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201
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| 0593546857
| 9780593546857
| 0593546857
| 3.88
| 6,691
| Apr 18, 2023
| Apr 18, 2023
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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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Hardcover
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199
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| 1627555811
| 9781627555814
| 1627555811
| 3.99
| 10,294
| Mar 1924
| Jan 15, 2014
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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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200
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| 1039056423
| 9781039056428
| 1039056423
| 3.92
| 1,181
| Jun 04, 2024
| Jun 04, 2024
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on self-harm, parental abuse, physical violence, homophobia, substance abuse, Dementia, grief, & others. Following the red thread that links one person to the other is a tedious endeavour. One might be surprised to find that the thread is slim, nearly indistinguishable. Whereas on occasion, a person may feel as though the entire universe conspired to weave two people together, the connections we share are tender & delight in the interpretations we might gather independently of the bones that hold us up. When exploring the nature of genealogy & the intricate study of genetics, one observes the foundation on which rests human society; one must be the same as the other to merit entry to a neighbourhood, a home, or a heart. Conflicts arise through adoption, abandonment, displacement, & the forlorn forgetfulness of stories that can no longer be told. Stories speak to an intimate experience of the world. The author has in their hands the ability to weave a narrative that is powerful & overwhelming though they may decide to go the other way; choosing instead to make their story one of slow wandering worry, paved with secular stones, & false idols. Whereas Talty had experienced success in their previous work, namely “Night of the Living Rez” (2022) & most recently by contributing to the anthology “Never Whistle at Night: An Indigenous Dark Fiction Anthology” (2023), their recently published story follows a very sullen path & readers may not find the terrible tremble of the plot as engaging as in the author’s previous work. However, if they have the patience to accept that not all stories are Odysseys, that some stories are simple tumbles of stones at the base of a mountain, they may thoroughly enjoy what Talty has brought to their doorstep. In essence, this is a story about a man who lives outside the community that raised him. Charles is not an Indigenous person by heritage or ancestry, yet his entire life is shaped & sung by the voices & people of the community he was raised in. When the reader meets Charles, he is seated on his porch, watching the world go by. More specifically, Charles sits outside of his house day & night to watch the goings on of his neighbours across the river; the house where his child once lived & where his former best friend & romantic partner now resides with her husband. As he watches their lives unfold, Charles toys with his freedom to inform Elizabeth, his daughter, that she is his child. The reader must decide whether Charles is correct in his pursuit or if his silence is worth the torment, it causes him. My experience with this story is strange to quantify into words. Talty’s writing style is very simplistic, I am confident any number of readers will be able to grasp the inner workings of the story at play & leave with more than they bargained for. The stylistic choices he employs throughout the book allow an easy flow to the narration that the main character provides. At times, the juvenile reflections gave me pause: Why was I reading this story? Charles is older than I am & has lived a life humbled by regret & guilt. The reflections he provides throughout this story felt tangible & realistic because the book was not littered with prose. Though, there are times when writing with smoother edges might have cushioned the transitions of the story, Talty did well by providing Charles with the saw-toothed letters he spoke with. While reading this book I found myself reflecting on the sincerity of the accusations Charles brought to the reader. While it was true, Charles felt immense guilt for the death of his stepfather, & though it is accurate to say that he was self-involved, much of this story could have been avoided had the main character been granted the opportunity to be heard. This might seem like a silly thing to say & you would be correct in thinking this. Ultimately, Charles is not able to speak his mind & he does not have anyone who will earnestly listen to him, this is not the reality of this story. However, I find it useful to ponder the nature of his circumstances because they are too tangible to be fictitious. In life, many things take place that remain outside of our control. When Charles refused to go with his stepfather into the woods, he could not have known that the man would pursue a moose deep into the trees until he succumbed to frost & ultimately, death. What makes the plight of the main character so dreadful is that there is no redemption. His life is moving in a direction that no longer parallel’s his parent’s; he must go it alone. Talty has ensured that the cast of characters were fleshed out enough for a reader to see similarities between themselves & their environments, within the strict frame of the story. As the plot unveils itself to the reader, several key pieces are brought to light. The communal influence that has left Charles feeling Indigenous; the home that reels with the absence of his parents; the proximity to what he can no longer attain. Certainly, one may find the dilemmas that Charles ponders rather annoying, nearly insulting. However, it is not the reader’s role to judge the main character for his views nor for his moral conundrums. Rather, because the reader is not given a full scope of the reality that has surrounded Charles, they are kept in a distinctly primed position. The author knows they will judge Charles, & he bets on their heightened feelings to drive home the conclusion of this story; we are all who we are in part because of the people we meet, & primarily because of those who have come before us. The scope of this story follows one man & his troubles are valid; he has a child & his partner all but abandons him with this knowledge so that their child can be perceived as “full blooded”—a practice wholeheartedly inappropriate & reminiscent of the deranged lack of understanding that accompanies those without knowledge of genetics; blood is not mathematically fractioned, it is oil & stone into the entity; rippling monsters under the cavernous sea to boast of old stories & lore unbeknownst to the newborn. However fancifully I wish to write about this subject, the truth remains; certain communities still perceive blood, heritage, lineage, & ancestry to be something one can keep purely to the point; a tit-for-tat in the mirror of dynasties & mile-high perverse incompetency. I am not here to write about my feelings towards Charles identity. This is not my place & I would not want to add fuel to a fire that is burning ominously as it is. Rather, my reflections contain the truth of my experiences in the world as a person who is the human fraction, a putrefied equivalent of a mutt dog; a mongrel; a half breed; a silly slimy frog in a pool of swans. That being said, so are we all. In some storybooks the Prince is tender & sweet, whereas in others, she is hidden behind the beast of his own appearance. These tales are meant to guide humanity & ease their personal burdens—they are not alone. No matter the moral at the end of the fantasy, one must acknowledge that there is a role for all to play & so we do. Charles was a son, he is a father, he is a recovering alcoholic, he is lonely, he is a friend, he is frustrated, & warm-hearted; he is a human being with a complicated relationship to the world & with himself. Part of the joy of this story is being privy to the chaptered representations of his philosophy. On occasion, Charles is the Prince & in other cases, he is the magic mirror captive in the house. The character was dynamic & crafted to reflect the people we share this life with. However, there were still instances wherein I found the story to stall & I wondered what the point of such a narrative was, if my thinking had been thought & all my ruminating had been completed before the final curtain call. The story hinges on the decreased mental ability of Charle’s mother who has Dementia. The secret of her past tumble forward when she is at her most vulnerable & the author nearly reveals what happened before the reader arrived on scene but, he doesn’t. Instead, he reminds readers that the spectrum of this story is contained & sheltered in the confused fear of the narrator. I cannot fault him for this, it appears that he wrote the story he wanted to tell & he did not leave room for meandering. Rather, I mention this detail because I was waiting for something more. Perhaps it is unkind to reveal that I wanted more from a story that simmered so densely on subject matter that is objectively difficult to experience firsthand. Yet, I claim my spot here; I wanted the story to reveal more vulnerability than it had in store. Though the characters were earnest in their portrayal, the core of the narrative remained poised on the surface level. Charles does not necessarily grow from his reflections, nor does he ever truly take into account the reality that encumbers each of the people impacted by Elizabeth’s unstable mental state. I do not say this to be unkind, but rather to highlight that each character who was a parent to her tried to give her the upper hand without understanding the vulnerability that coveted her psyche. Ultimately, this is a good book & one that reveals a distinct reality for many people. Readers may find themselves drawn or repulsed by Charles & his quest to speak truth into Elizabeth’s life in an attempt to clear her blue skies. Their genuine attempts to do the right thing, while being uninformed & self-serving, made harsh the environment where their shared love grew into a matured & tender greenery. If one has the patience to follow flawed characters, one will find themselves drawn to the yellow brick road that leads to the protected centre of the story; we are who we are & no claim, chain, status, or census will change what nestles deep within; the studies & fruitfully crafted code that propels us forward until the end. Thank you to NetGalley, Penguin Random House Canada, & Morgan Talty for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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May 12, 2024
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May 12, 2024
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Hardcover
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198
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| 0374168156
| 9780374168155
| 0374168156
| 3.79
| 14
| Nov 12, 2024
| Nov 12, 2024
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** The world’s movement is rarely felt by the life forms who live on its shoulders. Ancient prophecies speak of a shift that will lead
**spoiler alert** The world’s movement is rarely felt by the life forms who live on its shoulders. Ancient prophecies speak of a shift that will lead humanity to falter & require the species to change direction; to make better choices & understand that their existence is insecure & easily eliminated. Supposing that the threat is not said in jest, one may ask what the purpose of such a reset would be. Will the forest dwellers feel relief? Will the concrete scurrying rats feel free? The world functions by default, without anything but the axis; life on Earth is a blessing, one which many human beings seek to shed. When I requested this book, I had no concept of what I would find inside. This might be a silly thing to admit but, I did not regard the title as profound insight into the plot, nor did I seek to decipher the colour scheme of the cover art to mean more than what they were—a reflection of choice. Inadvertently, I found myself reading this novel perturbed by its approach. While a more studied reader will have further criticism of the stylistic approach that the author has taken when presenting the narrative with characters whose lives are both specific & ambiguous; my review will focus primarily on the time count, the hours it took me to realize that this book wasn’t as long as I felt like it was. In essence, this is a story about despair. The author introduces the reader to Anthony, a man whose past is riddled with drudgery. This first chapter promised a great saga with lore to confound the reader & I anticipated the story to play a rhythmic fiddle when enunciating the malaise that accompanied Anthony. However, this was not to be. Price’s novel incorporates the perspectives & realities of a slew of different characters & though, at first, Anthony appears to be an ideal narrator—a character worthy of following, ever so despondent as he is—the story’s shift tumbles over the heads of those whose chapters were less riveting, one from the other. It is not easy to incorporate so many perspectives into a single story. While the main driver of circumstance is the destruction of the apartment complex, each character reflects deeply about their feelings regarding events & people whom the reader never knows. These instances are beneficial in building the realism that Price offers the reader but, while perusing the chapters, it was difficult to engage fully with characters whose value to the story remained hidden. Anthony reappears in the later portion of the book as the titular Lazarus man, having been found beneath the rubble of the building, it appears that he was there for days. Yet, in truth, the shock that Anthony experiences led him to wander back into the building in the hopes of finding purpose, a calling, or the door that would lead him to the end. There is a great deal of time that can be spent reflecting on the build-up of this revelation however, I feel great frustration now as I did then. Though the story is well-written in the traditional sense, the story itself is of no interest to me. Rather, the plot was filled with individuals whose lives were riddled with anger & grief but, while reading about the slow progressing days of their lives, I was acutely aware that my days were passing me by. More often than not, I found myself wanting to toss away the book & be done with it. I could not understand how such a story could feel like such a drag. Herein lies my main issue; this is not a story to be told in the traditional sense. The modern era of visual aids, such as documentaries films & series, remind readers that the slow progression of the redundant events in this plot, would have felt far mor engaging & interesting had they been coloured by film. This is not a stance I am averse to adopting. Arguably, all stories need to be told a certain way for them to be appreciated as they should. In the case of these characters, one may find the hours slowly ticking by without any sensation of thrill that often results from reading a good book. The telling—the transmission of this tale—felt stilted & dull. Not all stories need to feature speeding cars & lightning bolts but, at some point one must ask what the purpose is in rehashing the same sentient patter of the life that is lead by each character. Each character is dealing with an infidelity; their faith has faltered, they are engaged in a sexual relationship with a less than desirable person, they are experiencing financial insecurity, & they have found themselves in the environment of the apartment collapse. At face value, their experiences are altogether human & though perhaps less than intriguing, they are lives led by individuals & they contribute to the whole of existence. Rather, perhaps a reader who has more patience than I do will find the dreadfully slow-moving chapters that are the middle portion of this book, easier to consume. My main qualm with this book was that it wasn’t for me. I have met readers in my life, happy to consume a book because it was a book & they needed nothing further than a story & so, they read it. Readers who may connect with this approach will appreciate this story. In reality, nothing much happens throughout the entire book. The police officer is searching for a man whose wife died in the collapse—she finds him & he’s just a man grieving the loss of his loved one. Anthony lies & acts holier than thou, & is able to continue doing so because he’s not the first, nor will he be the last. Yet, with each character one is left wondering what the point is. What is the story trying to say about life in New York City? What is the author’s goal when presenting readers with a slice of life rather uninspiring to those who may not be living life in the same way? Is the reader meant to feel pity for the characters who miss their loved ones or for whom family is the collection of stray pebbles? Which part of the plot highlights the earnest truth about a life sheltered by grief? Is the narrator Anthony or Mary? Does it matter if Anthony is lying to gain praise or should a person be honest to a fault if they wish to speak on salvation? What is perhaps most odd of all is that by the end of the story, the conclusion sets nothing to right. In some ways, the reader plays the omniscient being who watches the gastric incision take place from the amp theatre, safe from splatter. In this way, the reader is able to watch poverty, praise, sorrow, love, loss, disenfranchisement, gentrification, justice, & cheating, scramble through the lives of others without adopting any value to these experiences. I wonder whether a deeply sensitive reader might not appreciate this stance more than a reader who, like me have walked the roadway of these realities & have little care for the clinical view they may offer a privileged reader who cares naught for the consequences of these experiences. I have spoken ad nauseum about how tired I felt while reading this book. The cold approach it took to present a cast of characters who lived within the confines of the same community was unnecessary. There is a possibility that I am wrong & that Price saw something in this approach that I have not, having spent more time with the faces that remained in shadow than I have reading about them. Regardless, the final product left much to be desired & though the writing was enticing & the stylistic choice of vernacular well-placed, the plot itself felt dense, while vapid of any gooey elixir. Ultimately, the plot wraps up the storylines with enough detail to highlight that life goes on. The photographs, sexual encounters, the rambling & raving, the family business & youthful hope, the changing neighbourhood & tumultuous flow of life, weave a tapestry that is daunting & humble, leaving readers with no fond feelings of gladness for the continuation of life but rather, joy accompanied by the end of the book. Thank you to NetGalley, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, & Richard Price for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Apr 27, 2024
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Apr 27, 2024
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Hardcover
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197
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| 0593546903
| 9780593546901
| B0CC1D7GM2
| 3.66
| 1,514
| Apr 16, 2024
| Apr 16, 2024
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really liked it
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**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on substance abuse, violent crime, the death of a loved one, alcoholism, the death of a child, parental negligence, self-harm, cannibalism, the death of an animal, suicide, mental health, & others. Great Spirit sees all, observing as the wind ruffles the newborn skin of life, day in & day out. To explain our origin in the windy world, humanity has cast spells of lore; riddles that mask our sorrow at the dark cavern from whence we came & to which we will return, giving nutrients when once we had received them. The weaver is the key element in breaching the dark; the voice whose ease at transporting the listener revives still sounds, casting them like Northern Lights to the silent sky. Without storytellers where would we be? The obsidian nature of our travels leads us back to ourselves; the storyteller lights our way. The tapestry of creation has offered the wandering soul ample room for whispers from the Great Spirit, Creator, the Lord Himself, His Son, the Archangels, Muhammad ibn Abdullāh, Siddhartha Gautama; the list raves onward, tirelessly presenting the species with individuals who carry word from the unseen. This statement is perhaps, as you may note, not altogether true. For many cultures, proof of holiness, or the existence of a larger entity than the self, is in the world around us. Who could think of something as beautiful as the sun whose warmth shines for all on earth? Who could have conjured a more perfect globe where land & water exist in tandem for all of existence? The small & large shapes, sounds, visuals, & tangible experiences that exist alongside humanity breathe air into the mythology that colours systems of belief. Though, if you have made your way through my previous writing you will note a strong stance on the subject of religion, this review does not exist as a critique of schools of belief. Rather, while reading this book, I found myself earnestly, curious about the creatures who suffered the wrath of humankind. Where was Creator when the rock was cast that killed the woodpecker? Where was Great Spirit when Johnny burned alive in the fire pit? In such a beautiful landscape how can such horror thrive? Where is the kindness riddled in stories that are meant to guide us? Perhaps this story sets in place the doubt that has long seeped into the mind of the burdened; it is not enough to believe in goodness, one must be good to see it live in the world alongside them. In essence, this is a story about intergenerational trauma. Medina has woven two tricks into his story allowing the reader to remain nearly disengaged when torturous emotions drown children & zombie forces lure them out to pasture where their neglectful parents bury them alive. If readers feel this reality too obstructive to the view they hold of their kin, they are welcome to watch the alligator slither across the page, swallowing unsuspecting victims like stones to the riverbed. Nestled in between the detrimental, blood-soaked narrative is the truth; intergenerational wounds seldom heal. This story is formatted in a dual narrative. In the present, Noemi experiences the sudden death of her fiancé, Roddy, & the return of her uncle Louie, whom she hasn’t seen in over a decade. Louie’s narrative explores the past, namely the year 1986 when the events that tormented him came to a head. Readers who develop an appreciation for both Noemi & Louie will revel in this approach. Both characters are adults, aged over forty, & have lived long & obscenely complex lives. Presenting readers will characters who are well-established individuals, in the sense of the years they have spent on earth, allows readers the opportunity to delve further into the material that is being presented. Unfortunately, this is my first qualm with this book. In the introduction, Roddy is described as having committed suicide by jumping in front of a Jeep. His body is then ravaged by a coyote when the driver of the vehicle runs to get help. This approach to introducing the dual perspectives of mythology & trauma was delightful to read. To be clear, this choice of scene—the road, the wild animal, the woman, the man, their home, the land—allows readers to immediately immerse themselves in the story. The borders of the page disappeared as I wondered where the narrative would bring me; Who would I meet along the way? What insights would they give me? When would I be met with the horror I was promised by the genre? Certainly, one may read about the terrible fate that befalls each of the characters in this story as horrible enough, that there was no need to further the torment of humanity by inducing ghastly soul-eating alligators. This would not be an incorrect decision to conclude. Indeed, this story did not need two perspectives, two narratives, & two timelines. In reality, Louie carried the entire story & this left me grating my teeth every time Noemi was brought back to the page. I am still conflicted as to what made her so annoying. In an attempt to decode my feelings, I pondered the nature of her character & the benefit of including a forty-year-old woman who was so deeply ignorant, to a story that was emboldened by the Goliath that was her uncle. Perhaps, I should consider myself lucky that I have such an intimate understanding of Depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, & suicide. Perhaps, I should learn to be more patient with the world as there are certainly more people like Noemi than there are who are like me. For this reason, call it a lack of patience or desire to sit in the company of someone who was troubled by their own volition, I felt frustrated every time Noemi narrated her sections. This is primarily due to her lack of knowledge. In her forty years of life, not once has Noemi ever sought to understand the complexities of mental illness, not once has she stepped outside of herself. The death of her long-term partner, Roddy, comes to her as a shock only because it means she now has to find someone else to support her dreams. For chapters on end, Noemi speaks about how impossible it would be for Roddy to have committed suicide because they were happy & they had plans, & his bad days weren’t that bad. This was insulting to read. It is insulting because Noemi has no clue what she’s talking about yet, she’s a grown woman, she’s an adult, in a world where children rely on adults to guide the way down the road of life, & where other adults inadvertently lean on each other to safeguard the road when it becomes too hard to walk alone. All the while, Noemi fails at her role, in her community & life. You may deem my criticism harsh but, ignorance is violence & what Noemi states as impossible is in fact what leads so many people who are experiencing mental distress, suicidal ideation, & depression, to be burdened in silence & misunderstanding. Why is Noemi so ignorant of the parameters of mental illness? People who commit suicide could have sat & had the most delicious meal with the most loving people & this would not be indicative of a change; this is simply one moment in time. The burden of weight carried in the spine, dousing the brain, is not swayed by one lovely meal. This is not difficult to comprehend. In the middle of her rambling ignorance, Noemi corners Roddy’s sister telling her she’s wrong & wishing to one-up her in the pursuit of answers. Why does she do this? Are readers to believe that not once in forty years of life did Noemi ever encounter another person who was experiencing mental illness? Did Noemi never venture outside the confines of her own bedroom? Certainly, in life, as I have said earlier, many people lack understanding of what leads a person to commit suicide. I am disheartened to know that this is the case because the solution is simple. Whereas readers are enveloped in a story that deals with the ill-structured home life of a family on the brink of collapse, the world at writ large is littered with situations exactly like the fictionalized one in the reader’s hands. Can I fault Noemi for being a product of her existence? Will readers be more ready to forgive Noemi for her cruel self-centered ignorance regarding Roddy’s suicide? What I have come to understand in my many years of life is that some people never learn because they are not seeking the knowledge that will set them free of their ignorance. Noemi was raised in a house with a grandmother who suffered from alcoholism—an illness that ultimately led to her death—with a mother who was crass & rarely present. Noemi also had the opportunity to grow past the ignorance of her parent, a woman who raves love for men who are ghosts, men who are the opposite of the protagonist, Louie. Again, perhaps it is too demanding of me to assume that Noemi has the willpower or the strength to become more than what she is; few people do so, why am I so caught up in her issues? The troubles that plague Louie left me empathetic to him. He was sixteen when the events in 1986 took place & readers will note the matured tone of a person who struggles to grow like a rose hidden under a log. Louie is written with gusto, & gumption, with faults in his naive logic but, who can blame him, he lives in a world where his neighbour committed serial murders & blamed a malevolent spirit for his psychological issues. In that same breath, you may wonder why I struggle with approaching Noemi with such patience. Perhaps it is because I have been sixteen, & similarly to Louie, I took the reins for a situation I was in no way grown enough to heal. Whereas I have not reached the age of forty & what Noemi lacks, I have in spades. What is the role of a reader? Am I supposed to compare myself to Noemi & Louie? Am I supposed to pick a side & stick to the path I have chosen? Halfway through this book, I abandoned hope that Noemi would change, I did not believe her to be capable of it but, Louie had such a long life yet to lead, & I did not want to read about his youth becoming entrapped with the slithering gizzard that crouches on my bedpost. Philosophical masticating in the background, I maneuvered my way through lore & mythology that was not my own. The stories of critters & crawling friends were familiar to me & I was glad to see the comfort of tales that would not give me the answer I needed, neither did they present the characters with the road they should take. The community of people who vanished, were murdered, & died as a consequence of their addictions or their mental illnesses, clobbered the silly tale of ghosts & screaming corpses. I read most of this book at night, lying in bed listening to the wind whisper to me; each of these situations was more than the life they consumed. Certain characters presented readers with good reason to pause & take inventory. Why did Jean-Luc eat the bones of the deceased? In some systems of belief, eating the flesh, bones, & meat of people whom one respects allows this person to consume their essence. When Jean-Luc explains that he dug up the graves of respected members of the community & people who were loving & kind, readers may reflect on the person that he is rather than the one he thinks he wants to be. In wishing to be like the Tamahka (Tunica-Biloxi word for alligator) Jean-Luc emptied himself of his essence, becoming a shadowed sac some may refer to as a Wendigo. Therefore one may be left asking; Do the dreams we have require us to scalp divinity from top to bottom? I appreciated the morose, gruellingly devastating approach that Medina took to introduce the deadly sin of desire, specifically, the longing to escape the body we are sewn to. Ernest murdered his mother because he could, because he was bored, & because inside he was probably a person who was clinically psychotic. The flashbacks that the reader is given to remember Horace added a layer of sadness to this story that I did not expect to find. Odd, perhaps, for me to admit that I was not ready for sorrow when I read Horror as though I have never experienced fear in my life but, true it is, nonetheless. Indeed, reading about the potential that was striped from Horace by being a person who had a stutter, to being the child of a family that was on the receiving end of violence from another feuding family, sunk the stone deeper in my soles. Readers will surely wander through the chapters of this book swiftly, & wonder at the ease they feel while reading such a story. In truth, the experiences of the characters are terrifying because they are not dedicated fabrications, intended for a freaky night of reading. Indigenous Peoples experience the highest rate of suicide worldwide. Indigenous Peoples experience starkly high rates of addiction worldwide. It is no mystery why this is yet, in Noemi, readers may find comfort in their ignorance. It is unacceptable to remain in the dark when people, who do not deserve to suffer Charon’s cold finger directing them to their seats on the splintered boat, continue to drown. Why then, do people revel in the shocked face of ghastly surprise meant only for birthday cakes & Christmas morning? This is a story about the intergenerational burden of a community of people who have struggled to stay-face in a world that has repeatedly told them their demise would be a pleasure to witness. I return to what I said earlier, my frustrated notions of annoyance against Noemi & her structured ignorance. Perhaps you will think me a product of a life that has left little room for patience, forgiveness, or tenderness; you would be wrong, but only partly. In fact, I work tirelessly to ensure that the spaces in which I go reflect the song the crows have sung as we greet each other, & that I spill only soft wind into the rooms where doors have been previously closed. I am troubled by a reality I know well & I remain frustrated that humanity does not advocate for a space where what has been need not be any longer. Whether an alligator swallowed Mrs. Shelby or whether her son murdered her in her home; whether Horace was mutilated by a Vampire or whether his friend carved out his heart so that he may never rest; whether Mae was consumed by a demon or whether she chocked on her own vomit; victims of crime, victims of exhaustion from fighting against a beast greater than the Meli Omahka or any of its other names; people suffer the fate that befalls them as they dangle on the edge of a cliff where, rather than sacred & safe, the rocks have been moulded into the dead-eyed faces of the perilous Nazgûl. Ultimately, the beating that reverberates the ribs, pumping willpower to the brain, & steadying the river watcher, riddles a tale as old as time; Who can escape the self? Readers will be met with causes worthy of their care with optimism that the alligator, the woodpecker, the armadillo, & the coyote will act as guides to them whereas in life they persist in ignoring the very people for whom these animals are kin. Troubling as the ghost may appear, his reflection is often more coyly our own than we care to admit. For readers who have wandered the land in tune with the formidable looming cloud, this story will wriggle into the tendinous ring, like the fantom of despair made into the giggling forest’s safe-heaven for the Alligatoridae who seek to return to the underworld where their smooth underbelly guard the stones of souls long since laid to rest. Thank you to NetGalley, Berkley Publishing Group, & Nick Medina for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
Apr 21, 2024
|
Apr 21, 2024
|
Kindle Edition
| |||||||||||||
145
| 
| 1910312649
| 9781910312643
| 1910312649
| 3.77
| 52,617
| Jul 23, 2020
| Jul 23, 2020
|
did not like it
|
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, theref
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the subject matters of the book as well as those detailed in my review overwhelming. I would suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters which contain reflections on the death of a minor, sexual violence, rape, substance abuse, disordered eating, distorted body image, bigotry, transphobia, psychological distress, & others. Irina is about the same age as I am while writing this review. Every aspect of her person reads like the residue of saliva caught in the corners of a speaker’s mouth. What this story offers the reader is an unbearable drone of dullness. Nothing happens that does not circle in on itself a couple of pages later. Readers might ask themselves what the purpose of such a book is. Why is Irina such a shadow of a person? What part of this narrative is meant to induce cerebral elation; fear; tremors in the soul? What is the point of this story? My conclusion is that there is no purpose to this narrative. There is no point in writing this story because there is no story to be told. When the reader meets Irina it is abundantly clear that we will be faced with a person who has the lung capacity to sing their own praises but remains debilitated by the smoothness of her grey matter. It wouldn’t be accurate to call Irina an egotistical maniac, though, this is certainly what she is. It wouldn’t be right to deem her narcissistic or pessimistic, existential, nihilistic, or dissociated. Irina is insufficient. The main character of a book does not need to be a dandelion in a field of green to be appreciated. The main character of a book needs to be tangible; they need to be sleek like wet paint, stimulating like oral consumption, & evocative like our own reflection in a mirror. Irina is simply a caricature; the result of a disjointed group effort to combine repulsive human tendencies into a single person. The result is that none of her traits or characteristics read as being more than a weak-willed attempt at extremism. There are communities of people who live their lives in ways that differ significantly from what the collective has deemed as being normal. Whether this is a reflection of a person’s sexual desires, their eating habits, their inner monologue, or the ways in which they style their hair—these aspects remain avant-garde insofar as the person actioning them has the gumption to carry them forward with courage. This story significantly lacks a character with such poise & dedication to themselves that they are able to present their person in life as anything worth paying attention to. Within this story, we read about Irina’s perception of self rather too often. In a time where our personal image & desired characteristics are showcased cyclically, there is no room for people like Irina. There is no space left in the brain of the reader to imagine someone with an inflated sense of self with none of the gumption to back their claims. Irina watches tentacle porn. How ground-breaking. Irina photographs men in the nude or in sexually explicit positions. How different than all the other photographers who have already been doing that. Irina exhibits disordered eating because thinness is the ultimate beauty. What a shockingly original take. /s What part of the world in which she lives is out of Irina’s grasp? Reading about such things—as I listed above & many others—reads as very sheltered. I feel confused as to what position the author felt they were taking when compounding so many random aspects of lore into a single character. The year in which this story takes place does not allow for any of these aspects to come across as interesting. Rather, every time Irina spoke about only eating salads, I felt immeasurably bored. Irina felt perpetually stuck in the past of her own accord. Because the main character has no girth to their person & because every trait of her person is willed into her bones by sheer determination to exude the otherness that people experience when vulnerable; Irina becomes a non-entity within a story that is meant to focus solely on her. Why should we care about the films she watches? Those films exist because people made them. This means that someone other than Irina desired to have this art form made into a reality. Ergo, she is not unique. This is perhaps a harsh take. After all, human beings are a reflection of their environments. Irina is not the first person to exhibit tendencies toward self-harm. She is not the only person to have dyed her hair or to have had a negative relationship with her parent. Rather than see any of these aspects explored with depth, we read about Irina in her name alone. Irina is the title of a spreadsheet where numerous people invested three minutes of their time adding bullet points to a document that would be scrapped anyways. Certainly, people who believe that no part of life has any meaning might view this story as an interesting take on listicles. However, as this story progresses towards more debilitating violence I wonder why no one thought that it might be a good idea to link the personality they desired to craft to the shell of a person wandering the pages. Our actions do not necessarily seamlessly lead to one another. Sometimes a person simply wanted to eat an orange; they didn’t need a commercial to influence that desire. Yet through our actions we reveal ourselves. We sneak glimpses of Irina’s desire to do that—perhaps the author felt that there was something innately missing from her character to make her a real living being. However, this lasts one single scene. Leaving me to believe that it was not the well-crafted writing of the author that flaunted the inner desires of her otherwise destitute character but rather the fluke chance that her humanity carried over into her storytelling. What does this all mean? When I saw the cover art for this book I was eager to explore a story that dealt with gender roles, imposed torment regarding sexuality, & the judgments of the all-seeing-eyes towards our very sense of self. Within the pages of this book, we find the poverty of any of these explorations. How does Irina’s claim that all East Asian women are the same essence anything other than the narrative pushed by geriatric Western racism? How is Irina’s derogatory behaviour towards a Trans character anything other than the maniacal social delay perpetrated by bigotry? How is Irina anything other than what is? There is no exploration of paranormal beings; nothing veers left to divert starkly from the world that exists all around the readers. No part of this story alleviates itself from its own strain. What does it bring to the story to have Irina rape & torture men? What does it bring to the story to reveal that Irina is a murderer? It brings nothing. It is entirely disappointing to read about a character so outside of herself that she fails to realize that all of these secrets she believes she keeps are well-documented & studied subject matters. Why, then, is Irina unable to ground herself in the world? Why does she refute bisexuality in a story meant to engage with this very same subject? What part of assigned gender roles is explored when Irina degrades a person because they are not tall in stature but have put forth their entire will & effort into presenting as the person they feel they are inside? What I take from this is no nouveau riche perspective on gender or sexuality. Rather, this entire book is demonically idiotic. Where was the essence of reality? One thought to another thought to another thought, without any semblance of string tying any of it to Irina does not a person make. This story exhibits a drowned potential that the town stood around to watch take place. Within this very narrative there existed the potential for Irina to be sociopathic while still having the depth of her person to exist in the real world. It is exuberantly obvious when a person who is gorging on themselves walks around in society. There exist too many studies on the deficiencies of human beings. People who are ravenous for harming the bodies of children & animals; people who leave others at the side of the roads; people who view ethnicity as a race against each other. There is no shortage of literature that will expose the demise of our kin. What part of this is explored in this story? At what point does Irina’s raving lunacies about how sexually desirable she is, develop into the reflective piece this story boasts itself to be? It is not enough to claim that presenting Irina as a girl different from all other girls, will reveal the nucleus of this tale. Irina is in fact nothing more than a shadow; a skinwalker, if you will. She raves about how explicit she can be. She pushes back on her experiences by recycling what has been done. Again, this is not new. Abuse presents itself in the cloistered limbs of the victim. Regardless of this fact, Irina is not that person. Because there is no depth to her & because the author does not deliberately state things, we are left in a Ferris wheel facing a decaying concrete wall. Putting things into clear language leaves the reader with no room to escape. The villain lives in our world. With extra care taken to create the shell on which Irina leans to entice men to come into her garage, we could have been met with terror. Irina could have been the monster who actually presented how ludicrous it is for people to believe the terrible things that they do. Irina could have been a siren perusing the streets with shiny new legs set on her body specifically to reveal the treachery of sexual exploitation. Irina’s photography could have revealed the pornographic cesspool of bigotry & the craze of monetization that exists towards the female form. Instead of that, we are faced with a white-eyed creature unable to form coherent sentences; left to loom in the corner of a mouse pen in the hopes that another rodent will claw her a path to freedom. Merged review: It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the subject matters of the book as well as those detailed in my review overwhelming. I would suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters which contain reflections on the death of a minor, sexual violence, rape, substance abuse, disordered eating, distorted body image, bigotry, transphobia, psychological distress, & others. Irina is about the same age as I am while writing this review. Every aspect of her person reads like the residue of saliva caught in the corners of a speaker’s mouth. What this story offers the reader is an unbearable drone of dullness. Nothing happens that does not circle in on itself a couple of pages later. Readers might ask themselves what the purpose of such a book is. Why is Irina such a shadow of a person? What part of this narrative is meant to induce cerebral elation; fear; tremors in the soul? What is the point of this story? My conclusion is that there is no purpose to this narrative. There is no point in writing this story because there is no story to be told. When the reader meets Irina it is abundantly clear that we will be faced with a person who has the lung capacity to sing their own praises but remains debilitated by the smoothness of her grey matter. It wouldn’t be accurate to call Irina an egotistical maniac, though, this is certainly what she is. It wouldn’t be right to deem her narcissistic or pessimistic, existential, nihilistic, or dissociated. Irina is insufficient. The main character of a book does not need to be a dandelion in a field of green to be appreciated. The main character of a book needs to be tangible; they need to be sleek like wet paint, stimulating like oral consumption, & evocative like our own reflection in a mirror. Irina is simply a caricature; the result of a disjointed group effort to combine repulsive human tendencies into a single person. The result is that none of her traits or characteristics read as being more than a weak-willed attempt at extremism. There are communities of people who live their lives in ways that differ significantly from what the collective has deemed as being normal. Whether this is a reflection of a person’s sexual desires, their eating habits, their inner monologue, or the ways in which they style their hair—these aspects remain avant-garde insofar as the person actioning them has the gumption to carry them forward with courage. This story significantly lacks a character with such poise & dedication to themselves that they are able to present their person in life as anything worth paying attention to. Within this story, we read about Irina’s perception of self rather too often. In a time where our personal image & desired characteristics are showcased cyclically, there is no room for people like Irina. There is no space left in the brain of the reader to imagine someone with an inflated sense of self with none of the gumption to back their claims. Irina watches tentacle porn. How ground-breaking. Irina photographs men in the nude or in sexually explicit positions. How different than all the other photographers who have already been doing that. Irina exhibits disordered eating because thinness is the ultimate beauty. What a shockingly original take. /s What part of the world in which she lives is out of Irina’s grasp? Reading about such things—as I listed above & many others—reads as very sheltered. I feel confused as to what position the author felt they were taking when compounding so many random aspects of lore into a single character. The year in which this story takes place does not allow for any of these aspects to come across as interesting. Rather, every time Irina spoke about only eating salads, I felt immeasurably bored. Irina felt perpetually stuck in the past of her own accord. Because the main character has no girth to their person & because every trait of her person is willed into her bones by sheer determination to exude the otherness that people experience when vulnerable; Irina becomes a non-entity within a story that is meant to focus solely on her. Why should we care about the films she watches? Those films exist because people made them. This means that someone other than Irina desired to have this art form made into a reality. Ergo, she is not unique. This is perhaps a harsh take. After all, human beings are a reflection of their environments. Irina is not the first person to exhibit tendencies toward self-harm. She is not the only person to have dyed her hair or to have had a negative relationship with her parent. Rather than see any of these aspects explored with depth, we read about Irina in her name alone. Irina is the title of a spreadsheet where numerous people invested three minutes of their time adding bullet points to a document that would be scrapped anyways. Certainly, people who believe that no part of life has any meaning might view this story as an interesting take on listicles. However, as this story progresses towards more debilitating violence I wonder why no one thought that it might be a good idea to link the personality they desired to craft to the shell of a person wandering the pages. Our actions do not necessarily seamlessly lead to one another. Sometimes a person simply wanted to eat an orange; they didn’t need a commercial to influence that desire. Yet through our actions we reveal ourselves. We sneak glimpses of Irina’s desire to do that—perhaps the author felt that there was something innately missing from her character to make her a real living being. However, this lasts one single scene. Leaving me to believe that it was not the well-crafted writing of the author that flaunted the inner desires of her otherwise destitute character but rather the fluke chance that her humanity carried over into her storytelling. What does this all mean? When I saw the cover art for this book I was eager to explore a story that dealt with gender roles, imposed torment regarding sexuality, & the judgments of the all-seeing-eyes towards our very sense of self. Within the pages of this book, we find the poverty of any of these explorations. How does Irina’s claim that all East Asian women are the same essence anything other than the narrative pushed by geriatric Western racism? How is Irina’s derogatory behaviour towards a Trans character anything other than the maniacal social delay perpetrated by bigotry? How is Irina anything other than what is? There is no exploration of paranormal beings; nothing veers left to divert starkly from the world that exists all around the readers. No part of this story alleviates itself from its own strain. What does it bring to the story to have Irina rape & torture men? What does it bring to the story to reveal that Irina is a murderer? It brings nothing. It is entirely disappointing to read about a character so outside of herself that she fails to realize that all of these secrets she believes she keeps are well-documented & studied subject matters. Why, then, is Irina unable to ground herself in the world? Why does she refute bisexuality in a story meant to engage with this very same subject? What part of assigned gender roles is explored when Irina degrades a person because they are not tall in stature but have put forth their entire will & effort into presenting as the person they feel they are inside? What I take from this is no nouveau riche perspective on gender or sexuality. Rather, this entire book is demonically idiotic. Where was the essence of reality? One thought to another thought to another thought, without any semblance of string tying any of it to Irina does not a person make. This story exhibits a drowned potential that the town stood around to watch take place. Within this very narrative there existed the potential for Irina to be sociopathic while still having the depth of her person to exist in the real world. It is exuberantly obvious when a person who is gorging on themselves walks around in society. There exist too many studies on the deficiencies of human beings. People who are ravenous for harming the bodies of children & animals; people who leave others at the side of the roads; people who view ethnicity as a race against each other. There is no shortage of literature that will expose the demise of our kin. What part of this is explored in this story? At what point does Irina’s raving lunacies about how sexually desirable she is, develop into the reflective piece this story boasts itself to be? It is not enough to claim that presenting Irina as a girl different from all other girls, will reveal the nucleus of this tale. Irina is in fact nothing more than a shadow; a skinwalker, if you will. She raves about how explicit she can be. She pushes back on her experiences by recycling what has been done. Again, this is not new. Abuse presents itself in the cloistered limbs of the victim. Regardless of this fact, Irina is not that person. Because there is no depth to her & because the author does not deliberately state things, we are left in a Ferris wheel facing a decaying concrete wall. Putting things into clear language leaves the reader with no room to escape. The villain lives in our world. With extra care taken to create the shell on which Irina leans to entice men to come into her garage, we could have been met with terror. Irina could have been the monster who actually presented how ludicrous it is for people to believe the terri ...more |
Notes are private!
|
2
|
not set
not set
|
Mar 2023
not set
|
Apr 10, 2024
|
ebook
| |||||||||||||
195
| 
| 1250894484
| 9781250894489
| 4.19
| 395
| Jun 18, 2024
| Jun 18, 2024
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on the death of a loved one, slavery, racism, substance abuse, bigotry, scenes depicting the graphic death of a minor, & others. The salivating need to redeem the sacred soul leads to follies. Characters whose plight feels burdened by reality present readers with interesting subjects. The digestion of their story is unmoored by the current of other nutrients, the substance they offer is all their own. Yet, the troubled reality of those who receive no forgiveness, no calming finality to their torment, offer stories that are given as warnings rather than common truths. I received this book in the evening. The post had come late & I had not been expecting the gift I found. I was quick to share my joy with my book-loving friends, & those whose relationship with literature differs quite significantly from my own. My enthusiasm was purely materialistic. I cannot rationalize that I receive books to review; this is something my young small-town self would find absurdly cool & to this day, a wave of humbling joy overcomes me. The background is given here because I had not heard of Vercher before receiving his book. I can confirm to you that the sunset’s gift of this story has left me longing for more of the author’s work. In truth, as I spoke about my enthusiasm, & my humbled gratitude, in response to receiving this book, I wondered if I would be the target audience. Had the publisher been correct in sending me this book? Would I be able to appreciate the labelled scars on the skin & souls of the characters? The synopsis left much to the imagination & I ruminated on what possible avenues the author might take in order for his main character to tell his story. If one is looking for a sad story, one is in good company here. Rather than adopt the genre of magical realism tinged with creatures of old school horror—the likes of which have been done before in this setting—Vercher offers the reader their own home; asks them to turn off the lights, & listen to the hum of silence, deafening them with anguish. In essence, this is a story about grief. The main character begins to speak to his son who died in a car accident, with him at the wheel. The chapters follow the narrator as he attempts to push through the wall of bricks that he has built, unconsciously, around himself. He shimmies over mounds of regrets, sadness, & hollowed-out spaces that reflect his shortcomings to himself. The story he shares with the reader is complicated & simple; he is sad. However, the main character is also angry; his failure to be a better person resulted in years of frustration for his son & left him reeling in his last moments, grasping for safety with a parent who was never there to offer it. While reading this story I began to wonder how I would explain it. What words would I use to recount my experiences with the plot & how would I describe the setting? Did I enjoy this story? Was the moral of the story tangible? Did the main character experience growth or regression? Was this a story that all readers may be able to appreciate? Though I have come to find the answers to these questions less easy to present in writing, the answer overall resides squarely with one’s own awareness of society. In recent years, the subject of ethnicity, race, nationality; the abstract demise of community, & the Land, have circled spaces intended for open discourse. Those among us who have been made to perish lock-jawed in the dirt find that the trees that shade their unrestful repose have grown strong; ignorance cannot survive forever. Yet it does persist. The reality that led the tomb to be shattered; the intentional sinking ship; the fire to the crops; the genocidal intent to eradicate; all these things live in the bones of those who wander the earth desperate & hopeful to find what has been lost to them. The main character has experience with these subjects on a more intimate level than simply through discussion. It is here that the reader will choose their path & decide how they will interpret the story. On the one hand, a reader may revel in the magic that colours the perimeter of this story. The main character experiences a shift in his physique as he slowly transforms into a jellyfish. He spends days fearing the worst, losing sleep, & speaking to shadows, only to return to the water from whence he originated. On the other hand, readers may interpret the dual narrative as a secret whispered to those who saunter the shores of experience; the exposure to a broken fraction; attempting to live life not wholly one part, but neither insufficient in either. As a person who empathizes with the reality of the main character, I found the dialogue that circled his truth to be presented authentically. Chapters explored the shifting tide of the diminished attention span, as those around him who are one with the identity they hold, discouraged him from expressing himself further, noting that no one cared to read about that anymore. The frustration will surely mount in readers who recognize the truth in these statements; though, it is certainly powerful to share, what feels like a majority of people are not listening to understand but to suck dry the oyster so they may declare themselves full. The narrative presents readers with snippets of blatant reality. Not everyone is given a spot at the table, some people aren’t even told that there is a table, left altogether unaware of a gathering. What may render this honesty difficult for certain readers to stomach is that it is presented by a character who is nearly, entirely, unlikeable. Readers who are led by logic & whose own days have been brimmed with an intimate acquaintanceship with humanity will have no trouble discerning value in what the main character is trying to communicate, even though he was a negative force in the life of his child. I found the inclusion of such negative traits an interesting choice. Certainly, if one is among the crowd of those who tire of conversations that include race, one may decide upon this being the perfect reason to duck out; people are angry & so why listen? On the other hand, I appreciated that the main character was redundantly flawed. This did not discount his reality. Indeed, if one studies the flow of the main character’s regression to a sea creature, the puddles of a grief-stricken parent, or simply the sorrow of a person who is intentionally misunderstood & ostracized because of what others see in him, this story speaks clearly about the empathy that is lacking in our communities. Why is it so difficult to accept that anger expressed is not an indication of fault in logic? As the story progressed & the main character struggled to stay face, the plot explored the burly nature of imbecilic reasoning. Characters flew on to the page to express that seeing is believing & then quote the Bible as rationalized jargon that may support them in their crimes. These people wanted to continue to enslave the souls of those who perished deep into the earth, denoting value in success for a job well done rather than an intricate understanding of what it means to love someone. By this I mean, that a person who loses without the ability to see, once more, what has been taken; a person whose sight witnesses despair & the similar, if not same skin walking villains protrude through the gentle flow of life; this person will never grow beyond the ignorance they wield. Certain aspects of this story lingered without giving the reader further clarity into their presence. The main character speaks of his grandfather who was a terrible man; What does this mean? What changed in the days they spent together while the main character was a child? Did this man express racially derogatory sentiments? Did he leave the property—the plantation—to Malcolm because he wanted him to know that no matter how brilliant his melanin, how deep his brown eyes, or how thick his locs were; deep down he would always be the product of malice? I cannot begin to know the answers to these questions though, I believe that the book does not necessitate me having clarity into the burdened soul of a bad man. Rather, I believe this book wants readers to reflect. Why would any of this have taken place? Readers like me may wonder at the forgiveness that is not given to the main character. The soothing nature of the water sings back to him as he escapes the burden of being the person that he is in a world that does not accept any portion of his identity. There is no winning in a system where a person needs to break off pieces of themselves to fit keyholes & purport terminology that is neutral & inauthentic. I was glad to see him enveloped by the water that cups the land, the ecosystem that shields life from humanity. Ultimately, this book was interesting & perhaps that is enough. When I think back, I am troubled by the aggression of the main character & flummoxed by his intentionality when treating others poorly. The flashbacks as his son grew up offered this story well-needed intimacy with the narrator, without which readers might be left wondering where to offer their sympathies. Truthfully, I felt moved by mournfulness as the narrator revisited the death of his child; the destruction of a life that had yet to experience the good that does thrive in the world, due to the unfortunate seething anger of his parent. This left me with deeply wounded gloom. My appreciation of this story mirrors the familiar twinge that beats deep in my mind. The sleepless nights & chatter with Grandfather Moon; the seething torment of rivers burdened with molasses; the life that seems utterly devoid of the tranquillity satiated by the ignorant, & an existence that is kept in the profoundly cavernous shadows of the self, unspoken to those whose boisterous cries decry an end of all things passed, though their pruned Capillaries drip downstream. Readers may cherish the story that speaks truth into darkness even if only for the ghosts. Reprieve from misunderstanding & a hollowed existence for the fault of a shape that has been disavowed though crafted originally by a spirit whose mania romanticized the very scoundrel it created, is all but absent. Such is the nature of the tormented, invisibly apparent, tremors of sorrow. Thank you to Celadon Books & John Vercher for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Apr 07, 2024
|
Apr 07, 2024
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
194
| 
| 0063327686
| 9780063327689
| B0C245PL9F
| 3.99
| 2,892
| Jan 09, 2024
| Jan 09, 2024
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None
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Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Mar 31, 2024
|
Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||
196
| 
| 180336758X
| 9781803367583
| B0CJTPY8FQ
| 4.09
| 892
| Jun 04, 2024
| Jun 04, 2024
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I 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 violent crime, the death of an animal, grief, the death of a loved one, body mutilation, substance abuse, & others. Oh, the rumble of the familiar road. Some form of resemblance to the life once known, a twinge of the dimple engraved in the hollowed false smile, lies the dawn of reparation; the final layer of the beast that is regret. Who is to judge that which causes harm to the wishing & washing of casual daydreams? Sometimes, the ghoul itself will raise its head in a pulsating threat, staring down the reflection it finds in the mirror. Seldom is more terrifying than that which is comprehensible, attainable, & proximate to the reader. I have stated before that the scariest story is one that reminds the reader of themselves & I remain convinced of this fact after finishing Malfi’s most recent novel. It is certainly the fangs of reality, those able to pierce the security one pretends to have in this life, that creep & crawl through the mind long after the immortal bat has taken flight. You will find that I repeat myself & that is only to reinforce my point. Readers familiar with my reviews will have heard me praise Malfi before. What you shall read in this review will be nothing new though, my experience with this story adopted new edges & saw me invested without shedding my annoyance, only to leave me surprised that I had come to the conclusion I accepted at the start. In essence, this is a story about regret. Andrew, the main character, is thirty-five & is living a life he is proud to have achieved. The borderline trite nature of his experiences in Manhattan is cooling to the touch; the lawyer, his wife—the editor, their soon-to-be-born first child, the life of luxury all stemming from the humble beginnings in a town whose name no one knows but which is familiar to readers like a collector’s coin they’ve hidden in the attic. Andrew returns to his hometown to meet his four friends. Though they have not kept in contact & though it has been, cumulatively twenty years since they engaged in any friendly activity, Andrew returns to engage in his trade in keeping one of his friends out of jail. The rest, as they say, is history. When I was young, I was quite certain that Horror was not the genre for me, therefore, I distanced myself from the garish covers & tomes lining the shelves of the libraries I frequented. I had enough to deal with, I did not need a reminder of the threat I knew by name. As the years passed, something like comfort grew in me as I poured over books that spoke to me through the pages; the experiences I sheltered, secretly pleading to disappear, transcribed gently via the time-stamped ink of a total stranger, allowed me reprieve. The transition between these two realities was rather more seamless than I am detailing. It never ceases to astound me that the wide world with all its rivers, oceans, mountains, molehills, & prairies, can be so very small as to fit compactly within the binds of a book. I highlight this personal experience because this story brought me back to the feelings I had towards those early novels. I often wondered why the truth was never spoken or why a character’s guilt allowed them to evade the claws of self-decomposing despair. The convenient ending felt too quaint & I pondered the nature of concluding a story that covets reality with the magical dreamland bonbons of forgiveness & tender healing. You may think me a pessimist & you may not be entirely wrong. However, this question persisted. It was through many years of life & a gargantuan pile of books that I concluded that the age-old adage was indeed accurate; the sun does, in fact, shine bright & clearest on the unperturbed landscape. Where does that leave the veteran reader? When coming upon this book, my immediate sentiment was, thrill. After reading “Black Mouth” (2022) by Malfi, I was a fan for life, regardless of whether his books ever impacted me so deeply, ever again. Readers will find in the repertoire of stories that the author crafts the ease of a storyteller’s gift. Certainly, there are plots that pivot the gaze of marvel & in some others, the Leviathan itself seethes through the veins of a foul tale. It is a gift to tell a story; it is a delicate talent to transmit it to others. I would not say that the main character of this story had such talent though, he had little choice but to share or hold his peace, forever. This is an interesting story & one that devoted readers will clock as the ode to the Titan’s great work, “Ghost Story” (1979) by Peter Straub. Should a reader not have had the opportunity to read about the jaundiced demons intent on revenge, this story will still offer them a sliver of flavour to masticate on, unique in its succulence. The witching aspect of this story gave me pause. Following everything I’ve said, one would be right to assume that I had a complicated relationship with this story. The opening chapters reminded me so deeply of Straub’s work that I forgave them for the meandering dialogue. I wasn’t necessarily reading because I was invested in Andrew’s personal life or because he may prove to be insightful. Rather, I read this book because I love the sentiment of fear—the most intimate of emotions. The weaving nature of the terror that loomed behind the everyday grief—consequences of a series of horrible decisions—was not something I welcomed. The Graves family & their history was interesting. I was not seeking a story that would include earnest witchcraft, spells, or ghoulish old women on a murder rampage but, that is what the author has written. My insecurity towards my feelings began to develop early in my reading. At times, I grew hopeful that the plot would be the double-entendre; the morbid nature of a mind that does not rest & the fabulously mystical Grimm Brother’s antagonist in her cottage. Certainly, readers who do not mind one or the other, or even both, will delight. I, on the other hand, found myself conflicted. Though I appreciated the nature of a real-life villain, one that was always around & one that felt rather quaintly placed in reality, one asks oneself in actually, who it is that is rioting against the cause for colonialism & gentrification? Who can be rooted for? My personal sentiments about the mystique of the old Graves woman did not leave me with unease but, a sulking frown. Do not mistake me, Malfi paced his story well & the villain was ripe with reason, she was a vigilante whose goal was to murder those who violently killed her child twenty years ago. I understand her plight. While reading about their torment of Robert Graves I too found my sympathy waning. The group of friends vandalized the Graves house, nearly setting it on fire, then shot a firework through Robert Graves' eye socket, leaving him to drown after shooting off the side of a cliff. Is a reader meant to root for these characters? In some sense, I believe that Malfi played on my secret desire to read a story that did not offer a calming ending. The characters did not experience reprieve & rather, their tar tore each other apart, leaving one after the other for the vultures to devour. Will readers believe that each character was treated with the consequence, torment, guilt, & terror that they deserved? I cannot say that I feel that each member of the group received what they merited. In the original situation, wherein Robert Graves was murdered by negligence, assault & battery, not every member of the group acted in an equal fashion. Here the reader may need to call upon their mature experiences to deconstruct the setting. An innocent life was taken because a group of teenagers were spoilt, deeply ignorant of how closely death walks in step with each of us, & they held a deep inability to gauge the legal consequences of manslaughter. Tig did not pay for the death of Robert Graves. She grovelled for forgiveness & was set free whereas Andrew was left in a coma following a car crash. Meach was murdered by Eric, & Dale was murdered by Eric; can these be considered as penance paid or, the easy way out? What was it that the Graves Witch wished to inflict? If one is pondering her motive to act twenty years after Robert’s death it may be as simple as her knowing that her time is nearing a close or, perhaps she has seen how well the lives of those responsible have become & felt it her calling to act now, though, this is not altogether true since Tig is experiencing very serious financial insecurity & Meach is suffering from physical illness & addiction. Neither of these characters acted as violently as Eric & Dale—who, in my opinion, are the true antagonists. Though I would not state that Andrew is innocent, I am not sure whether he deserved to be in the cellar of his mind’s horror for the rest of time. The cowardice that took place across the pages, as was exhibited by each character left me to wonder how this same situation may play out for anyone in real life. The answers one looks for, those that may set us free from the guilt we hold for our actions, are rarely found in this lifetime. Andrew became a shadow of his potential because the people he was close with were responsible for the death of another teenager. Does this make him the evil mastermind? Should he have told Rebecca that he knew what happened to her brother? What is altered by telling the truth? I found Andrew to be a compelling narrator only because he was so simple. His goal was to escape, no matter the consequences or the toll it took, yet at every turn he made the most ignorantly banal decisions. I found myself curious only because he was so silly. Readers observe Andrew deciding to live in a house that is infested with flies; a house that has a possible sewer leak; a house that is without basic amenities for reasons he never makes clear. What would have led him to be comfortable with living with all of these things, let alone one? It would not have been unusual for him to choose to sleep in his car rather than lay in a bed that was swarming with flies. Andrew’s senseless behaviour persisted throughout the story. He engaged with Eric who was surely culpable of the First Degree; he sat with Dale as he lied straight to his face; he went back to his hometown knowing how little gumption he held in his person. Why did he do this? When analyzing the behaviour exhibited by Andrew one may wonder at his reasoning. I suppose it might be as straightforward as to state that he is not a complex person, nor he is very smart, or well-rounded; he’s a man who went to law school & married the sister of a boy he left for dead. The rest is background noise. Reading about the absurd decisions that Andrew was intent on making left me frustrated. I kept hoping that something more would happen that would leave him shocked & electrocuted to the world around him like a strike from the sky. In some ways, I felt that there was something he was not communicating to the reader, something that left this story wanting altogether. What was the point in all of this? Why did Tig murder Cynthia? Why did she attack her with an ashtray? Tig has worked in a bar her whole life, she would have known, or even seen, the repercussions of an ashtray thrown in anger. Why did Tig lean on Dale & his unspoken love of her to get her off Scott-free while Dale died? In an ideal world, readers may consume this story & judge the characters for their actions. Readers may wonder why none of the characters made different choices Why did none of the characters go to the police & why did they not tell the truth? Based solely on the cold written word of the law, Dale is to blame for Robert’s death & the others may be tried as accessories to the fact. Had they called for help immediately Robert may have been blind, but it is not a certainty that he would have died due to his injury caused by the firework. Leaving him for dead secured their fate, each character is responsible for his death. Would calling a first responder have prevented any of the events that took place? Had Eric’s father not been a police officer or the sheriff, I may be inclined to believe that real life would swoop into the story & the group of friends be made to suffer the consequences of a wishy-washy justice system. One could ponder the probabilities all day, my point is that no consideration was given & in their adulthood the characters believed it their right to take justice into their own hands, leaving each other for dead. My favourite part of this book was the scene in the Motel. By this point in the book, I knew who the cold-blooded killer was & I knew who relied on their self-secured ignorance to wade the tides of criminal activity. I was sure that Rebecca was Robert’s sister & I was sure that the parents of the group, had done what was in their abilities to safeguard their children from the law. What I wanted from this story was for it to spell out how morbid the lives of these characters were. I wanted the narrator to make clear to the reader all of the terrible things that happened leading up to the horror the reader encountered but, it did not offer any of this. Instead, the Motel allowed readers to ponder the nature of the story they were reading. Is time linear or, did Andrew act as a voice to young Meach? Was Meach’s psychosis as entrenched as his friends believed or was, he suffering the repercussions of untreated addiction? Why was Bonnie sleepwalking? Why did the Graves Witch include Bonnie as a vessel for the torment? How were Bonnie & Cynthia beckoned in sleep to wander the town? Did Eric’s father remain physically abusive or did his behaviour extend into other forms? Why did Eric’s father commit suicide? Ultimately, I think what made this story enjoyable was the ending. There was no resolution, no happiness, no final hurrah to forgive & live a life worthy of existence. The characters, each in their own way, suffered a fate that they created for themselves. It is unkind to say that Meach deserved his addiction & it is cruel to say that the innocent life of Robert Graves merited a torturous end. Neither of these individuals were granted freedom for what befell them. I will not sit & write out how much better Meach is now that he is free because I do not know that his soul could rest, floating around a room carved out of the flesh of lies, terror, & sorrow. The familiarity of this plot spoke softly to the reader, the shadowed carcass of the deceased, the vultures, the shadow man, & burning figure of desecration in the drywall; the paralysis, the nightmares, the loved ones lost, the group's secret, the small town, the stories, the lies. It is up to the reader, depending on the day & the hour, whether they feel that these glimmering notes of an ode sung to the departed whisper a tune worthy of the Serpent himself. In dreams, the nightmare fuel of walking through rays of sunlight is made clear, cruel, & staunchly vivid, to the suffering soul who has thrown away the key to their salvation. Meriting a second’s glance is the accessory; the sorcerer whose spell is in the living creatures who suffer the magic cast with intent to harm. May the souls of the birds whose necks were snapped & whose bellies sliced open, be free in skies unincumbered by torrential rain & human horror. Thank you to NetGalley, Titan Books, & Ronald Malfi for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Apr 11, 2024
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Mar 31, 2024
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Kindle Edition
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193
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| B009ANF1VQ
| 4.02
| 610
| 1981
| Oct 20, 2011
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None
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Notes are private!
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not set
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not set
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Mar 15, 2024
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Paperback
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192
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| 0802162959
| 9780802162953
| B0CH1NHWNW
| 4.04
| 5,490
| Apr 02, 2024
| Apr 02, 2024
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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 the death of a loved one, graphic violence, torture, forced confinement, the sexual abuse of a child, violent crime, lynching, grief, & others. The good story begins with the voice of wonder speaking down from the clouds; sneaking blissfully through the wind; resounding like falling timber in the woods; offering the sounds of sonorous fantasia into the pulsing eardrum of the reader. The narrator may never be seen by the reader but for his resounding voice, which often feels too far away to chase & yet resounds with comfort, too close to release into the page. Rainy’s narration is one of a man whom readers will love immediately. His story begins where all good stories do, with his heartstrings sewn tightly to the instrument he sets forward to play. As readers open the page to this chronology they will meet what defines the traveller’s furry; the incomparable emaciating infatuation of a story. The cover art for this book gave me pause. I will always admit, with truth & compassion, that I judge books by their covers. I do not do this because my opinion matters more than the artist or the author whose time & investment crafted the joint nature of visual art. Rather, I do this because the beast's shell speaks to me or is silent. I have been reading for a great many years, I state with certainty that I know when to listen to the tectonic murmur of a story & when to go on my way. This is not a science; sometimes books do not appeal to me or, in other cases, their colours seem to promise me the ruby & leave me empty-handed in the end. I enjoy reading so, it’s no love lost, either way. In this case, Enger chose wisely. The colourful painted world of his tale was brought to life on the cover & for this reason, I requested the opportunity to read what was held inside. It was early in my reading experience that I realized that I could not eagerly run to the end of this book. It was too good to leave. I reached out to a friend, who will surely recognize himself in this section—rather what are friends for if not to support one’s adulation of reading? As it so happens, I knew he would love this book as much as me, yet, I was hesitant to tell him so because, at that point, I had only read about ten percent of the 300+ pages. Every sentence reminded me of the joy I felt as a child, reading the adventurous series of books « Amos Daragon : Porteur des masques » (2003) by Bryan Perro. As an adult, I felt that the years spent reading as a child shaped the world around me & I never stopped chasing the format that contained the stories I adored. In adulthood, adventures & turmoil, hidden treasure, fantasy & lore, often disappear into the backdrop. Yet, readers of these genres, such as myself & my friend, often make our way indirectly to the origin of what was for us, the beginning of enchantment. Enger welcomed me into his story after time away from such imaginativeness. The introduction will allow readers to ease their way into the milky sautéd waters of the Great Lakes which are home to me & my country’s neighbour. The story will be a dystopian nightmare, yet not ghoulish like the fanged villains who bomb the houses where children live, yet seething in a way that reminds readers why dreams of adventure are so deeply important. In its essence, this is a story about death & grieving, & the ways in which our person dies a slow death waiting to rejoin those whom we have loved in this life. Rainy, the main character, is a man who is kind, he is tender & funny, smart & musically inclined. His narration of the story comes from a point in the future. The reader is unsure of why Rainy has chosen to share his recollections or if he knows that we are listening. However, these details are not as important as they may seem; Rainy has something to share & so he does. This excursion began when his beloved wife, Lark, was murdered in their home by a group of government bruisers who ransacked the house in search of a runaway prisoner. I find this story difficult to review. I felt terribly sad when Lark was murdered & yet, I hardly knew her. In fact, Lark wasn’t a real person at all, she is a character in a book. Her character was warm, cunning, savvy & humorous, she was gentle & firm, empathetic & silly. Lark felt like the rain over dry crops; she was a person who brought life into the story by the mere mention of her person. It is no mystery to me why I felt so positively devastated by her untimely demise. Lark’s character enters the story & acts as the light that shines the way for Rainy. Their marriage is one that would make the most claustrophobic covet the cupboard to feel such snug warmth. Lark was a keener of delicate & valuable books—readers will love her for this fact alone. She owned a shop in the town & roamed the country in search of estate sales & delicate treasures she may amass for her collection. In the world of this story, such treasures were rare & often miscategorized for their lack of immediate value, such as one would find in a tool or wire. I suppose in some ways, I wanted the opportunity to visit Lark. I did not forget where I sat while reading this book nor did I envy the characters their world; a society in which rampant triads of gore shimmered in every horizon & sunrise. Yet, had the opportunity to visit her little shop of wonders been granted, I would have taken it. You see, I cannot pass up the chance to see what stories are beloved by another. Here we find ourselves at the heart of the story. Though this book deals primarily with violence, the adventure of finding a person one has lost to death, & the trials of surviving in a gruesomely barbaric society; this story also teases the reader with sweets in the form of tales & first drafts, of chronicles that the bind knows the reader cannot pass up. The title of this book is the same as the one that Lark has pursued throughout her adult life. I am compassionate of her endless & tiresome travels, attempting to obtain the precious gem that has escaped her. When finally she finds it, her death follows soon after. What is the purpose of this book? What is the goal when including a secondary author in the torment of grief that overshadows all other things? Readers may find that Enger confuses himself by encouraging Rainy to carry a book that Lark loved & yet never had the opportunity to ruminate on, throughout the months of his travels in search of her spirit reincarnate. Veteran readers, or readers who are people with days under their skies & dozens of meetings with the moon, will not begrudge Enger or Rainy their small comfort. As referenced earlier, the goons who were responsible for Lark’s murder were chasing an escaped prisoner whose name was Kellan. His character is flawed, rather sullen, sulky & shy. However, Kellan is also patient, insightful, & kind. Though the reader never learns the details of Rainy’s age, they may come to look at him as a man in the middle; a person who has lived long enough to know the patterns & flow of life but who has enough spirit left in him to try something new & tempt fate, one more time. The relationship that these two characters share is short-lived. Kellan runs away in the middle of Lark’s birthday party & Rainy sees him only upon arriving on the government’s prison ship. Yet, their time is well-spent & readers are given the layout of the viper’s nest that sits quietly in the tall grass. Though I do not think it is my place—a reviewer’s place—to recap the story in its entirety, I hope this morsel suffices for readers who have yet to read the book, to engage their curiosity further by going to the source. Enger writes a story that lingers in the mind. Every single character is a delight, even when they act as the antagonist to the melodramatic chants of the protagonist. The feat of writing an adventure the likes of which rivals Homer’s “The Odyssey” (725 BCE), is incomparably difficult. Readers seldom forget themselves in their reading experience. Those who do are perhaps reading for escapism or are less critical of the world built around them; none of which are bad things. To be met with the dedicated talent of an author who understands their characters & the shadow figures of their imaginary world is a treat one savours upon encountering. Enger is an author whom I will seek out again. What made this story so enthralling had perhaps less to do with the plot than it did with the characters. Rainy was not without his faults & none of the secondary characters were altogether trustworthy. In scenes, the reader meets people who are abusive, cruel, & tormented. The next chapters gently untangle a forgotten memory that Rainy wishes to share & it seems that the story is forgiven for the introduction of an annoying child or of a dirty malevolent predator. Just as life is flawed & faulted by the very nature of its existence, so too was this story. The flow of the narrative captured what it meant to mourn a loss that was stolen; a thieved facet of what made life worth living. The imagery presented throughout Rainy’s travels reminded me of home while also speaking to me in a language foreign to my understanding. The claim of this being a dystopian novel is factually correct, though I would hesitate to state that devourers of this genre of story will be met with their most beloved in this bind. Rather, this story appeals to readers because of its adventurous nature; wandering minds & analytic thinkers will have something to devour & deconstruct without necessarily stepping outside the confines of comfort. The equation presented is one that a tired & true reader may have encountered before. In some ways, this reminded me of John Langan’s “The Fisherman” (2017), which is how I sold it to my friend, telling him that in this book he would find the classic storytelling of ancient philosophers & the clawing nature of the magistral beast that we both loved in Langan’s fantastical horror. These points are not meant to discourage readers, on the contrary, I believe that one has certainly come upon a book that missed the heart of what their reader’s mind was seeking to find & I believe that I have been satiated by reading Enger’s book. Certainly, the storytelling style of a personal narration, mixed with memories, side notes featuring feelings, & characters the reader will never become acquainted with firsthand, may lead some readers to flounder; What is the purpose in so much detail? While I reference my nameless friend so often it is not without purpose. There were times while reading when I wondered if my grasp of English was strong enough or if I had enough life experience to empathize with Rainy. On other occasions, I felt overexposed to feelings I kept locked away or memories that reminded me of my existence. Though I shall never come out & say the things that make me who I am & very rarely hint at them, the books that I appreciate—the stories that I love—do that for me. To share such high esteem with another person is quite a vulnerable position. Rainy spends an entire novel speaking to the reader because they are a stranger. He knows how he may sound & he understands that he will come across, as sometimes shallow, & sometimes a silly dreamer, but he shares his experiences because this part of him has lived in his person for so long, & it has come time to set it free. I knew I loved Rainy immediately & I rather bemoan myself for writing that sentiment here because I do not want you to know this. Rainy reminds me quite intimately of the hope I held a very long time ago. He remained nearly faceless throughout this entire story because, as all great love stories go, we met in the written word & we shall never have the chance to meet with eyes locked in understanding. His deep-rooted admiration, tenderness, respect—his love—for Lark opened a soft spot for him in my mind & it was overwhelming to see him remain a man that a reader could trust, flaws & all. What kind of reader does this make me? Perhaps in the same way that Rainy sought refuge with the quietly gentle couple in the remote town near a Great Lake, so too have I tilted my head upward to meet the bear waiting for me in the forest. Ultimately, as I wrote out my recommendation to my friend—a person who knows me well enough now to understand the grappling nature of sickness that cut off crumbs of paper for him to follow when it was his time—I remembered myself as a child, reading the great books that shadowed the hallways of the houses I frequented & the people whose minds they lived within. A recommendation is a person’s way of saying; in this delicate treasure, you may find me, alongside the uncharacteristically earnest people who colour the ink. Perhaps, I feel brave because I read a story about a man who could not escape his grief. Maybe, in some way, this story was made magical because it reminded me of something else, or because the prose was more beautiful than a naturally grown rose, or the morning song of a bird waking one from slumber. Certainly, the pilgrimage of grief exists alongside Rainy for the rest of his life. His story does not end as the reader closes the page to stare into silence. Rather, snippets of his joy, his cool water resounding mornings, his riddles & strums, the waves of his forearms & Ursidae heart, beat into the night like a drum whose belly is soft as the fur that once adorned it; tanned with the sorrow of a long & succulently devious life. Thank you to NetGalley, Grove Atlantic, & Leif Enger 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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Mar 02, 2024
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Mar 02, 2024
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Kindle Edition
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191
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| 0316568066
| 9780316568067
| 0316568066
| 3.77
| 62
| Aug 20, 2024
| Aug 20, 2024
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liked it
|
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I 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 violent crime, grief, murder, distorted body image, eating disorders, substance abuse, sexual-based violence, clinical distress, the death of an animal, & others. Ample are the parameters, definers, symptoms, & faces of grief. The altruistic nature of the sentiment prevents the shadow of emptiness from hovering over a future horizon, perhaps never to be met by the sufferer. The quotidian rhythm of existence promises grief in the rise & fall of all that we do; there is no way to avoid loss. However, grief is not simply a loss. In its own beautiful way, grief speaks to something unknown; a splinter in the beast itself. Culture will define grief & will prevent it from growing tall; nipping it at the heels with the poignant hymn of truth. Yet, one must ask; What is the truth? When I requested this book I knew not what to expect. This is perhaps a silly statement. Rarely do I endeavour into books that gift me a clear idea of what they wish to present. I have always been a reader who prefers the silent miss-matching of story & mind. The ambiguous clarity provided by a synopsis is one I usually forfeit altogether; I have done this too long not to read the shaded colours & stencilled shapes on the wall. In this particular case, I was glad to hold my ignorance. The format of the story is adopted primarily to sequester a reader in what might be a primal stance; to be victim, victor, or vanquished. In essence, this story is about Jane. It appears trite to say that the story relies upon Jane’s disorders to reel the reader into submission but, this is the truth. The story opens with Jane’s redundancy. Her mornings see the consequence of dread filling her lungs after a night of being caught in the riptide of her illness (Bulimia Nervosa). She runs the city, scours her room, rides the train to work, eats a salad, occupies every free second with her best friend, hitchhikes her way home through pizza joints & doughnut shops, & repeats her dissociated dance of online activity & purges evidence of nutrition into the bellies of the toilet bowl. Jane’s story is split into three parts. The first of which explores the first-hand experiences of Jane’s diligent & harmful cycle, as listed in the paragraph above. In between the sections that read like a malevolent tornado, Jane meets men; she sleeps with them, runs the pedestrian’s path with them, & works on literary projects with them. All the while, Jane remains essentially unknown to all the people around her. This first section is meant to act as both a cautionary tale & a reminder that the mundane sickness of life may not end us but, death is certainly around the corner. That is to say, Jane’s life is sad to take in. Readers unfamiliar with the cycle of distress that accompanies an eating disorder may feel just as suffocated as readers who have felt the weight of horror in their bodies & bones. Montague works diligently to prevent the reader from forgetting who Jane is. Rather than stick to the mounds of dread, scratchy throats, & dirty bile; Montague reminds readers that Jane is a person misunderstood; she has likes & dislikes, passions & terrors. All the things that make the reader the essence of who they are also exist in Jane. This is what made her section both insightful & ruefully grievous. Through the pages of repeated daily activity, Jane becomes a person that the reader wishes to know. Some form of the fingers on the pages longs to intervene before it is too late. Throughout this section, I found myself actively engaged in the anthropologist’s role. Would Jane be able to find peace? Which of the men in Jane’s life murdered her? Every morning run reminded me of the curious nature of life; our habits shape the day as we move through it, tedious as they sometimes seem. However, in so far as I found Jane’s section engaging, the narrative lost steam because we learned so little about her environment. This was most likely done intentionally. Jane is the victim of a violent crime, her section could not be the length of a tome, she was nearing her final days & it was soon time that the reader shifted points of view to better understand the narrative at play. Regardless, I felt taxed as a consequence of a morbid existence, otherwise seen as being Jane’s life. The redundancy of Jane’s life shifts to welcome a new character, Jesse. The second part of the story explores a tertiary point of view of the crime. The players the reader grew accustomed to seeing in the backdrop of Jane’s life become the villains; men with voices too loud to discern clearly. Jesse’s role is as an investigator for the Defendant, Jeremy. In all sincerity, I preferred this section to the two others because it felt real in a way that is difficult to achieve in writing. Jesse’s life is flawed & hurtful; his days are wrought with anxiety & pain. His family life consists of hours spent guiding his mother through repetitions brought on by her Dementia & attempting to prevent her from losing hope in the darkness brought on by her mind. Jesse’s narrative was raw, earnest, pleading, ambitious, & genuine. His person brought realism to a plot that introduced the reader to people they might never understand & then, here came Jesse, a character who could also be their friend. Notable in this section is how Montague wrote the turmoil of a terminal diagnosis alongside the finality of death at the hands of another. In both cases, for both women—Jane & Jesse’s mother—the end of their lives became a truth they were not privy to learning. While Jesse attempted to wander in the dark to find the pieces of his mother that might still exist in her mind, he also attempted to find the truth in the void left behind by Jane’s murder. The links between both women are ample & a diligent reader will piece together the ropes that tie them to one existence; that of a woman without agency. I found Jesse to be amiable & warm. His earnest pursuit of the truth among all the shaded groves of different people & their experiences, helps the plot move forward but it also grants it the girth that it needs. In many ways, both the first & the third sections do nothing to speak to the reader & rather seek to isolate them from the narrative at play. At times, the secrecy behind an intentional intellect—think a philosopher without any lived experience to rely on—confounds this story into a heaping waste of time. The legal aspects are not explored in the first & third sections; the grainy details of the crime of homicide are not brought forward by any of the characters & rather, these sections poise the characters to make everything about their person, forgetting the societal implications of selfishness. This is, as I have said many times in my writing, not meant to be cruel. Rather, the author allows the reader to deduce that the real storyteller is Jesse. He is the driver of the story, the hero, & victor throughout all the chaos caused by two people who were egotistically overly involved in themselves. This truth made Jesse more appealing. The links between the deterioration of the brain & the body as well as the reality that horrors succeed without humanity being capable of concluding rationales is the crux of what is bulbous, overwhelming, & distressing both in life & in fiction. However, upon reflection, I wonder still about the reality of the case. Jane’s cell phone was found in the dumpster at her office building. Jane was having an affair with her boss, Tom, & she knew that he had the business appraised for an obscene amount of money. By the end of the second section, we learn that Tom was accused of the crime but was acquitted. Why is that? It will not come as a surprise to anyone who knows their way around the legal system that the processes are not always correct nor are they efficient. If Tom did not murder Jane, who did? How would Tom have known where Jane ran? How would Tom have known that Jane would have heard him calling to her in the alleyway? Had Tom met Aaron? Did Tom know that Aaron usually met Jane down the laneway from where she was murdered? Had he accounted for the fact she might not be alone or that other people were awake during this hour of the morning? There are so many variables that could & should be analyzed before concluding that the murder was committed by Tom. What is apparent & dull is that the justice system did not ask any of these questions. In the state of New York, the Double Jeopardy, also known as the Fifth Amendment, prevents a person who has been acquitted of a crime from being tried again for the same crime. Therefore, Tom is a free man. I reflect on this fact because the logistics do not make sense to me. None of the men regarded as possible suspects in Jane’s murder were approached with dedicated caution. Jesse came across the evidence of Jane’s affair with Tom at random. Why was he not being properly investigated from the start? Certainly, my questions are somewhat annoying because they will bring the reader no clarity. Though multiple characters claim that Jane’s schedule is meticulous, a murder in the morning is too risky to be well-planned. One can easily assume that Jane was not running in the dark of 4:00 AM but rather closer to 6:00 or 7:00 AM given the number of people out & about. This speaks to the personality trait at play as we know for a fact that Jane walked around the city alone at night between restaurants & bars. What I seek to highlight with these questions is not that the irresolution of her murder is flawed but that the story is not about the crime. The third part of the book drives home my point as Jeremy is introduced via his own experiences as he interviews for a podcast. The desolate & lovely gore of the story is sadly lost entirely in the third part. Perhaps the author sought to allow the vanquished man to hold his court & share his truth. In some ways, allowing Jeremy the chance to speak to his experiences as the accused feels just; his life will forever be altered by the suspicion that lingered on the cellphone tower. Yet, if one looks back to the perusal through the logistics of the murder, one is left wondering (again) whether the judicial bodies did any work in this case, at all. Jeremy, like Jane, held a meticulous schedule & visited similar places, over & over again. The suspicion that he might have been responsible for Jane’s murder arises simply because his cellphone pinged off a tower near the scene of the crime. Of course, reading Jeremy’s section does nothing to incite confidence in his character; rather he reads as a very tedious liar but, I digress. If one were to properly seek to understand the case against Jeremy, one would be left exasperated. Perhaps the author sought to include this final section to encourage the ambiguous ending; maybe, Jeremy did murder Jane. This leaves me asking what the point of the story is, if, in fact, the driving force is the men who do very little of anything worth reading throughout the entire story. From a neutral point, one can accept that it is kind to allow Jeremy to close off the story. However, this story is not about him so the narrative feels as though has lost its essence. Is this the point of the book? Are readers meant to conclude that a woman’s truth is lost as a consequence of a man’s presence/involvement? I am not convinced that this is the moral of the story. Rather, I feel quite comfortable in concluding that the author was simply writing to write; the final section shows a flexed finger as Montague quotes great writers whose word use reinforces the burden of existence whereas her book simply showcases the lost causes that exist in between rumbling subway stations. The dialogue between Jeremy & the podcast host did not insight knowledge into the story, nor did it create space for reflecting on what the story was actually about. Perhaps, because I was not a fan of who Jeremy was; after sections of blabbering about being a writer with talent & time; I found myself wishing for the book to end so that I was relieved of the boredom that accumulated around the third section. Truthfully, had his character been set up as a man of men, a person with flaws but the ability to not be chauvinistic & rather daft, I might not have felt as I did. Unfortunately, looming in the centre of the cream egg was mould & I did not see the purpose in writing pages about a man who made clear who he was in each section of the book. Ultimately, this is a good book & one I would recommend to other readers. I long to meet Jesse again & I hope that the sorrow of his life is healed. He was not a perfect person but he was a person in all his entirety, making him a man I grew eager to know. Just as I have chosen a favourite section, other readers will meet the parts of the story they deem valuable & agreeable. One is left wondering if the purpose of transcribing human horror is lost on the three subcategories of readers who will approach this book as I have & then also, in completely different ways. The burden of grief lays itself raw to the reader in the failed investigations & cruel characters that once appeared as best friends. The essence of a person is never quite lost as we live inside the story & reality that exists in the brains of others. Jane, a woman who was quiet & ill, was also mean & uninterested, while simultaneously being catastrophically numb to life, she sought out its warmth & excitement in any place she could. In just such a way, may the reader find that each of the characters is more than they appear yet, not a lie of who they hope to be. Much of the burden of loss exists because the imagery we hold is no longer visible to us until we become one with the illusion that shelters our person from days that continue to move forward without the comfort of those who are no more. Thank you to NetGalley, Mulholland Books, & Eugenie Montague for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! ...more |
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Feb 25, 2024
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Feb 25, 2024
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190
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| 4.14
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| 1466831162
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| 0316769029
| 9780316769020
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| 3.96
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it was amazing
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**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on suicidal ideations, suicide, the death of a loved one, & others. The journey of discovery is the talisman of death; the torpedo of destruction, the same canal that leads the head between trembling legs. Understanding what makes a life worth living—philosophizing the ideology of creation & the stupor of perfectionism within a nebula—hinders the freedom to exit. What rational mind seeks out the cavity of darkness? Which part of the Cerebrum sets the intention to watch itself perish? The destruction of the world, the folding of the universe, & tremor of the faltering waves, rising only to plummet, set human beings alongside those whom they deem meaty morsels of secondary value. Great minds have calculated the equations I reference in my reflection. Nietzsche’s plea to be still & intentional in the face of the void is hopeful unless one recognizes that he may speak truth from the profound black of the tunnel itself. How far along the road are we that we may forget from whence we started? Does the material we collect—the pottery & soil, the ground bones & shimmering tar—allow a more insightful experience or one that places us alongside the dead & gone members of our kin who perished in an oil-soaked sadness that swallowed them from within? Salinger’s work is too few. I am regretful in a way that rocks my bones against invisible wind, that the author did not publish more. Inside the hollow space where we meet, I long to hold out hope that he has kept his work private, like woes, dusty in an attic where I shall never reach them. By nurturing a silly & unfounded hope, I grant my mind a reprieve habitually starved from my person. We are all in a boat where the oars are sparked with chips & molten with webs though, some of us have had a cleaning service to better prepare them for a hearty sail. Whereas others, sink face-down into the crepuscular sea. There will always be room in my contorted brain for words that ooze ointment. Salinger’s writing style is as delicate as soufflé & as tender as sherbet on a curious tongue. His prose makes seamless the mesh & mould of a tired & hopeless narrative that follows characters who are chronically misunderstood by the rowers of boats slick & new. Allegorically, the brain, like this imaginary boat, requires a curve or the stern will never advance through the turbulence caused naturally by the environment. Yet, these same unskilled sailors whose weapons include a worm’s soft skin body behind the eyes, find it their hero’s call to state mastery as a mystical failure. The poet’s call toward stanzas that seek to imbue a numbing commitment to the creed presents readers with a divisive plot. Simply put, this story toys with the character’s cognizance of their intellect. Grown to age in a home in New York, New York, Franny & Zooey were raised by a slew of older siblings, each better read than the other yet no more in competition with each other than Yeshua & his vapidly driven palls. Both characters understand what it means to grasp material; they know how to incorporate knowledge into currency & their daily lives watch them perform acts of perfectionistic grandeur to audiences that admire them from shaded whispering willows. In its essence, Salinger writes about the ransom demanded by life from those for whom the Great Mystery is nothing but a childish rhyme unstructured & debilitated by willful ignorance. The story follows the titular siblings as they sit in the company of people who do not match them intellectually. The pair discuss, both together & in their singular, grovelling, state of despair, that the mind’s fury & potency towards comprehension has offered them the oyster’s pearl. The author does not necessarily seek to present a new concept. The original protest that bliss is kept, nurtured, & flourishes in ignorance has long held weight in society. Unfortunately, scholastic abilities have consistently plummeted as ravages against intellectual properties, both theoretical & institutional, leading the insecure to forget their place. Everything comes at a cost; to remain able to moronically wander through life without a tedium of worry one must accept that the profound nature of existence will escape their grasp. Perhaps, these statements are rather crass, one may even deem them cruel. Certainly, I am no stranger to the world, nor was Salinger & yet we both approach the burden of knowledge from different sides of the same bolder. Such is the beauty of the stereographic stone. However, Salinger’s characters meet me at the tip of the curve with annoyance & flustering lungs boiling with despair. What is a person to do who has no choice but to see the world as it is? The reader meets Franny through her correspondence with her boyfriend. She appears a very superficial girl on the page & rather than believe that something has changed within her from the moment at which she wrote her letter to her arrival at the train station, one may choose to believe that Franny has intentionally done her best to play the role of the naive & innocent young girl. What becomes quickly apparent is her struggle with herself. Whereas Franny is accustomed to sitting at the table with people of high intelligence, people who are driven & understand what they have yet to know; the world is not a mirror image of her childhood home. Franny’s realization plagues her. She cannot focus on her post-secondary classes as the professors seem to her ridiculous & small-minded. Her dinner with her boyfriend sees her become physically ill at the prospect of having to hide behind a veil for the rest of her life. Whereas it might appeal to her to speak the truth, that everything means nothing & that there is no shame in admiring the void that wanders close behind. Franny reads texts of old philosophers, some of which are not attributed to a specific author, in the hopes of shedding light into the darkness that has encircled her. Unfortunately, rarely does philosophy leave a reader’s soul weightless. Franny becomes gravely ill & returns home. Zooey’s introduction to the reader reads as tedious. He is also introduced via the written word however, in his case, his older brother, Buddy, leads the reader through his correspondence & back into the story at play. Zooey is a man of great acting abilities whose intellect has distraught him since his youth. He spends time discussing semantics with his mother, who wanders in & out of the bathroom speaking about, what are meant to be dismissible worries. Neither Franny nor Zooey has a firm grasp on what it means to be a person in the world; a person who thrives in society & a person who can wander the world making friends with those whom they deem lesser than themselves. Do not mistake me, neither character is intentionally shallow. Rather, they struggle with carrying the array of knowledge they have & maneuvering within a world where others do not have even a fraction of what they hold. The book’s dialogue covets the inner turmoil that each character experiences. Franny’s physical illness may be interpreted as early signs of pregnancy or she may simply be homesick. On the other hand, should one be seated in the humbly stacked living room alongside her, one will note the Nihilistic struggle of the Existentialist. Franny’s struggle feels personal to me; her willingness to wander the halls of a school in the hopes of being taught something as yet unknown to her reeks of a despair that I appreciate as an autodidact. Rather than simply leave the story to profit off philosophical theorems, Salinger encourages the reader to find themselves in the confusing study & calculations of religious schools of thought. The learned disciple will be better suited to reflect on the texts that are mentioned. However, as a by-proxy devout child who once eagerly carried the theories of belief in her mind for an hour every Sunday, gnawing the flesh over the following days until the return to bent knees & ominous bells; Micheal Kozlov & Arsenius Troyepolsky’s “The Way of a Pilgrim” (1884) slithers within my grooves like the Great Beast Himself. The formulaic nature of religion may appeal to those for whom the trees & rivers are not enough. I should not wish to insult any believers; I acknowledge the tenderness that might be amassed whence allowing another to comfort that which remains inside you. However, as a reader & a veteran curious dissector, the Book of Virtues has never made much sense to me. I prefer stories that follow logic & insert sense into their folds. It is altogether more enjoyable for me to speak the language of the proverbial symmetry of life rather than question the intentions of a man who wishes me the gruelling heat of self-admonishment. Zooey’s company in this approach sinks me deeper into the well. As Franny remains intent on enunciating the Jesus Prayer, also known as The Prayer (“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”), the reader must choose whether to feel empathy towards her or maintain a neutral observer’s stance. I return to the written words I have shared above. I too once kneeled at the feet of the Lord, spitting poison against my childhood person, calling to his gracious & demoralizing ear to pity me. Franny’s approach to the Jesus Prayer is not from a point of view of hope nor is she performing the repetition with the desire to be heard. Rather, as Zooey explains, Franny’s need for security in the logical patterns of the world has led her to mantras in which she might find comfort in the spoken word. The will to proceed, speaking to a King of Kings, or a Son of God, or perhaps to the great wide nothing, does not alter Franny’s enthusiasm. Her physical illness as a consequence of knowing too much but not yet understanding what to do with her awareness & knowledge has left her in a position of vulnerability. It is only once Zooey heeds their mother’s call for help that Franny begins to make a breakthrough. Perhaps those with siblings may find themselves once again in good company within these scenes, for it is not through malice or frustration that Zooey calls to Franny & speaks her name, rather, he does so with the desire of unburdening her of her hero’s journey. The relationship that the siblings share sets the tone for their life. Their eldest brother committed suicide & yet, his presence is strong among them. They speak his name as though he were simply in the other room; no sibling is without the other even when alone in the woods. In some way, this security in one another allows them to better approach the deconstruction of their frustrations. Whereas some people seek religious teachings, the siblings—our beloved characters—lean on one another. I found the nature of this book overwhelming. I took my time reading a few pages every night, praying silently that I could make the story last longer than the few pages Salinger gifted. Like many prayers, mine went unanswered. I turned therefore to the dogma I know well; life. In my experience, Franny & Zooey are people I know. In secretive & cunning ways, they are the Brain of my childhood TV programs; the literature lining the shelves of the adults I cherished; & they are my very own siblings, sneaking through the house with me, discussing the minutia of existence & teasing the borrow of a beloved book. Ultimately, what makes Salinger a brilliant author is his ability to weave a shadow over the sea. His premise follows the animalistic need to behoove the isle of hymns. The songbird of his prose merits remembering as his gentle palm washes over the ink his nail beds watched form into words. In a truly perverse fashion, Salinger has made characters real, setting them into the room with the reader, hoofed feet & firm delicate cheeks leaning tenderly over the Philosopher’s Stone. ...more |
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Feb 08, 2024
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Feb 08, 2024
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187
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| 1250334160
| 9781250334169
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| 3.32
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186
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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 |
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Oct 31, 2023
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Jan 25, 2024
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185
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| Liu, Ken
*
| unknown
| 4.17
| 233
| 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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175
| 
| B0CNM77W9J
| 3.80
| 129
| unknown
| Dec 15, 2023
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on religious extremism, sexism, bigotry, self-harm, mental illness, mania, & others. Religion is a lingering facet of human society. There has always been a need to believe in more than the self. Alongside this comes the desire for structure. It is certainly attractive for every hour of the day to have a purpose. However, humanity’s self-motivating ability is great; Why would we need someone else to tell us what to do? What is the purpose of a system of beliefs that alter our free will? There is hardly a straightforward answer to either of these questions. Suffice it for humanity to rest easy, contemplating the essence of a creature devout in celestial abilities whose features resemble the mirror’s reflection but whose consciousness is unbound by the valour of malice that pungently exhausts the land. This story follows a female religious devotee; she leads a church, she reads, & she is mistaken for a follower though she is the leader. She is a devotee of the philosophy of belief; the concept of something other than herself. Her character is nearly inconsequential to the story, so it matters little whether she is of flesh & bone or small choking hazards—plastic. Rather, what is most fascinating about Kaye is the fact that she does not matter at all. She has a husband & yet this man has an entire life, fulfilled by his independent enjoyments, one is left wondering where she factors in. Her church functions independently of her sermons & one is left wondering what part of the Lord’s whispers reaches her ears at all. While reading this book I found the time swiftly passed me by. I was not preoccupied with the length of the book, the ticking of the clock or the sun’s passage in the sky. What grabbed my attention was the premise; a woman whose faith seems utterly devoid of belief. That is not to say that Kaye has no system on which to rest but that her essence floats like moats in the summer’s sun. Readers will find in her a character that is shallow & grave like the hole whence the body lays in final tranquillity. This is not a bad thing. In certain cases, the main character of a book is the vessel by which the reader becomes immersed in the narrative. Kaye does not offer readers the opportunity to know her, she isn’t even the person translating the story into palatable chapters. This story is told by some omniscient being, rather unlike the God Kaye has grown to believe in, the narrator understands that Kaye is a woman without much gumption. I appreciated the tertiary narration. At times, I wanted to know who was telling me the story as I felt this might have engaged me further in the rather ridiculous series of events. However, the secrecy of the recounting—the disengaged words from no one in particular—felt intimate & led the story in the direction it needed to go. Readers who have a firm grasp of various systems of belief, of the houses that bind religions & their facets, will have a better time appreciating this story for what it is, a philosophical question on the foundation of ideology. Though an archive of religious knowledge will be of use to readers, it is not necessary. One may lean on the narrative to appreciate the depth; Kaye is a woman in a man’s field, she is a woman hearing the word of God, she is a woman speaking the word of God—always thought to be a male entity—to communities led by male figures. Certainly, this is a simplistic view because it is easily ascertained. One need not live in the city center to understand the vast nuance of gender freedoms. However, Kaye never really questions herself in this sense. She is aware that people do not regard her as an authority figure because priests are men & Kaye is a woman. The simplicity of this fact needs to be considered as it contributes to the downfall of the main character. Had she not met a man in the park maybe she would have been less sympathetic to his ramblings. Had she seen a homeless woman would she have bemoaned the society that led her there? If Kaye had not been in a heterosexual relationship would God have whispered pleasantries about faith & comfort into her ear to be shared with her community? If Kaye’s mother hadn’t foretold of her daughter’s failure, would Kaye have chosen a path to success? Kaye’s father is not mentioned. Her husband is mentioned only so far as to highlight that he rumbles through life like a tumbleweed; believing in this, incorporating that, & not paying close enough attention to anything in particular to be considered devout. What is the author trying to convey? Which of the characters is the antagonist? What I find to be a great drag is when turmoil & fear are built up to be a storm but are, instead, raindrops across a garden’s bed. That is to say; Kaye is a person who ponders the truth of her ideology. Her entire system of belief is based on the alternative—a woman priest rather than a male, a traditional church rather than the new-age bigoted lot; devotion on park benches rather than pews; prayer with hands held tight rather than palms facing the sky. Is Kaye different for the sake of being different or does she believe that this path is the right, bona fide & absolute road? The narrative lacks consistency. When I speak of torrential rain it is in line with what the novel attempts to promise. The scene in the park & the ultimate loss—homelessness—are represented as small dandelions in a field of green, nearly indistinguishable in the grand scheme. Kaye’s reliance on published works might lead readers to conclude that her beliefs are rather seeded in the English language; it does not matter what is written so long as she can read it, consume it, speak it, & live it to be true. When she meets the man who claims to be a planet, a star; a nucleus of the Gods; Kaye poses no objections. Who is Janus? Due to the nature of this story, one that poses itself as a rather sour satire, I found the answer to this question invisible to my eyes. What would have led Kaye to believe a man she met in the park? What was it about his speech that brought to light the providence of what he foresaw? In ancient Rome, Janus was the God of Doors; he saw what was coming down the line & how it tied into the current state of being. His ability to gauge time allowed him to act as a clairvoyant. His status in ancient Roman religions & mythology declared him as the God of gateways, change, transition; the beginnings, ends; & archways. Picture yourself standing in a public park in the middle of the rain. A stranger approaches you; a person with perfect teeth but no home. This person offers you a sermon, stating that you have made the wrong decision & you should change course immediately. What do you do? If you live in a boisterous city, this situation has probably happened to you before. I have stood in grocery stores & had similar experiences while contemplating the cracker selection. This makes Kaye’s mental turmoil difficult to understand. She loses her way after a rapid-fire conversation that offers little in terms of morsels of nourishment; Janus says little to Kaye & yet she is consumed by a mania that was triggered by the invisible. Can the reader conclude that this stranger—Janus—spoke worry into her broken mind? Was Kaye’s temperament likely to crack, regardless of the person who visited her in the park? What made Janus claim that Kaye’s future would need to be altered for her well-being? What part of her lax & rather unburdened existence posed cause for worry? As I am not the God of Doorways, I am perhaps poorly placed to ask such questions. Yet, the reality is that this story took place in our world, in our day & age with a person who was viscerally integrated into the casualty of modern-day society. Why did she believe a prophet in the park? One can understand reading books & believing the words they share; this happens all the time—this is part of the reason that drives book bans; people have very little critical thinking ability & so become immersed in whatever fiction or fancy is presented to them (think: the Bible). What I am saying is that the author was unintentional with their premise. It is fine & dandy to have a character fall head over heels for ludicrous stanzas, but this scene felt foggy in the worst way; it was incomplete. There is no motive behind anything that happens. The free will of each individual in the exchange reads as cloistered behind the mind of the author. This plays well into the premise, that God is playing dolls with humanity or that the Prophet—whichever one you believe existed—is a spoilt child longing to alter the narrative of their plastic toys. However, one still needs to ask why. When one is sitting in a religious institution one is not waiting for mystery. One listens to a speaker who has punctuation to add to folly. One is present & attentive waiting for the parable that will nestle their worries. For Janus to appear in the church after Kaye experiences fever-induced mania does not read as the miracle of prophecy. Rather, this scene feels like a manic episode. One is left feeling rather sad for Kaye as she sinks further into the mud of her mind. Perhaps this is the point. Is religion a muddy stream seeking to sink anyone who steps foot in its waters? Does it matter that Janus came to Kaye rather than her God manifesting himself in Gabriel or the burning bush? Is the essence of all-encompassing ideology that one loses oneself in their philosophy? What would have become of Aristotle if he had wandered the streets of another city? What if walking across the water was a metaphor for performing that which feels impossible? What if no one hears God because he does not have a voice? The eclipse of methodology encourages this story to nestle firmly in the absurd. Kaye becomes the familiar face of every person you might know which leaves her disappearance an impossible case to close. Was Kaye a real person to begin with or was she simply a metaphor for the cosmic domesticity of humanity’s insecurity? Is the story’s narrator the author or another omniscient being intent on grotesque exposition in an attempt to instil the bedtime story with a proverbial warning; hold steady to your beliefs or any droplet of rain is likely to turn your life into a monsoon; beware the aimless roamer; hasten your scripture or the pages of your life with slice you to pieces. Ultimately, the reader may select their interpretation. Religion is a personal philosophy. One may wish to believe that they are unique in their care for the land or their tenderness of a stranger’s well-being yet, cultivated in the woods & within the sewer ways are the gathering of these same drowning foes. Making their way into the cerebellum from the gentle nerves behind our skin; ideology is that which we are better off ignorant of understating least we opt for the drowning vessel carrying feet that can neither part the seas nor walk through waves to safety. Thank you to NetGalley, Cemetery Dance Publications, & Nicole Cushing for the free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review! Merged review: It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters that contain reflections on religious extremism, sexism, bigotry, self-harm, mental illness, mania, & others. Religion is a lingering facet of human society. There has always been a need to believe in more than the self. Alongside this comes the desire for structure. It is certainly attractive for every hour of the day to have a purpose. However, humanity’s self-motivating ability is great; Why would we need someone else to tell us what to do? What is the purpose of a system of beliefs that alter our free will? There is hardly a straightforward answer to either of these questions. Suffice it for humanity to rest easy, contemplating the essence of a creature devout in celestial abilities whose features resemble the mirror’s reflection but whose consciousness is unbound by the valour of malice that pungently exhausts the land. This story follows a female religious devotee; she leads a church, she reads, & she is mistaken for a follower though she is the leader. She is a devotee of the philosophy of belief; the concept of something other than herself. Her character is nearly inconsequential to the story, so it matters little whether she is of flesh & bone or small choking hazards—plastic. Rather, what is most fascinating about Kaye is the fact that she does not matter at all. She has a husband & yet this man has an entire life, fulfilled by his independent enjoyments, one is left wondering where she factors in. Her church functions independently of her sermons & one is left wondering what part of the Lord’s whispers reaches her ears at all. While reading this book I found the time swiftly passed me by. I was not preoccupied with the length of the book, the ticking of the clock or the sun’s passage in the sky. What grabbed my attention was the premise; a woman whose faith seems utterly devoid of belief. That is not to say that Kaye has no system on which to rest but that her essence floats like moats in the summer’s sun. Readers will find in her a character that is shallow & grave like the hole whence the body lays in final tranquillity. This is not a bad thing. In certain cases, the main character of a book is the vessel by which the reader becomes immersed in the narrative. Kaye does not offer readers the opportunity to know her, she isn’t even the person translating the story into palatable chapters. This story is told by some omniscient being, rather unlike the God Kaye has grown to believe in, the narrator understands that Kaye is a woman without much gumption. I appreciated the tertiary narration. At times, I wanted to know who was telling me the story as I felt this might have engaged me further in the rather ridiculous series of events. However, the secrecy of the recounting—the disengaged words from no one in particular—felt intimate & led the story in the direction it needed to go. Readers who have a firm grasp of various systems of belief, of the houses that bind religions & their facets, will have a better time appreciating this story for what it is, a philosophical question on the foundation of ideology. Though an archive of religious knowledge will be of use to readers, it is not necessary. One may lean on the narrative to appreciate the depth; Kaye is a woman in a man’s field, she is a woman hearing the word of God, she is a woman speaking the word of God—always thought to be a male entity—to communities led by male figures. Certainly, this is a simplistic view because it is easily ascertained. One need not live in the city center to understand the vast nuance of gender freedoms. However, Kaye never really questions herself in this sense. She is aware that people do not regard her as an authority figure because priests are men & Kaye is a woman. The simplicity of this fact needs to be considered as it contributes to the downfall of the main character. Had she not met a man in the park maybe she would have been less sympathetic to his ramblings. Had she seen a homeless woman would she have bemoaned the society that led her there? If Kaye had not been in a heterosexual relationship would God have whispered pleasantries about faith & comfort into her ear to be shared with her community? If Kaye’s mother hadn’t foretold of her daughter’s failure, would Kaye have chosen a path to success? Kaye’s father is not mentioned. Her husband is mentioned only so far as to highlight that he rumbles through life like a tumbleweed; believing in this, incorporating that, & not paying close enough attention to anything in particular to be considered devout. What is the author trying to convey? Which of the characters is the antagonist? What I find to be a great drag is when turmoil & fear are built up to be a storm but are, instead, raindrops across a garden’s bed. That is to say; Kaye is a person who ponders the truth of her ideology. Her entire system of belief is based on the alternative—a woman priest rather than a male, a traditional church rather than the new-age bigoted lot; devotion on park benches rather than pews; prayer with hands held tight rather than palms facing the sky. Is Kaye different for the sake of being different or does she believe that this path is the right, bona fide & absolute road? The narrative lacks consistency. When I speak of torrential rain it is in line with what the novel attempts to promise. The scene in the park & the ultimate loss—homelessness—are represented as small dandelions in a field of green, nearly indistinguishable in the grand scheme. Kaye’s reliance on published works might lead readers to conclude that her beliefs are rather seeded in the English language; it does not matter what is written so long as she can read it, consume it, speak it, & live it to be true. When she meets the man who claims to be a planet, a star; a nucleus of the Gods; Kaye poses no objections. Who is Janus? Due to the nature of this story, one that poses itself as a rather sour satire, I found the answer to this question invisible to my eyes. What would have led Kaye to believe a man she met in the park? What was it about his speech that brought to light the providence of what he foresaw? In ancient Rome, Janus was the God of Doors; he saw what was coming down the line & how it tied into the current state of being. His ability to gauge time allowed him to act as a clairvoyant. His status in ancient Roman religions & mythology declared him as the God of gateways, change, transition; the beginnings, ends; & archways. Picture yourself standing in a public park in the middle of the rain. A stranger approaches you; a person with perfect teeth but no home. This person offers you a sermon, stating that you have made the wrong decision & you should change course immediately. What do you do? If you live in a boisterous city, this situation has probably happened to you before. I have stood in grocery stores & had similar experiences while contemplating the cracker selection. This makes Kaye’s mental turmoil difficult to understand. She loses her way after a rapid-fire conversation that offers little in terms of morsels of nourishment; Janus says little to Kaye & yet she is consumed by a mania that was triggered by the invisible. Can the reader conclude that this stranger—Janus—spoke worry into her broken mind? Was Kaye’s temperament likely to crack, regardless of the person who visited her in the park? What made Janus claim that Kaye’s future would need to be altered for her well-being? What part of her lax & rather unburdened existence posed cause for worry? As I am not the God of Doorways, I am perhaps poorly placed to ask such questions. Yet, the reality is that this story took place in our world, in our day & age with a person who was viscerally integrated into the casualty of modern-day society. Why did she believe a prophet in the park? One can understand reading books & believing the words they share; this happens all the time—this is part of the reason that drives book bans; people have very little critical thinking ability & so become immersed in whatever fi ...more |
Notes are private!
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2
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not set
not set
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Oct 29, 2023
not set
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Jan 21, 2024
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Kindle Edition
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184
| 
| 1594632537
| 9781594632532
| 1594632537
| 3.52
| 1,934
| Jan 08, 2018
| Jan 09, 2018
|
liked it
|
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the book's subject matters & those detailed in my review overwhelming. I 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, the death of an animal, grief, & others. There is a line that is crossed when our time is up. Some may view this as the clock’s final round or the sound of a terminal click, the end. However, you view this, & perhaps you may reflect on the finalization of your life through a religious lens, one does not return to the flesh. Yet, throughout history, the belief in the paranormal has both been shunned & sought out. Famous, classically delicious literature such as Oscar Wilde’s “The Picture of Dorian Grey” (1890); Emily Brontë’s “Wuthering Heights” (1847); & Peter Straub’s “Ghost Story” (1979) have highlighted the ghoulishly devious nature of life after death. Whatever views a reader holds towards these stories & the many others that colour the shelves, the subject matter remains one that seeps into the consciousness of each of us. Perhaps, the reader in question wishes to believe that death brings a great nothingness or, that a bright & shining God will greet them. In other cases, the death of the body leads to a road down which the soul will travel to meet its new life. The possibilities seem endless & yet with all the pondering & philosophizing, humanity has yet to arrive at a set conclusion. I will not fault us for the inconclusive result of our efforts. There have certainly been reasons to believe that the essence of our person—our spirit, if you are so inclined—returns, or never left the earth. In other cases, the absence of proof elongated the years shadowed by love, such as in the case of Bess, Harry Houdini’s widow. The reader will find that the ever-present paranormal aspects of life are both gargantuan & utterly inconceivable to the human eye. It may stand to reason that certain experiences leave us closer to the other realms of reality or, the conclusion of a life we are currently leading. In the case of this story, the main character’s experience with the afterlife comes at a price, one that has left him feeling hollowed out & abandoned by the glimmer of hope he held that something, or someone, was waiting for him in the darkness of the end. Jim dies, medically speaking, with enough time for him to take in the void that is death. The story begins with his reflection on this event & leads the reader down a series of investigative conversations, intertwined with the gory nature of magic & mysticism, ever present in the world & fiction today. Readers will be asked to forgive the salient nature of this story. Jim’s experience with death comes to him in the middle of the day. The reader will also find that it is in the sun that all life ceases to shine. Who then is left to fill the world with humanity? This book follows Jim as he becomes aware of a paranormal occurrence that haunts a local building. The establishment was used as a restaurant when first welcomed on the scene but had been someone’s home before. Jim seeks to answer whether a person or a place can hold the remnants of life & whether the wormhole of existence can be sustained throughout the ages of a series of lives. The haunted space is explained as being something of a tear in the zone. The author explains that each space is like an ozone layer around those living inside it. The tear has allowed Jim to wander through the plane of existence & in so doing, to present himself as he is to those who are no longer alive with him. Throughout the story, Jim sees ghosts, & hears them wander the stairs & then he becomes the spiritual essence of his person & wanders the gallantly set path before him, finding his way back to his father. All the while, Jim’s heart is kept beating by a machine. There are many ways in which a reader might interpret this book. On the one hand, perhaps Jim is a person who has gone mad under the thumb of a life that will be taken from him at any second. His heart failure struck a nerve, so to speak, & Jim never truly emotionally recovered from the experience. I cannot fault him for this. I can only imagine what it must have been like for him to wander the casual laneways of life, unsuspecting that in the next second one of his primary organs would fail him. Meandering in the background of philosophizing queries is the loss of a person, the demise of consistency, & the permeating truth that nothing lasts forever. The nature of this loss is used as a reinforcement to the main premise—that something lost can be regained—while also supporting the reality that we have met time & again—that the curtain never opens to declare mortal man eternal. In each scene, the author incorporates the back-and-forth nature of loss. Whereas Jim had once lost touch with Annie, she returns as though by magic at a random but ideal moment. In time, he might feel that what the eye can see may limit his gauge of the track, in its entirety. Different ideologies are incorporated within these narratives & staunch followers of religious schools of thought will recognize the casual mentions of their pillars. This increased my enjoyment of the story. I wondered where the author might lead the reader next. Which school of thought; which bound text named the word of God, would be woven into the desire to rationalize, secure & compound the inexplicable nature of the final vanishing act? While these questions perused my mind, I like George Washington, cannot tell a lie, nor do I wish to; this story was incredibly corny & the stylistic approach that the author took was cheesier than raclette. The characters in this book are reminiscent of tenderly formatted parts, stitched together to make a point. I was not invested in their story on an individual level. Neither characters nor scenes felt intricate. While reading I was reminded that this was a book of make-believe. This is not necessarily bad however, it was not an immersive undertaking; I read knowing something would be revealed & my enjoyment of the process was not so much the point as was the revelation of the information. To be clear, I could have chosen to abandon the book when Jim rambled on about his heart being powered by a machine or when the machine’s database was hacked, repeatedly. These occurrences laboured my reading in so far as they continuously asked the reader to make links between what was being told & what might have been happening in real life. Will a reader puzzle the nature of Jim’s concerns that his heart will implode due to the malevolent nature of neutral numbers; one day his fraction will flip & he will find himself the victim of a mathematician’s conniving breach of the system that keeps him alive? Can a person feel empathy for a family of ghosts? None of these statements are meant to denote anything particularly negative. A reader unlike myself will revel in the indifferent nature of the narratives. A part of me certainly did not particularly care that none of the ghosts were given to the reader with their backgrounds strapped to their backs. On the other hand, I wanted the author to be fastidious; I longed for the story to take itself seriously, to tell the reader that a ghost was depressed & his ambitions resulted in anger & a dead family. Rather than be met with the cruelty of clearly written words, I stumbled over cobblestones that were neither old nor meaningful to the landscape. This leaves me wondering how the stories are meant to be interpreted. Certainly, one will see the interwoven reality behind the layer that shields each life from another. However, how does one recognize the repeated nature of their experiences in this cycle of existence if not through self-awareness? Can one assume that each individual is self-aware? Does each person repeat a life cycle endlessly? Does this mean that no person is free? I find myself wanting more from this story & yet when asked, I would happily state that I enjoyed it, very much in fact. Not all stories require a sturdy pen. It can be enough for there to be ink & an eye to decipher shapes, therefore making clear the tar on bark. The author wanted to wonder & he allowed himself to do so with characters who did not hold the depth of a regular person. I say this while recognizing that we are not all magic pools containing ecosystems; some people are rain puddles, & others, are drops of water on a flower petal. Perhaps I am wrong to harbour a rather minuscule annoyance that this story did not give me what I wanted for, in reality, nothing is for everyone. If a reader has the patience to listen to concerns & grief, guilt & sadness, they too will find this story to be a marvel of tenderness, simplistically listed alongside roving machinery & quirky personalities. Ultimately, not every story needs to be written in the style of Sartre or Aristotle. Books are meant to reflect the writer whose mind wandered past the walls of their home, the fields of their dreams, & into the palette of a famished reader who longs for the creaking wood in their walls to mean more than what has been concluded by the exterminator. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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Jan 12, 2024
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Jan 12, 2024
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Hardcover
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my rating |
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201
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| 3.88
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not set
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May 13, 2024
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199
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| 3.99
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not set
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May 13, 2024
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200
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| 3.92
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liked it
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May 12, 2024
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May 12, 2024
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198
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| 3.79
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liked it
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Apr 27, 2024
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Apr 27, 2024
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197
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| 3.66
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really liked it
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Apr 21, 2024
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Apr 21, 2024
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145
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| 3.77
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did not like it
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Mar 2023
not set
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Apr 10, 2024
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195
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| 4.19
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liked it
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Apr 07, 2024
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Apr 07, 2024
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194
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| 3.99
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not set
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Mar 31, 2024
|
||||||
196
|
| 4.09
|
liked it
|
Apr 11, 2024
|
Mar 31, 2024
|
|||||
193
|
| 4.02
|
not set
|
Mar 15, 2024
|
||||||
192
|
| 4.04
|
it was amazing
|
Mar 02, 2024
|
Mar 02, 2024
|
|||||
191
|
| 3.77
|
liked it
|
Feb 25, 2024
|
Feb 25, 2024
|
|||||
190
|
| 4.14
|
not set
|
Feb 20, 2024
|
||||||
189
|
| 3.38
|
not set
|
Feb 20, 2024
|
||||||
188
|
| 3.96
|
it was amazing
|
Feb 08, 2024
|
Feb 08, 2024
|
|||||
187
|
| 3.32
|
not set
|
Jan 30, 2024
|
||||||
186
|
| 3.24
|
really liked it
|
Oct 31, 2023
|
Jan 25, 2024
|
|||||
185
|
| Liu, Ken
*
| 4.17
|
liked it
|
Nov 03, 2023
|
Jan 25, 2024
|
||||
175
|
| 3.80
|
liked it
|
Oct 29, 2023
not set
|
Jan 21, 2024
|
|||||
184
|
| 3.52
|
liked it
|
Jan 12, 2024
|
Jan 12, 2024
|
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