to feel a connection to the time-traveller was not adopted by me in my reading. Every character exists as a unit independent of the other. Their plight was something I was both apathetic & sympathetic toward. I knew that this story would end & yet, though my heart halted its palpitated sadness, their death did not feel like an eternal parting. In the next chapter of this life, just as the reader saw with the time-traveller, something else will be living in plenitude; a garden is blooming, rain clouds are snuggling, & people are stationing themselves in the bizarre exchange that is our maladapted community. I am left to feel, as might have been the author’s intention, that the reader is not meant to feel the weight of desecration. The world ends, yes—this is true. The world ends many times for many people, in a multitude of ways, in actuality & metaphorically. However, the eyes that lock in contact or the perfumed aroma of a silky serendipitous apposition, leave me with more hope than despair, that tomorrow, the world that vanishes around me like a painful; an old; a titanous; or perhaps just unexceptional memory, one that is not meant to debase the fulsome crevices of the mind, will call into the wind, a whistle to set the soul at ease. As I am not one to revel in the serrated edge of my person; existing with a wounded need to remain unknown; the villainy in my sudden sadness will remain submerged in the soil of my mind. In that same breath, I reiterate the ease with which the reader might notch themselves to the timber of the falling wood; one does not need to be explicit to be clear. Ultimately, what makes this story so memorable is its gentle sway. On the surface, this is a story about love. At its core, this story remains the tomb in which love goes to die; the heart of humankind. Both of these truths exist in tandem, allowing the other to flourish like the rising dawn adorning a soft sun. Readers who endeavour to decipher this story when it is time will be met with a traveller whose Odysseus’ eagerness for life & lore brought him to the foreign shore of his own life where he was, at last, approached by Charon. It is lovely to stand alone in a room & feel the walls around you ache with the hum of a fictional story in which the layers of life unknown creep in tangible fashion along your skin, piercing the tender flesh like the scabby wounds of the boulder carried by the eternally remembering man on the hill. If you would like to listen to 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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Nov 24, 2023
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Dec 24, 2023
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Audiobook
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39
| 
| unknown
| 3.72
| 151
| unknown
| unknown
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** In art, one finds the monstrous stroke of a pendulum oscillating feathers & gunk from the brush stroke of the unknown. There is scar
**spoiler alert** In art, one finds the monstrous stroke of a pendulum oscillating feathers & gunk from the brush stroke of the unknown. There is scarcely any logic behind the malevolence of a painting that sucks the soul from voyeuristic patrons; no moral to be gained from the tremendous overhaul that exists in the looping ledgers of old. When readers are met with the gore of a decimated figure, they may be inclined to pour colour into the darkened lines of the shapes that cloud their minds as they seek out a clue to the riddle of a story with no clean end. Within the old home of a friend, our narrator comes to stay while post-mortem proceedings take place. The house is something out of a dream, more closely resembling the flourishing wealth of extroversion & luxury; meant purely for entertainment & reputation. The main character is a lover of her friend who, herself, has lost someone dear. The two find themselves near the end of a transitional period of mourning that will lead them down a new road. I should not like to say that a pursued life after death, especially in the case of our two heroines, is an adventure. I am more of the belief that the end of the life of a loved one reveals the terrible portrait of the claustrophobic tomb that it is. To begin at the start, our narrator adopts the reflective tone of someone who has overcome the story at play. Readers soon lose their hold on logic as Jackson’s story delves further into the absurd. One will need to accept that the backward glance of the narrator is not as it seems; one will need to trust that the author has something in mind. Having been a fan of Jackson for many moons, I was pleased to discover that LeVar Burton had brought this story to life with the dull numbing ache of a broken heart & the sullen enthusiasm of a veteran reader. After her husband’s passing Y—the close friend of our narrator—is set to spend a final night in her marital home before moving forward in her life. She sleeps under a painting that is in disrepair; old & rather flimsy, she fears it will crush her in her sleep. The next morning, she is gone. Her vanishing leads others to the professional opinion that she committed suicide but, our narrator knows better. She waits for her in the room with the painting until she sees Y appear, exasperated & troubled, waving her down from the tiny laneway in the art. What ensues is a captivating exercise in longing. Both women are in the company of those who appear to be ghosts—Y’s grandfather & an aunt, both long since departed & deeply insane as a consequence of what might appear to be their captivity. I found the descriptions given to the house inside the painting to be deeply perturbing. It was not so much that the house might be haunted or that the painting is filled with ghosts that troubled me but, rather, the reality of having a consciousness intact while trapped eternally without hope of a saviour. Though this story has no clear ending, I am not of the belief that the purpose of telling stories is for them to be cleanly ended & ready for the consumption of all. Rather like the characters, many readers may be cloistered in various parts of the story without escape. The death of a loved one or the entrapment in a tomb of living nature; the disappearance of a friend; or the possible suicide of someone who was once cheerful; this story presents the total inability of humanity to be unscathed by its experiences. There is a key intimacy that is hidden within these passages, one needs only the patience to arrive at the destination meant special for them. I admit that I thought rather tirelessly about the bodies of the ghosts being tied to a tree in the forest of the painting for all eternity. Were these figures evil or were they simply a product of a magical moment that saw them burdened by their victimhood? Ultimately, the story that we tell ourselves, as the reader, may not align with the actual story we have read. Did the women escape? Did they sacrifice someone else in a bid to regain their freedom? Why was the painting left hanging alone on the wall? What made the painting magic? Just as we become nestled in the familiar spaces of words that speak seemingly, directly to us, so too does the story transform into a whispering tale of gore the likes of which another reader will interpret entirely differently. Overall, a story might only be as powerful as its reader. Granting words permission to enrapture the distinctive sense of self; making the listener a foolish grotesque whence fear pours out; this is a story about the reader & the women who encouraged trickery with simple letters & godly patience. If you would like to listen to this story, please visit this •LINK• ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Dec 04, 2023
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Dec 24, 2023
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Audiobook
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38
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| 3.82
| 3,447
| 1906
| unknown
|
really liked it
|
**spoiler alert** The concept of haunting is understood to mean something dreadful. Depending on the recipient, a recollection of terror might suffice
**spoiler alert** The concept of haunting is understood to mean something dreadful. Depending on the recipient, a recollection of terror might suffice to confirm that indeed, ghosts do exist. On the other hand, the mind of the logically primitive demands dedication; facts & equations should be included to assure the listener that the entirety of this story cannot be left up to the orator's ineptitude. Many readers of Horror find ways to deconstruct stories—I am one of them. It feels so much more intimate when an author is writing from a dual perspective—two stories for the price of one. The reader is granted the gastric & antiquated monster that shocks the sense & gifted the monstrous nibble of webbed scales that will remain with them long after the fear of ghouls subsides. Readers will certainly receive no judgment from me; whether one chooses a story that mirrors the world of their own or in which the tale of romance is gifted with promise—the purpose is entirely to their discretion. When Wells wrote this short story I wondered about the reader he had in mind. I wonder if, perchance it was to himself that he dedicated the final proverb; the closure of all that can never be had again. To ponder this stance is a neutral undertaking. I should not dissuade any reader from selecting this story. Rather, I find myself wondering who this story is for, at its core, because to dissect its meaning is to reveal the jewel of the reader, rather than the inner workings of the tale itself. On a day like any other, a friend of a friend came around & shared something with the man we have in common, the narrator. Lionel Wallace had a story to tell & to our friend, he shared the moment that changed his young life, many moons ago. In its simplicity, Lionel came across a door hidden in a stowaway street. He entered & to his great surprise, he was met with a fantastic slew of magical beings, all eager to see him, all eager to play his favourite games. Our dear friend sat & listened, having known Lionel for many years by this time & he wondered what would entice a person to share with another the particulars of the end of their normal life—the existence that is prefaced socially by being the acceptable way of life. The reader listens silently as Lionel’s narrative sees him voyage through the years of his life always seeking to find that which was lost to him. His youth was directed by the dictatorial strict nature of his father & the subsequent decades found him mirroring the tendencies he adopted in his youth; always looking to make his father proud. Early on, the reader might begin to wonder what this story is about. Lionel is a child when the world behind the door is revealed to him. The logistics of this entryway are never known to Lionel & are therefore never shared with us. The reader is left to wonder if every child has their door or if, subsequently & in turn, children parade through the doorway when it is their time. Once again, I believe that the author was writing two stories. Though this is not a scary tale of monsters & terror, Lionel is a person who is haunted by an experience. Throughout his life, he sought out the door & was even subjected to physical violence & harassment as a consequence of sharing his experience with classmates. Certainly, the oddity in this story is that the room behind the door was a wonderful experience. Readers may be inclined to believe that all of this magic hides a more malicious intent; the storybook of Lionel’s life revealed to him through the crevices of great & decapitating trauma. I am rather more of the mind that this small glimpse in time haunted Lionel because it was the only one of its kind he ever experienced. One must empathize with Lionel & to the best of their abilities, call on their own experiences with a castrated memory of old. Suppose there was a time in your youth that left you feeling as though there was a part of you that was left behind. In this scenario, you might have been any age—the time of day matters more to you than it might to a critic. In this memory, you remain alive & boisterously tied to your body which has since moved on. These moments are not always kind. Sometimes, these mirrored Changelings act as saviours to the part of us that was to survive the long haul journey through the years. This moment you recall is similar to Lionel’s. Perhaps you were met with a toy or the feeling of your toes between the sand; the ruffling of bedsheets, the tinge of an autumnal rain; we tend to experience these things in a state of overwhelm, were it as though a part of us knew we would be fractioned off. I do not find it difficult to understand Lionel. His desperate attempts to tell his story to the narrator feel claustrophobic & marvellous in ways that life has the possibility of being. The dreamy sense that he holds towards time & how few short hours remain to him as he allows the door to pass into another memory read as deplorably sad. We come now to a curve in the road; a winding bend that prefaces the demise of the orator behind the final curtain. One is perhaps disenchanted by this point, believing that Lionel is mad; there is no magic door wherein a person lives freely of all the pressures that encumber their little life. Lionel’s life was a good one, or so a bystander might remark. He had a successful career & was on the path to reaching even higher levels of success in government. He went to a prestigious school & found the approval of his father to feel just as wonderful as he believed it would. Yet, with each passing day, he was reminded of the world that he left behind. One cannot fault him for this. Just as we all have that part of ourselves that lives in memory within our mind—the place where we live on still, far from the body—so too does Lionel crave the jointure of himself. He had been allowed to visit the door once before, many times in fact, & he refused. It was hidden from his view when he sought out the door with intention. The door seemed to show itself to Lionel when it felt his time was previously spent rushing to an engagement or following the hands on the clock to make it on time to a promised rendezvous. These episodes of serendipity wherein one party seems to hold the wand to magically alter the adventure ahead felt authentic in a way that readers will recognize with the gumption of personal experience. The way forward is the only choice to make. For Lionel, this meant forgetting his heart’s desire to perform as a man in the world, the way his father told him he should. Perhaps you have come to this part hoping for a dedicated reveal; a clear descriptor of what the door represents. My initial conclusion is that the door represents innocence. How Lionel experiences the world inside the door leaves me to feel that he had the opportunity to view what might be interpreted as his innocence being put into a book with pictures & kept safely behind a door which no one else will ever have access to. One sees how his life changes after spending time with the magical creatures & his person is never the same; every encounter with the door, even in passing, leaves him with a sickening nostalgia for what he cannot regain once lost. Yet, with that being said, I also accept that the door could be anything. For readers who are inclined to decode every activity within the door & for readers who believe it to be a rather morbid rupture from life’s tedium; the door could at once be the malaise we carry or the finality of our person via any number of events. As with the recall exercise from earlier in this review, this special place that is held by the readers themselves holds the meaning of the door. Certainly, for Lionel, it might have been a case of purity or the possibility of viewing life through the lens of tenderness. However, in my mind, his final moments in life reveal the wound that lies where his innocence toward the world once nestled. Ultimately, the author has done a formidable job of welcoming every type of reader. The relief one might feel when sharing a savoury secret or, perhaps a tender flesh of a memory, calls to the better nature of all those who have been allowed the opportunity to engage freely with someone else. The narrator in this story acts as a confidant but, our friend is also recalling the events to us in something of a bid to shake the sadness from losing his friend, Lionel. Maybe we are supposed to comfort him; caress the parts of his mind that illustrate the dead body of his companion as he last knew him. Alternatively, we act as Pandora’s box; the reader holds the sullied ligaments to free the storyteller from their pain, if only for a moment. What I appreciated the most from this story was the seamless writing. I found myself in familiar quarters, immediately engaged with being the gentle listener as I was sure to hear something outlandish & painful. What I was met with instead was humanity; our all too common grievances with the nature of our existence paired with the monstrously loving hearts of our peers, when given the chance to trust in them & in return, be gifted the comfort of raindrops to the river. If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK• ...more |
Notes are private!
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not set
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Oct 24, 2023
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Dec 24, 2023
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Kindle Edition
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37
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| 0525940456
| 9780525940456
| 0525940456
| 3.33
| 11,643
| 1995
| Oct 01, 1995
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did not like 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 violence, assault, violent crime, & others. There are authors whose work carries the weight of their reputation with each of their stories—they can hardly help it. Whether or not their reputations are positive is entirely out of their control. Readers will possibly endeavour to read an older piece of work from a beloved author to gauge the trajectory of their efforts. Whereas, in other cases, the roster that composes their body of work acts as a reassurance that a reader’s dislike is valid & even, correct. I admit that, for myself, there are authors whose work I delve into in the hopes of finding what it is other readers love. I cannot say that I am inclined to read something with the demon of hate seething through my veins—I simply do not have the time. However, authors such as Oates are mysteries to me. I have heard their name whispered in between the shelves of books or via a stray news article yet, I have seldom found the spines of their efforts among all the others. At the time at which I am writing this review, I have read two (2) short stories by Oates, both of which I have found to be utterly disappointing. Coming into this story I was eager to find the reason for the author’s success. Do not mistake me in this statement, I am not a reader who feels a complex superiority or who believes themselves the keeper of all holy sacred goodness in literature. Rather, I am always eager to meet a good story wherever I might find it. The title of this tale made me uncertain about what I would find, as I am not a fan of the tormented existence of the undead. Unfortunately, what Oates has done, once again, is take a very real & horrific event & make it her own quaint story, sealed lovingly with her initials. This story is about Jeffrey Dahmer, or if you are so inclined Richard Ramirez, though Oates will never deliberately write that. The main character is first introduced in a very coy way, almost as though to encourage the reader to feel a pull towards his awkwardness. Rapidly, his character is divulged in rivulets; slowly the reader learns that he is a violent man, a man who has assaulted someone, a man who is a sexual predator, & a man whose intentions are horrific. Perhaps there are readers for whom this setting will be new. The essence of this story might seem rather quaint in its approach to violent crimes. However, readers who are aware of the case & the criminal may feel as I do, disgusted. I can appreciate that a story exists in every corner of the world & within every human experience & action. However, what I cannot support is the repetitive nature of Oates’ theft of the experiences of people for whom the crimes committed by violent individuals, ruined the lineage of their lives. What left her feeling inclined to write this story? What brought her to the precipice of copying the events of Dahmer’s life & crimes in a way that left them only slightly shadowed by fiction? I find her desire to write this story, & others, such as “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” (1966) uncouth, disrespectful, & uninspired. This story does nothing but plagiarize the criminal. The main character’s motives are never explored because Oates is not writing a unique perspective of a character whom she has agency over, she is writing about a man who was extremely & graphically abusive to numerous people. She is unable to quantify the mind of madness & she does not try, making her short story very boring. Her writing is not good enough to stand on its own, the story goes nowhere because readers already know this story—this is a story about real, life & yet the author has found it in themselves to cutely adopt the fictional perspective in a very minimal way. My perspective on this story is tinged with disgust, I am uneasy about this author’s repeated decision to capitalize on violent crimes to suit her desire to rhyme. Yet, for argument’s sake, I will reflect on the story neutrally as well; for the benefit of readers & myself. The first question I must ask is, for whom is this story? Writers might not always have a desire to publish a story in the traditional sense. Perhaps, Oates had a desire to work through her displeasure of the world around her & her choice of therapy was to fictionalize the serial crimes of a mentally deranged individual. Perhaps, the author felt safer removing the man’s name from his person & by so doing, stripping him of his agency & freedom to re-offend. Readers may wish to grant Oates some level of empathy; she was alive during the period when these crimes were taking place, this person is her countryman, & she might feel hurt that her home houses horror. However, even if a reader accounts for the personal ties that the author has towards these events, the story itself is poorly formatted. From a structural perspective, Oates has given the reader nothing but the alliteration of bad things. The main character is violent & mean; he is cruel & withheld; he is morose & misunderstood. Why is he this way? Why does the main character feel the need to create a dungeon in his basement? Why does the main character target men? What influence do his sexual inclinations have on his inability to live them earnestly? What influence does society have over this man & his sexual orientation? What brought the main character to the brink of physical conflict? What physical attributes render the main character a trustworthy individual? The author does not explore the depth of the character she brings to the page. Are readers meant to draw such stark parallels between her character & the real villain that they insert him onto the page? If so, this is lazy storytelling. Throughout the story, Oates simply recounts events without tying them to the main character. He lives in a boarding house & yet, no essence to this might be tied to his person; What reflections does he draw by being in constant proximity to people he wishes to physically overpower? What level of self-restraint is required for him to not harm everyone in the house? Ultimately, the story felt poorly developed & like a cheap attempt to garner attention for the horrors that other people were subjected to. Having read two (2) stories of a similar nature I cannot help but feel unfavourably about the author. No skill or dedication of time & effort went into drafting this jaunt. I cannot say for certain that any level of thought or self-awareness was included in the process of publication either. Unfortunately, as always, the victims of violent crimes are left to rot on the sidelines & under the earth. Their lives are as poorly cared for as the carcass that is the words on Oates’s fingertips; uninspired, trite, ramblings of a vapidness unmatched. If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK• ...more |
Notes are private!
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not set
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Nov 30, 2023
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Nov 30, 2023
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Hardcover
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36
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| 3.95
| 2,642
| 1946
| 1946
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** In their later years, the siblings came to find that a house is only a home, in so far as you verse the trunks of wood & slabs of ma
**spoiler alert** In their later years, the siblings came to find that a house is only a home, in so far as you verse the trunks of wood & slabs of marble with parts of yourself. Before this realization dawned on them, their life was mundane, almost vapid. With days spent seeking French literature in the heart of Argentina in 1939; knitting colourful & useful garments; & spending their mornings cleaning the abode, the tedium of the hours was not lost on them. Readers are met with a very short story indeed. Clocking in at three (3) pages exactly, this story marks itself by the fallacy of logic; the characters are alone in the house because nothing else has been seen. Perhaps the mots of dust & debris count as entities that peruse the empty house though, I rather doubt that. The siblings roam free of others & in their freedom, they are weighed by the final lap of their genetic family tree made in the home. This last bit counts a great deal in the grand scheme of things though, readers might certainly blaze past this information, a decision I do not begrudge them. It is tricky to read stories sparse in the traditional sense. Cortázar appears to have wanted to say something more to himself than to an unknown reader. This is not necessarily a bad thing, though, it makes the deciphering of such a story bromidic. What can this review possibly state in earnest truth that the author has not revealed himself? What might I decipher from the numbing simple verse that is not already clear to all readers? I ponder these questions even now but, I put much weight into my ability to answer them after I finished reading this story. After all, the exercise of reviewing—posing a critique & philosophizing the nature of texts—is part of the reason I am here. I do not think it is wrong to be in agreement with readers who took nothing from this story. The siblings wake up one day to sounds coming from the other side of the house. They lock all the doors & soon find that the mysterious intruders have colonized territory in the great mansion in mere hours. Who are these beings? Are they people or pests? The author does not reveal these details to the reader & therefore asks them to denote who they might fear the most; a roach or a human face. The deluge of panic overtakes the siblings as they worryingly seek to evade the intruders. They leave parts of themselves behind in their raving escapes; from room to room their favourite items & prized possessions are abandoned with near disregard as they lunge for the doorways. The purpose of this story is to maul over the details. Why was the one sibling always seeking French literature? Why did he think books were more valuable than knitting? Is it accurate to believe that something you can revisit holds more value than a project finished & never ours to behold again? Why did the colour & texture of the wool not matter to the sibling who spent all her time using it? Was she right in investing all her time in twiddling her fingers as though the hands of the clock would reveal themselves to her more swiftly? I am not a great fan of stories that are not meant for general consumption. I am left feeling rather sullen & sad that pieces of written words were shared with me almost to the demise of the story itself. I do not know that this is a story that will ever make much sense to any reader because there is no point in making a clear & secure conclusion; anything is possible with no muscle-hugging bone. There is no intimacy to this story though one reads an account of despair. Rather than find ways to link the reader to the experiences of the siblings, Cortázar seems to have simply wanted to write. What haunts the house is the worry & responsibility to survive when one has nothing to live for. With complacent natures & cool demeanours, the siblings roam around a castle drenched in weeds. The perversity of isolation needles through the pages like bristles on a starving tongue. Readers are at liberty to decide whether or not the characters are deserving of their sympathies. Is the tenderness of kin—the pendulum of beats, rapt in ache—necessary for the settled breath of life; to be absorbed through the hours of an empty life, once moored with an enduring ambition? 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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Oct 08, 2023
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Oct 30, 2023
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35
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| unknown
| 3.75
| 342
| unknown
| unknown
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** As an author, Vonnegut marks himself among the most reputable. Readers of a dedicated nature & constitution rave of prose that trans
**spoiler alert** As an author, Vonnegut marks himself among the most reputable. Readers of a dedicated nature & constitution rave of prose that transports the mind of the consumer with a swift ease rarely found in letters. I have opted for Vonnegut’s short stories more frequently in the past couple of years. I seek out more short stories in a bid to broaden my horizons & have found his own to riddle an intrigue inside me that I am not altogether certain I enjoy. It is no secret that writing in short form is a talent, one I will be the first to admit admiring in others with a wishful fancy. For a short story to succeed one needs to have a very clear idea of the story one endeavours to tell. Vonnegut’s approach to stories adopts a bloated upheaval. The introduction reminds readers that they do not in fact have any real inkling as to where the narration will take them; the author simply asks for our patience as the sentences enumerate phrases into paragraphs. In the case of this story, waiting for a conclusion felt both appropriate & disappointing. The premise of this story is simple; a man comes into a high & growing monetary inheritance after the passing of his paternal grandfather. Herbert Foster seems utterly uninterested in the money that might come his way when he cashes in the bonds that have been sitting with increasing value, year after year. He lives a very normal life with his wife, Alma, & together they make do with what they have. Readers will be required to invest time & therefore energy into Hebert’s character for this story to carry any weight. As I was listening to this audio format I was brought along without much effort on my part. Perhaps as a consequence of my passive listening, I found the stakes rather low. Why should I care whether or not Herbert wanted to cash in on the thousands of dollars that now belonged to him? If one is paying close enough attention, one sees the ways in which fast money—quickly acquired—has a tendency to result in a scarcity of rational decisions. That is not to say that the root of all evil is dollar bills. However, one cannot know for certain whether or not Herbert believes that to be true. The reader may certainly pose judgment on Herbert’s course of action—that is, after all, their role. In essence, one is led to the reveal that Herbert does not want to accept the money for fear of having to give up the secret life he is leading. There are multiple ways of interpreting this decision, none of which are particularly revolutionary. Herbert has married a woman who resembles his late mother in almost incomprehensible ways. Throughout his youth, his mother made sure that Herbert understood that music & passions—the pastimes adopted by his dead-beat father—were out of the question. Herbert was kept under his mother’s thumb & though he felt a longing to hear the melodies of sound play from his fingers, she took away his freedom of music. It is no great mystery therefore that Herbert lived a life in shadows. The wife that he loved was a simple placeholder for the mother who controlled every aspect of his life. This is definitely a sad state of affairs but it leaves me with no desire to pose judgment. It’s not ideal to lie to your spouse. I do not think that any adult who has put effort into maintaining a relationship should be acting in secret contrary to the well-being of their partner & their relationship as a whole. However, Herbert is no different than any of the thousands of people who have internalized trauma & have no way of understanding how to deal with it. The freedom that the money would allow him would mean he would need to confess to being similar to his father who abandoned him—this alone would be a huge toll to pay in order to broach the rest of the situation. The weekends away from his spouse allow him the time to be an individual free from the confines of his inner stifles. The reader will need to decide whether or not they believe this to be a worthwhile thing to lie about. Should we omit parts of ourselves for the well-being of our relationships? If we are living fractioned off from the whole, are we ultimately not living authentically at all? What I found to be tedious about this story is that it is so simple. The simplistic nature of the plot, the moral conundrum, & the pushy greedy longing of a complete stranger render this a tale as old as time. I am not mad at Vonnegut for writing about a man whom we are liable to meet every day; Herbert could be the reader as much as the person who enters the bus after us. The clear approach to this common conundrum may allow readers the opportunity to properly reflect. Would we take a gift that would alter our lives? Would we welcome a change that would require us to transform beyond ourselves? Whatever our personal philosophy or values, Herbert prefers life as it is. No one is harmed in the aftermath of his decision though, I would wager to say that Herbert harbours a great level of self-hatred to continuously shadow himself among collective society & the person who loves him the most. This leads us back to the original question; Can we be loved, treasured, respected, & present if only a fraction of our person is seen, known, & understood? If you would like to listen to 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 27, 2023
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Oct 22, 2023
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34
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| 1782279547
| 9781782279549
| 1782279547
| 3.42
| 1,295
| Jul 26, 2013
| Jul 27, 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 the death of a loved one, grief, adultery, body mutilation, physical violence, parental neglect, self-harm, violence affecting a child, sexual abuse, elder abuse, & others. As is so often the case, one’s experience with a story is entirely subjective. Fujino writes as an omniscient translator of traditional horror; the torment of everyday life a banal yet utterly terrifying reality each much affront. In this collection, she has decided upon three (3) tales of tenderly mundane terror: a novella that presents the demure of an egotistical maniac; a short story that explores elder abuse; & finally a short story that lingers on the psychotic. Readers are either in or they are out; outside of the haunted house & the neighbourhood filled with the indistinguishable. Ultimately the stories are the purely paranormal essence of what is scary when we fail to understand. Unfortunately, the vast panorama of the phantasm does not linger for all eternity when the reader is given the chance to question whether or not they should be afraid at all. Nails and Eyes In this novella, Fujino’s characters are cathartic shadows. The story follows the narrator as she dictates the demise of her stepmother or, rather, the woman with whom her father was having an affair & who came to live with them after the narrator’s mother died. I was rather uninterested in the logistics of this stance; whether or not the narrator was actually omnipotent or simply a child with an ego problem—this story functions in so far as the reader allows themselves the opportunity to listen to the ramblings of a child who very clearly is immature in every sense of the word. From some point in the future or, maybe from no place understood by humans at all, the narrator recounts all the events that took place, leading up to the physical assault she carried out against the woman who lived with her. The graphic nature of her crimes—i.e. pealing open eyelids to scrape the iris & orbs with chips of nail polish—would have been better suited for a more fulsome buildup. The author introduces the relationship between the daughter (aged 3) and her new parental figure (early 30s) as a slow-burning fire in the middle of a haunted wood. Readers spend so much time going over practically mundane occurrences that the final blow of violence comes as a disappointment. This story is not written in a way that is daunting or riddled with tension. I was utterly immersed in a domestic drama with a narrator who was an egomaniac—constantly droning on about her perfect vision. I was surprised to find out that this was actually a Horror. That being said, I understand the genre to be a fast plain of a multitude of facets. This story had nothing more than tedium to accompany the pacing. I enjoyed the habitual torment of realization that dawned on the new maternal figure as she discovered the blog of the deceased. I liked how viscerally her emotions translated to the dull wording on the page. Her character was troubled in a nearly apathetic manner & for this, I was grateful. She was written with the ease of unexpected normalcy; she was nothing special, she expected nothing in return & understood that at the end of her life, she would die. Yet, all this time, she was squirming inside an egg that she struggled to crack for one moment of bliss. This story functions well as an introduction piece to the genre. For readers who are uneasy with graphic violence, the author introduces the gore of an almost unbelievable situation in a disconnected way. The events that take place make practically no sense. How much did this child weigh to be able to crush the ribs of a fully grown adult? Was the woman totally asleep—she is described as having closed her eyes. The child’s nails were already nearly non-existent; how then did she have daggers for nails after they were further filled down? I appreciate the willful belief that one could develop a skill at pealing nail polish clean off a fingernail but this has more to do with the quality of the polish than the actual mouth or fingers of the person in question. Alas, this is not the story in which the reader’s logical ponderings are needed or relevant as they do nothing but denigrate the magical rambling of the premise at hand. I find this a rather hard pill to swallow. After all, the premise relies wholeheartedly on the reality of the events. One needs to be able to appreciate the tedium of everyday life to understand that death is certainly a curtain swipe away. Regardless, my questions remain. I am left apathetic as a consequence. Ultimately, the plot holds gems of an especially cruel nature. The narrator, though crude in her existence & responsible for the death of her mother; is still a child. She was three (3) years old at the time of the events. She might have perfect vision according to the Snellen chart but she remains unable to gauge the world around her; she murders her own chances of growing strong by biting the hands that feed her. Therein lies the true terror; a noted future starvation, a gullied & sullen intestinal track wrought & vapid as a consequence of one’s own choices. What Shoko Forgets Shoko is not her real name though; the reader will be forgiven for forgetting this along the way. The main character is an elderly woman who is being kept in a physical therapy hospital until she is better. What ails her is perhaps the slow steps of the end of her days. She spends her time in a fog, sometimes able to recollect tired pieces of information such as her maternal role but, for the most part, she sits in solitude, haunted by a young man whose reasons for roaming the halls are unknown. This story is crass, exploring the churching reality of an all-too-prominent unspoken truth; abuse often happens right under our noses. Shoko speaks to herself & tries to recall that which her mind blocks out as the sun rises; the reoccurrence of what is most probably sexual abuse (rape). The author explores the physical reality of bounds & mounds, yet allows the night owl to remain unnamed. After having enjoyed the novella, I was disappointed to find that there were two (2) short stories included alongside the bind. Because I had been immersed in the novella, its sharp & sudden ending left me annoyed. I was not ready to read another story so, I gave myself some time in the hopes that the silence would reprieve this story from my disappointment. Unfortunately, it was difficult to read this story because it was so utterly ambiguous. There is very clear abuse taking place but the villain is not made apparent. Is the reader meant to deduce that the extroverted young man in the clinic is the one committing crimes? Is the reader being encouraged to reflect on their own prejudices; if a person is not obviously unwell, are they ill? Though the premise of this story does sound intriguing, it does not deliver on its promise. The reader should not have to fill in all the blanks to make a Mad Libs out of this story. One can roam at leisure back & forth throughout this story without really arriving at any clear conclusion. Is Shoko simply a product of her time or is she a cultural marker? Are the women imagining the man or is he really there? Is Shoko experiencing a progressive form of Dementia or is she blocking out the trauma of residing in a care facility against her will? What is the purpose of this story? In a manner far too obvious to be quaint, the author presents the simple terror of existing at the mercy of other people’s kindness as the ultimate antagonist. Readers are at liberty to remain apathetic or wrought with sorrow. Minute Fears I hold preferential feelings toward the modernization of terribly spooky stories from childhood. There is something altogether charming about the simple scares that exist in the narratives without fallacy. In this final short story, one is brought back to the lunacy of uncommunicable fear. The main character is a mother & she is very proud of this. Her friends are married & happy but, they are not as free as she is. With a husband who is fully supportive & independent & a son who is smart & punctual, this lady of the house remains content to live her life in her own way. On the night in which we meet her, she is preparing to go out with her friends. I mention this background because it is the crux of both the main character’s person & the essence of the plot. Without these differing points, the main character becomes another person utterly unknown to the reader. Her physical & characteristic attributes are rarely mentioned but, the author emphasizes her long hair. One becomes eager to see this mother figure out in the world enjoying time with her friends. The sympathy that is drawn from readers throughout this story is merited. It is comforting to think that any multitude of readers might at once understand the plight of a crying child & yet, long for his mother to meet the opportunity for a social engagement. When I was young there were many scary stories that followed me around. The morbid curiosity that accompanied my fears pulled me onwards like a rope to the waist. The same holds true for the narrator’s son. The local playground carries with it the curse of a luring demon. If any child remains on the playground after 4:45 PM they will be subject to a curse wherein the spirit of a dead girl will haunt them until they too are cloistered captive in the playground, for all of eternity. The demon rings the house of the child, taunting them to come back to the playground to join her. After a couple of coos & pleas, she arrives at their door & brings them along with her. On its own, it is easy to understand why this would scare a child. The threat of separation from their safe place, their home, is freaky; to be captured by a creepy ghost is fowl. Yet, what if the ghost is no such fang-leering figure? What if the demon were the boys’ own mother? Once again, the ambiguous ending that accompanies this story is perhaps not what readers want to find. It would be a harsh encounter to be met with a plainly written conclusion. However, this story works better because it remains hidden within the readers themselves. What is the best-case scenario? Would it have been preferable for the narrator to let her child sleep, comforted by both his parents in his own home? Surely. The simple scary story made scarier by the unknown is a pleasure to behold. The simple figure of a mother is not all that she is inside. Her long dark hair reminded me of the whisper of an invisible wind. Japanese folklore references a woman just like the mother figure in this book; a woman with long dark hair, a conflict in what remains of her soul, & the intentional wanderings of her listless feet across the earth. For traditional Horror film aficionados, “The Grudge” (2004) will have acted as an introduction to Kayako—the demon-spirited girl with the long hair. In other versions of this story, she is called Kuchisake-onna & is a Yūrei. What the multiple versions of this story have in common is the translated ease of this spirit to wander the earth collecting upon what she wants—what she needs. Readers will never know what becomes of the boy & his mother. The too-suddenly employed final marker of the end of the sentence leaves room for a raving rambling of thoughts none of which will find ease or repose in any aspect of this story. What has befallen the characters in this book might be as simple as wandering in the dark or, as troubling as the trembling legs of the young as they wander through the unknown grasping onto the hand of the person they thought they could trust. Thank you to Edelweiss+, Pushkin Press, & Kaori Fujino 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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Sep 20, 2023
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Sep 29, 2023
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Paperback
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33
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| B01NAGF7TI
| 3.66
| 7,045
| 1914
| Dec 06, 2016
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liked it
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**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 |
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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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32
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| unknown
| 3.52
| 191
| Nov 15, 1998
| Oct 15, 2019
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** Three members of a previous quartet have recently moved into a house near the woods. The Eight ChimneysThis week, a delightful littl
**spoiler alert** Three members of a previous quartet have recently moved into a house near the woods. The Eight ChimneysThis week, a delightful little blue bird chose a tale morbid & decrepit as the antiquated ghost story that haunts its reputation. The fanatics of Horror luring the mind through common tropes of lore & folk stories will linger two seconds too long in the spaces between the words of this story. The protagonists are under the age of ten (10). They are naïve & reek of a boldness in their confidence that is crassly deranged. Left alone in their new home, the twins roam about the property without the guardianship of their parents. The paternal figure is too preoccupied with being an adult to remember that he is also a parent. The maternal figure is dead; deceased by an intention that castrated a disappearing act within the icing sugar life of the gingerbread family’s world. Nothing is explicitly explained to the reader throughout this story. A veteran reader might hobble along the spine of this tale without reaching its tendons through no fault of their own. This is not as enjoyable an experience as it might appear. Tropes of moor & morbidity do well to seethe earnest intent into the words they select in an attempt to nestle reality into a story’s structure. In an intentional bid to forego the anticipated conclusions of the reader, Link gives them permission to draw their own conclusions. The first judgment is posed in the opening lines—the title speaks to nostalgia. The entryway to the story promises an oddity that is incomprehensible but, it will be familiar.—named after the literal eight (8) chimneys that adorn the house—is haunted. Rather than boast of ghosts & ghouls, the walls have stools & steps that allow little feet to get lost within the structure. The villainous poltergeist of personified instruments of head-warming & fashion, carve the skulls of the fantastical with grooves, like teeth on an unsuspecting tongue. Who has murdered the ghosts that fall behind the age of puberty, consent, adolescence, & innocence? Reviewing work that is incomplete is a difficult task. It’s rather tedious to attempt to piece together an interpretation with the appropriate reflections & emphasis, holding true to the knowledge that the author had the opportunity to do that themselves, but did not. Though this story looms like a bloated body in water, the essence of the tale itself is intriguing; one is inclined to float alongside what is already visible in the hopes of understanding what buried the lead. The twins, Claire & Samantha, play at being Dead—capital D. Their game of comfort in finality arose following the death of their own mother. The story presents the absence of maternal figures. The metaphorical representation of motherhood is explored via a dirty glass; a young girl, the babysitter, is adopted as a mother yet she is also described as being nearly the same age as the twins. The visiting group of tourists is littered with mothers—women—who blur as the day passes. It appears that a certain type of person is unable to leave the house unscathed. What might the reader deduce from this? Could one say that a maternal figure, a woman, a girl, is stuck in the stable home that will be her prison & palace once it is deemed necessary for her to scale the walls & slither the floors to clean crevices & crooks? Might we assume that the women in this story, the girls, & the lost mothers are all part of a scheme to punish the apple-bearing fruit lovers of old? As is my habit, I am inclined to read into the symbolism in this story & what better place to start than in a book that is poorly understood & seldom read—the Bible? The woman in the woods who lures the fathers away; the horses running rampant in dreams of wishes & promises; the invisible snakes slithering through the greenery; the loss of innocence & trust; in all of this eight. The number is often associated with otherworldly goodness; the feminine energy. The eight chimneys might be viewed as tunnels out of the palace of man; the house of God; the invisible & adapting voice of the Specialist’s Hat. In ways strangely reminiscent of the complexity of absurdity found in classic Horror—think “Phantasm” (1979)—this story teeters back & forth through two narratives. At once the inner monologue of the twins, the verses presented in brackets & pauses coin the story like a rusty penny. One is meant to feel muddled & confused. Unfortunately, for some of us, confusion does not segway into fear. Rather, the lack of a logical plot may lead certain readers to feel more perturbed by the lack of an explicit nature. Why did the babysitter play with a hat that has human teeth? Where did the hat come from? Is the Specialist just a man who has perfected the art of forgetting his own responsibilities? Or is the Specialist the original tyrant who led men down the path of mortality? I suppose one would need to believe that one person is to blame for all the misfortunes of the world in order to have faith in this explanation. On the opposing side to the fantasy story of fruit being bad for humanity’s vampiric lifespan, one is face to face with the questions that plague the plot. Who is the antagonist? Did the Specialist’s Hat adopt the voice of a parent or did the children cower from their father? Did the children suffocate in the attic or were they dead to the world & in turn, actually out of this world? What drew the fathers to roam the woods? Why were there so many snakes? Is the forest an Eden to male paternal figures? Is the house a Purgatory for female characters? I am left wondering if this is a story that profits off of the inquiring mind. Suppose a reader were to find the toothed hat a bore—would the story still make sense? Suppose the father figures didn’t neglect their children—would the children have become friends at all? The narrative explores the agility of the mind; its own desire to wonder & awe at the simplicity of a single haunted house with quaint key haunting features, spooky only so much as they resemble the haunted place of our minds. Had I been left with no questions, I’m not sure that I would have been so eager to dissect what this story was sharing. Many children play strange & peculiar games. Many parents need time to wander the world on their own. These two things do not a villain or victim make. Yet, one is inclined to conclude, with certainty, that something is amiss. What would the reader be left with if this was simply a story about an Ed Gein figurine, a bit lost, & severely traumatized? Or, what if this were simply a story about an old house & lonely children? Ultimately, what I enjoyed in this story is its inconsequential inaction. The children are possessed; they were always dead; they were haunted & cruel; they are ghosts to their father & mysteries to the town; they are just two twin girls playing in the world of loss & grief. The identity of each of the characters is that of a shadow figure. The reader is given very little—grey eyes, a brooding temperament, solitude & coy memories. Who are these people, really? The eight chimneys, is a reflective piece of strange wanderings & eager readers set to recall the desolate need within to find reason in the absurd tendencies we find each other inclined to practice. Morbid poetry & tender longings; this story is a crisp fingernail across a dusty baseboard. Readers are met with no one in particular; no one they know, nothing of note but, the permeating sense of dread follows them as they crane their necks to search the chimney for signs of disturbed dust moats & hidden keys. If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK•. ...more |
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not set
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Aug 09, 2023
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Sep 21, 2023
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31
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| B08CSYQCQX
| unknown
| 4.09
| 211,226
| Jan 10, 1892
| Jul 10, 2020
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liked it
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**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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not set
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Jul 10, 2023
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Sep 10, 2023
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Kindle Edition
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30
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| 4.36
| 1,327
| unknown
| Oct 28, 2014
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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 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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not set
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Jul 14, 2023
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Aug 03, 2023
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29
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| 3.67
| 540
| Mar 10, 2014
| Mar 10, 2014
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** There is little way to birth the story that speaks of consequence. The reader is meticulously swaddled, coddled & cooed. The author
**spoiler alert** There is little way to birth the story that speaks of consequence. The reader is meticulously swaddled, coddled & cooed. The author in question, an operatic monsoon undulating repose of the fable they hold. In so doing, Li has arranged the sentences perfectly. Welcoming me back into her graces like a fresh bundle of joy, as though for the first time, though we have met before. I seem to forget that the stories this author crafts are delicate. They invite me to a new lair; a worn Chesterfield; depravity & luxury; all nesting the day-to-day of people who are their own demise. In the United States, Auntie Mei enters & exits the homes of new mothers. She is strict with her approach. Nearly making an equation of the relationships she builds. In an effort to remain neutral, to foster only a shell of warm skin to a sweat-drenched & worried alcove of motherhood, Auntie Mei remains possessed by the demon who feels nothing that is not ultimately intended for her. The reader notes the disconsolate approach the protagonist undertakes to perform her job & wonders, perhaps, how a person could be so insightful of the needs of new life while slowly decaying themselves. One cannot necessarily blame Auntie Mei for the way she approaches her work or her life. The pearl she holds has been sold. Readers are allowed to believe whatever it is they so choose. Ultimately, it does not matter if one believes Auntie Mei to be a deity or a devil; she is a woman trying to make her way in a world that has no room for her & is not prepared to make space. The author makes no false promises & offers no form of diligent information sharing that might lighten the load on the reader. This story follows Auntie Mei as she is met with what might be her final round. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, also known as yesterday, & the day before, women were not taken seriously. Birthing a child, bringing life into the world, & the preparation for a new human being, all require a toll to be paid & one person fronts the bill. Certainly, we evolve to be better than the alleged barbarians of old. However, much of the punishment of labour begins far sooner than the contraction alerting the body of breech. To be in a bad way, to be unprepared, uninterested, toiled; the bearer of hardships unspoiled by words & collectivity renders a solitary existence that might exceed the thousand-yard stare of the man in the 40-day desert. Li’s character does not acknowledge Postpartum Depression as a condition, let alone one that might alleviate its force on the brain of a new mother; the bearer of new & bright life. This dynamic places the reader in the middle of the ground with no centre. While the reader is inclined to bring facets of their reality into their reading experience, so too do the characters. The mother in question, whose chosen nomenclature is Chanel—like the sympathizing French girl once an impoverished dreamer—never wanted to be a mother. Chanel is anything but prepared or enthusiastic about her condition. She is rather unperturbed by the needs her child has for her. The situation presented in this story masticates the written word; the sheltered word; the truth. Chanel is playing a game with pons & ploys to win the attention of a man who was once married to someone else, all intending to cause pain to her father. Auntie Mei cares for the child she fears might die, to the detriment of her rules that keep her disconnected from the humanity she tends to. Both women are slightly antagonistic to themselves while vying through a life that they did not plan to lead. Overall, though this story was good & enticing, I appreciated it most thanks to the narration of Samantha Hunt. Via The New Yorker’s podcast, my morning started with the introduction to two women who lived shadowed in the American lifestyle hopeful from abroad. Hopeful for the change that might not follow them, this mundane normalcy of expectation & business that is commonly known. A hope that life did not need to be the way it was for everyone else, with them. Readers saunter the grounds of a mansion in the dreaming state of being. The meticulous shred of money, vanity, healing, & the despair that is carried via the recollection of memories we forget that we keep. Li remains a writer I find in the pages, by surprise. Her talented foresight of the road ahead gives me time to look back, hoping to find the sign that might reveal to me the way ahead. If you would like to listen to this story, please visit this •LINK•. Thank you to NetGalley, 4th Estate and William Collins, & Yiyun Li for the free copy of "Wednesday’s Child" (2023) - the anthology in which "A Sheltered Woman" is featured - in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
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Jul 17, 2023
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46
|
| 4.02
|
not set
|
Mar 15, 2024
|
||||||
45
|
| 4.11
|
not set
|
Feb 20, 2024
|
||||||
44
|
| 3.38
|
not set
|
Feb 20, 2024
|
||||||
43
|
| 3.33
|
not set
|
Jan 30, 2024
|
||||||
42
|
| 3.33
|
really liked it
|
Oct 31, 2023
|
Jan 25, 2024
|
|||||
41
|
| Liu, Ken
*
| 4.17
|
liked it
|
Nov 03, 2023
|
Jan 25, 2024
|
||||
40
|
| 3.75
|
it was amazing
|
Nov 24, 2023
|
Dec 24, 2023
|
|||||
39
|
| 3.72
|
liked it
|
Dec 04, 2023
|
Dec 24, 2023
|
|||||
38
|
| 3.82
|
really liked it
|
Oct 24, 2023
|
Dec 24, 2023
|
|||||
37
|
| 3.33
|
did not like it
|
Nov 30, 2023
|
Nov 30, 2023
|
|||||
36
|
| 3.95
|
liked it
|
Oct 08, 2023
|
Oct 30, 2023
|
|||||
35
|
| 3.75
|
liked it
|
Sep 27, 2023
|
Oct 22, 2023
|
|||||
34
|
| 3.42
|
liked it
|
Sep 20, 2023
|
Sep 29, 2023
|
|||||
33
|
| 3.66
|
liked it
|
Sep 17, 2023
|
Sep 21, 2023
|
|||||
32
|
| 3.52
|
liked it
|
Aug 09, 2023
|
Sep 21, 2023
|
|||||
31
|
| 4.09
|
liked it
|
Jul 10, 2023
|
Sep 10, 2023
|
|||||
30
|
| 4.36
|
really liked it
|
Jul 14, 2023
|
Aug 03, 2023
|
|||||
29
|
| 3.67
|
liked it
|
Jul 17, 2023
|
Jul 22, 2023
|
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