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| 1444723251
| 4.34
| 305,059
| Jun 02, 2000
| Oct 11, 2012
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it was amazing
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Glowing review after my holiday, of which this book formed an integral part :-)
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Notes are private!
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1
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Oct 02, 2017
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Oct 09, 2017
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Oct 02, 2017
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Paperback
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| 0394839730
| 9780394839738
| 0394839730
| 4.26
| 19,187
| Nov 12, 1978
| Nov 12, 1978
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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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Feb 09, 2017
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Hardcover
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| 1846687357
| 9781846687358
| 1846687357
| 4.40
| 34,690
| 1982
| Jan 18, 2011
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it was amazing
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1 Some books wrap me up in dreams and fantasy, creating a protective bubble in which I can leisurely gaze at the world in comfort. The opposite happene 1 Some books wrap me up in dreams and fantasy, creating a protective bubble in which I can leisurely gaze at the world in comfort. The opposite happened when reading “The Book of Disquiet”, a book that lives up to its title like no other. I didn’t get wrapped up in anything. With every sentence I read I felt myself being unwrapped, as layers of self-deceit and unconsciousness were shed. 2 I held the book in my hands. I could decide to open and close it. I could decide to put it away. But despite all that it didn’t take long for me to realise that I was not the one in power, as the book firmly grasped me in turn. Not through my mind, like good books. Not through my heart, like great books. It grasped my soul and never let go. While I was reading this book, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had beaten me to it, in that the book was reading me and that it did so more quickly and effectively than I could read its pages. This book is a mirror for my soul, a mirror in which my reflection always sees me first, a mirror where my reflection waves to me and I wave back. 3 I’m compelled to take over the book’s structure in this review, and that’s not only because of Junta’s shining example. There is no plot weaving together the pages. The book is made up of more than two hundred diary entries. But this is a special diary. The entries seldom talk of work, of interactions with other people, of the goings-on in the day. They deal with the author’s rich inner life, to which the outside reality offers only a background at best. Pessoa sat down at his desk and just wrote what he thought. Streams of thoughts are often fragmentary, and so is this book. Every number allows a new idea to carry you through poetic landscapes until the author reaches the shores of that idea and he starts over, sometimes with a new idea, sometimes with the same, sometimes leading to the same shore, sometimes further away or closer by. As a result, my notes of my reactions to the book are equally fragmentary, each note representing a new stream as I glide to the next number and I start over. 4 One of my favorite things to do is to stand in between two mirrors that stand directly opposite of each other. To see my reflection multiplied to infinity is the most humbling ego-boost I can think of. I say infinity but if you look far enough into that world of infinite reflections there is a dark hole at the end of it, there where the light ceases to reach and where my beholding eye ceases to behold. Consciousness is a mirror. Consciousness of consciousness leads to a similar infinity that seemingly leads to nothingness. 5 Infinity sharpens my mind and elates my heart as a concept, but it numbs my mind and shrinks my heart as a reality. Nothingness is just one version of infinity. Equating everything to zero is the easiest solution to find, but the most difficult one to accept. 6 I don’t know if this book has changed my life. It added a layer of consciousness to my consciousness and makes me more aware of inner processes. On the other hand, it couldn’t have done so if it didn’t confirm my consciousness, if it didn’t confirm what I already felt and knew without knowing. My soul was stripped of the comfort and warmth of the mundane, but already I feel myself slipping back into the world and out of myself. 7 A connection feels meaningful when it is direct, goes deep and is complete. 8 Dreams I’ve never bothered to write down, thoughts and follies that were interrupted: much of what I have said, written and thought is lost. Only the abstract memory of having said, written and thought lingers. Before I go to sleep, thoughts wash over me, turning around in my head, taking five paths at once and dancing in harmony. The mind is cleared and cleansed with these high-speed thought-cycles but then, a jolt of consciousness, the spell is broken and the thoughts are forever lost, hiding away in dreams. The heavy weight of consciousness doesn’t last as another torrent of thoughts sweeps down and I fall into a peaceful sleep. How I would like to commit those thoughts to paper, to catch the wild torrents and be at peace. 9 In my mind’s eye a castle is easily conjured up, the atmosphere is palpable, the potential for storytelling enormous. I pick up my pen. The jester is no longer a concept, but a living thing in need of adventures and adjectives. The scene becomes heavy and slow and I grind to a halt. 10 An unlikable side-effect of my consciousness is that I can’t help but feel special. That feeling doesn’t start at the cerebral level. Somewhere in the depths of my diaphragm there is this core, a source of that intuition. Sometimes that core is cold and the feeling fades, but this book made it burn brightly. I look at the reviews page and I see that it did so for others. My feeling special makes way for a special feeling. 11 Like Pessoa, I find a lot of philosophy in the exceedingly small. That which does not matter, matters precisely because of it. When I look at an ant hard at work, I find that its essence is its being. This goes for everything, but it is in the insignficant that this is made the most obvious to me. A blade of grass sticking out of the pavement. Small numbers written in pencil on a wall that now have lost all significance. A bug. An abandoned shack that has fallen in disuse. I was hiking in a wild, rough coastal region in France. On the sandy path there was a small patch of pebbles and I resolved to pick one up and throw it into the sea far below when I'd get close enough. During my walk I thought about what had brought the pebble to that patch, what had brought me there, and as ever, one thought led to the other. The pebble became heavy with my ponderings. I could not bring myself to throw it into the anonymity of the crashing waves when the time came. 12 [image] 13 Whenever I find wonder in the banal, nothingness becomes less likely. Banality is a virtue, importance is a sin. There is no wonder in importance, only design. The situation of the spider crawling on my book only a few moments after I had read the small chapter on "millimeters" held wonder, but the picture I took was designed, flipping back to the relevant page so that spider could walk on it. It felt important to share the moment so I turned wonder into an anecdote. 14 Sometimes reality feels like the dream that my inaction brought to fruition. Sometimes reality feels like the remnants in the sieve through which my dreams are poured. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 05, 2017
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Feb 20, 2017
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Feb 04, 2017
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Paperback
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| 1771642483
| 9781771642484
| 1771642483
| 4.07
| 82,611
| May 25, 2015
| Sep 13, 2016
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it was amazing
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As humans, daft creatures that we are, we are predisposed to look at where the action is. Swift movements, loud noises and bright colours capture our
As humans, daft creatures that we are, we are predisposed to look at where the action is. Swift movements, loud noises and bright colours capture our attention. Maybe this stems from our primitive instinct for survival, allowing us to spot the dangers darting in our general direction. Or it could be the result of our desire to procreate that can't make us look past flaunted flesh and luscious lips. Whatever the reasons, at some point we have begun to think in terms of foreground and background. The former is where the action is, the latter a necessary formality because the void would be too depressing an environment. During short lapses of my otherwise well-founded modesty I like to think of myself as something other than an utter idiot. In doing so I tend to refer to my habits of reading, writing, cogitating and looking at backgrounds. It's one of the ways to make scrolling through tedious travel pictures slightly more interesting. If a movie's dialogue doesn't ignite my interest, I find enjoyment in looking at the B-actors located in the background of the scene, pretending to go about their daily business, assuming they will remain unseen unless for when they'll point themselves out to friends and family. My smartphone camera comes with a focus that easily jumps in between the different layers of the hubbub I point it towards, making the scenery rich with potential for anecdote and diminishing the borders between foreground and background to a triviality. As someone who appreciates all that I allowed myself to think I was more than just a casual observer. A dreamy bubble that is now duly burst. One of the many things that Peter Wohlleben's book has taught me is that a lot of phenomena escape my flittering attention as I skip and skedaddle through life. The trees are such a phenomenon. A majestic backdrop to many of my sweetest memories, yet never given the notice they were due. Our world is full of magical places. These can be found on the ocean's vigorous waves, on a tranquil mountain top or in a lover's embrace. One other such place is under the canopy of trees. In their mystic shade of earthy green some people reach enlightenment, others find fundamental scientific truths and many discover peace. Troubled heads are cleared as they rest on ancient trunks and laden hearts are lightened by the sound of rustling leaves. Why are we not in constant awe for these beings of wonder that should be worthy of worship? People now will often mock that notion, hacking and slashing their way to prosperity with no regard for the beings that have been here millions of years. Or to recall the way Treebeard put it very emphatically when talking about Orks: "They come with fire. They come with axes. Gnawing, biting, breaking hacking burning. Destroyers and usurpers, curse them!" Wohlleben's book The Hidden Life of Trees worked the same way for me as the focus changer does for my camera. This book inaugurated a new sensibility that feels purposeful and asks to be deeply understood. The way I looked at the world and the way I looked at my memories had been tainted by a particular and exclusive interest for human affairs. Wohlleben put the splendour of trees in a sharp and welcome focus, opening my eyes as they welled up with remorseful tears. My perspective changed, and now an everyday city scenery has become a concrete concentration camp for trees forced to live in isolation, cut off from their potential and cut down to serve cityscaping needs. One redeeming factor is of course the knowledge that trees don't feel. How sweetly we sleep in the comfort of that intuition. Unfortunately, Wohlleben puts some question marks next to that soothing notion. This author's narration couldn't have been more convincing and captivating and the fact that I automatically read it with David Attenborough's voice in mind can serve to stress that point. The trees become both actors and center stage in this epic tale of survival against all odds. Their struggle for an inner balance as they grow, mend their wounds, spread their roots and branches, drop their leaves, drink the water and capture the sunlight makes for a truly engaging read. The race between a fungus eating its way to the heartwood and a tree growing healthy bark and moist material to stop the enemy in its tracks is more thrilling than a car chase, despite the impression that the timescale on which trees live make such matters less pressing. Yet they are pressing, and a matter of life and death. A tree can spend hundreds of years on its death bed but still serve a purpose, procreate and provide energy for its siblings and offspring. And when reading about this struggle for survival and growth, I could not help but discern a will for life that stirred within these entities. It's not just the trees that are the protagonists of this book, but also the tiny creatures that live on and around them. I've mentioned the fungi with which they have a love-hate relationship. Trees are also in what one might call a complicated relationship with small rodents, birds and insects, who sometimes help them in the dissemination of their seeds but can also wound them fatally. When caterpillars attack, reinforcements are called in with aromatic signals to deal with them. Ants are running their own brand of livestock farms as they herd aphids for the sugarry residues they leave behind when they feed off the leaves. The book is chock-full of such anecdotes that show us how trees are in fact megacities teeming with life. The biggest reveal came quite early in this book: trees communicate. As an introvert I didn't find that piece of information especially salient, but it does show that more goes on in the deep forests than a mere survival of the fittest. Trees often work together as a community, protecting and supporting each other, sending each other signals and goods. They use a "wood wide web" of roots and fungal chords that allow the transportation of nutrients from one tree to the other. They produce scents that get picked up by their cousins urging them to put up protective barriers before the enemy arrives. At the start of this book I had some severe difficulties accepting that the author would bestow certain qualities on trees that they couldn't possibly have, such as the capacity to feel, know, remember and be happy. Even after reading the book I have to admit this sometimes feels like a stretch, but that's really not the message one should remember from this review. The fact of the matter is that we don't know how far the sentience of these beings reaches. The latest scientific observations at least hint at the possibility that this author, which some might consider little more than a romantic treehugger, could be on to something. Even if trees don't feel like how we do, the realisation that trees are the hands that have been feeding us for many years should at least be a lesson in humility and inspire us to stop gnawing at them. Trees don't only provide us with the oxygen we breathe but serve many other vital purposes enumerated in this book, ranging from biodiversity to inland water supply. It's not just a matter of cutting down old trees and planting new ones, either. Balance is key, and such a balance can only occur on a timescale we can hardly grasp. The trees that provided the pages for this book are the prophets of their kind, emissaries of a lifeform we've been neglecting. So don't feel guilty about getting a hard copy. Pick one up, go sit under a tree if you can still find one, read it and look up to a new world. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 29, 2017
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Jun 17, 2017
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Jan 10, 2017
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 1857988825
| 9781857988826
| 1857988825
| 4.25
| 138,794
| 1974
| 2015
|
it was amazing
|
More than two months have passed since I've closed this book. While my traditional reviewing habit was one of immediately rushing to the closest lapto
More than two months have passed since I've closed this book. While my traditional reviewing habit was one of immediately rushing to the closest laptop after reading the last line and sharing my excitement or the lack thereof in some hopefully original way, I felt a need to really let Le Guin's words sink fully into my mind and make them my own. (Actually, I've mostly just been very lazy in the reviewing department lately, but "letting words sink in" just sounds a little better.) But when it comes to making words my own, as this dear author evoked so well in this book, longing for possession is mostly futile, and so it is with ideas, impressions and most of all, inspiration. At least in my case good ideas tend to go and come as they please and if I'm lucky they can be grasped when there's something close at hand to write them down, just as the motivation and energy to write has chosen to quickly pass through my hands. Currently, the energy is there, but apart from some sparse notes that I now have to re-interpret myself, I only have a few central take-aways that I would like to share. This review can thus be considered as a barrel of some of the reflections I managed to retain before they too evaporated into untranslatable little figments of thought. The first take-away is that this is one of my favorite books. It is engaging, it is exciting, it teaches and it entertains. Le Guin's prose is nothing short of wonderful. While the plot is not exactly extraordinary, it provides the perfect mobile in which to transport some important messages on life and civilization that this author has chosen to share. The second take-away is that this is the best dissection of our society that I've read. I've read great books on the nature of human individuals on the one hand, and abstract philosophical meanderings on time and infinity, but never felt warm to the idea of reading about one of the levels that are in-between, namely society and civilisation. The reason why I never did is that there often seems so much more stuff wrong with society than right, so that it's hard to know where to begin complaining, and even harder to know where to stop complaining and inspire change. The building is showing so many signs of decay it's hard to dispel the idea to just throw it down and start all over. Ursula Le Guin found a great starting spot in this book with which to make a nice filet out of our civilisation: the idea of possession. The need of people to "own" stands central in our way of life, and the illusion of ownership pervades much of our thinking and doing. I myself am not immune. To give just one example, I prefer to buy books rather than to go borrow them at libraries. To give another example: I just bought an apartment. Now it would be unfair to point the finger just at people here. Animals do it too, on a certain level. They want to own territory, but instead of throwing money around, they urinate all over the place or emit certain smells. For all the faults our society has, I'm glad we evolved away out of that particular habit, if only for the sake of still readable books. Do I own these books because I gave money for them and they will soon by surrounded by MY walls? I guess so. Until a fire or a flood consumes them, until the hand of time consumes me. Yet, even though the banality of ownership during our short lives is inescapable, our ways of living are so much focused on exactly that futility it's no surprise so many people feel unhappy and wronged when they see their mission to that end either obstructed or sabotaged by those around them, or recognise their endeavors as futile once the mission seems largely fulfilled. This is just a personal take-away of course, because if Ursuala Le Guin is doing one thing exceptionally well, it is the convincing way in which she gives each perspective on the matter a stage in this book. I can easily see the staunchest proponents op capitalism (and as someone who profits of that system's fruits it would be hypocritical and outright dishonest of me to claim that I dislike it myself) like this book as much as a dirty hippy or clean-shaven commie. Possession isn't just about capitalism and material goods. It's more pervasive than that. Just think about how people refer to each other. "My" son. "My" girlfriend. "My" mother. Or how Jason Mraz chose to sing of his undying love by proclaiming "I'm yours". It's innocent most of the time, but when there's problems in relationships of any kind, quite often it is a question of a certain dominance, where one is under the other, where one is partly of the other. We like to own but we don't like to be owned. Except for Jason Mraz, that is. While writing this review I was faced with another example of the futility of possession. I had made notes while reading this book that I intended to use to inspire this review. There are some interesting one-liners, some runaway thoughts, some links to real-life experiences. I would call them "my" notes. But what the two month span between writing them and reading them has shown is that even my thoughts are not entirely my own. Some lines I wrote down there are now perfectly incomprehensible to me. Others I can give an interpretation, but without the guarantee it will be the same as intended back in the day. How are these alien words still my notes? "The Dispossessed" touches on many more themes than the one I evoked here, and Le Guin shows her genius on basically every page with throwaway wisdoms that pack a punch: on prisons, on the education system, on laws, on the press, on the world of art, the army, the list goes on. She can seem cold and pessimistic sometimes: "Life is a fight, and the strongest wins. All civilization does is hide the blood and cover up the hate with pretty words." or when she states that suffering, unlike love, is real because the former ALWAYS hits the mark. Despite this recurring pessimism, I found this book to be widely uplifting by looking through that veil of coldness and finding there the beauty of life, of all the things that transcend possession. Her criticism has an inherent warmth and is not above criticism itself. It's a criticism that has channeled my own apathy towards many of society's ways into something that seems more helpful: an understanding and even a renewed love. Yes, you read that right. I love society. There's nothing I'd rather live right next to. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Oct 14, 2016
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Oct 29, 2016
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Oct 13, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1587153742
| 9781587153747
| 1587153742
| 4.00
| 39
| Jan 01, 2002
| Jan 31, 2025
|
it was amazing
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I've added this obscure book of horror to my favorites without much of a comment quite simply because it left me baffled. But to let it sink away, uns
I've added this obscure book of horror to my favorites without much of a comment quite simply because it left me baffled. But to let it sink away, unsung, in the swamp of my other reading activities would be more heinous a crime than to burden it with a review, regardless of how little justice it does to the frankly overwhelming talent of Brian McNaughton. That's why I would like to use the occasion that is this introductory paragraph to refer you to the review by mark monday who pointed me to this "buried treasure", as he aptly called it. I'm sure that my review will prove to be sufficiently harmless in its convincing company. Brian McNaughton is a mystery. His bio is short: Born in New Jersey, attended Harvard (something tells me he was above graduating there, but maybe he could be bothered after all), worked ten years as a reporter and another ten years as a night manager at a decrepit seaside hotel. He died in 2004, but the circumstances in which he did are not easily found on the net. For the better. What has been mentioned here is all I want and need to know about this author. The man that roamed the hallways of that isolated hotel in the dead of night lives on in "The House Across The Way". His wit is sharp, his pen is polished and the pages that carry his words crackle with delight as they are turned. There is not a single superfluous sentence in this tale. Every word is a carefully placed piece of a smooth and delicate anatomy, each unit carries an energy that adds to the blaze of wit and observation. Characters come alive halfway through their introduction and the resolution of their fates become an urgent question as the mysterious mansion shows flickers of its dark side and the author deftly puts the reader behind the eyes of his creations as they stubbornly explore the depths of his house and their nightmares. Honestly, I didn't want this to end. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 31, 2017
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Jun 08, 2017
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Aug 03, 2016
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 1534976329
| 9781534976320
| 1534976329
| 4.45
| 20
| Jul 08, 2016
| Jul 08, 2016
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it was amazing
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Note: The stuff in italics is some mini-fiction I wrote up myself. These writings are in no way illustrative of John McNee's writing, which is of a muc Note: The stuff in italics is some mini-fiction I wrote up myself. These writings are in no way illustrative of John McNee's writing, which is of a much higher order. The review for the book itself can be found sandwiched in between the two italic parts. You may skip over my italicized self-indulgent fan fiction without any risk of missing any information on the book Petroleum Precinct: Grudge Punk 2. ____________ The Cheshire Cat lay quietly purring in the grass among the singing flowers. The sky emitted its familiar shades of violet and green, a family of seahorses slid down the rainbow. All was well in Wonderland. The curious cat was dreaming of the little girl he had met many years ago, attending a tea party and having quite a good time. The clinking and clanking of tea cups and trays, some idle chatter, the flowers' song, it all came together in a mesmerizing sound with his own soft purr as the baseline. Aah, to dream so sweetly. His purr grew louder as the enjoyment reached a crescendo, until he awakened and realized it was not his own hum he was hearing. He climbed a tree and pricked up his ears to locate the source, then floated off his branch and glided towards the sound. A little disc on wheels was whirring through the forest, sucking up small pebbles and spitting them out as oily black marbles. The cat followed the peculiar device as it shot through the woods and on towards the river. On the river bank, the Cheshire Cat lost track of the little robot but saw a black rock on the bottom of the riverbed. The rock had the same shine as the trail of black marbles leading up to it and the cat, intrigued and undeterred by the water, made his head vanish in a pink cloud, leaving the body behind on the dry grass. Examining the black mass more closely he saw that it was not a rock, but a deep, dark tunnel with walls made of billions of oily pebbles. The cat was just about to poof back to his body when a tremendous force sucked him in the hole, sending him downward, tumbling and fumbling for a grip, which was an impossibility for his big, round head. The tunnel grew lighter and the walls turned in a fleshy pink, pulsating in tune with his own throbbing head. He splashed to a halt in a shallow pool of mucus. The small disc lay beside him, crushed and broken, a bright diamond sparkling amidst its metallic intestines. The cat summoned his body back to his head after finding the reverse impossible and looked up at the grey skies. A thunder in the distance. A stench pervading his pelt. As he approached the diamond sparkling in snot, his eye fell on a metal plate that belonged to the formerly zooming disk. Words were engraved on it which said: Made in Grudgehaven. The cat had heard of the place, but always thought it was a legend, a fairy tale concocted by the Caterpillar to scare the little Wonderland creatures. He fetched the diamond and set out to find a way back home. The sky above him grumbled deeply and sprayed some acid raindrops around him. If only he could find a rabbit hole... ____________ Welcome back to Grudgehaven John McNee, author of the fabled Grudge Punk, returns with Grudge Punk 2: Petroleum Precinct, taking us back to my favorite city: Grudgehaven. I, along with many others who have read the first installment, have been highly anticipating this sequel and it is with infinite pleasure that I can confirm the following: Petroleum Precinct is everything Grudge Punk was, only bigger, much bigger, and oh yes, better! It carries within it all that was great about Grudge Punk, lives up to its potential and exceeds the expectations of a fan of the first, maybe second, hour. Grudge Punk + While Grudge Punk was a set of short stories that had some important connections between each other, we get a full-fledged novel, basically an epic, that is set in Chupatown, the most dangerous district in a city where even Freddy Krueger would be looking over his shoulder. I'm not going to give anything away with regards to the plot, aside from saying that it's packed with: * mystery (in the detective sense, in the X-Files sense, in the spiritual sense) * strong characters (Literally all of them. I'm not kidding.) * tension * action * love * humor * horror And I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting a dozen of things, so this isn't even an exhaustive list. Petroleum Precinct is the kind of book that could be called a light read, in which the action takes you by the hand and you are smoothly led through the pages. There's no need for interpretations and philosophical meanderings, you just sit back, strap in, and enjoy the roller coaster ride that John McNee has carefully, oh so very carefully, constructed for you. Every turn, every loop, every ascent full of anticipation and every descent full of exhilaration have been meticulously designed by this author. There is speed, but this is coupled with an incredible eye for detail for you to marvel at as you whisk away through the streets of Chupatown and into the depths of Petroleum Precinct. Language As good as Grudge Punk was, it's safe to say that the author has outdone himself here. He has clearly grown as a writer and it shows. While I said in my Grudge Punk review that you shouldn't be expecting a Charles Dickens, I find myself hard-pressed repeating that. McNee's prose is incredibly rich and deep, describing the city and its citizens in vivid detail without it turning into a description heavy work. Let's call it description big-boned, allowing Grudgehaven to turn into a living, breathing organism. You can take a peek at the status updates to get a small taste of this prose, as an appetizer. The conversations are of a Quentin Tarantino level, spiced up with small meaningless circumstantial details like the pouring of a cup of coffee or the smoking of a pipe. All of this ensures that this book reads like a movie, something only the best writers like Cormac McCarthy can pull off. Some more praise The imagination of this author seems limitless. It starts with his knack for coming up with names for his sometimes vicious and always colorful characters that seem to sum up their personality and physical quirks. Sternhammer, Merriweather, Seebird, Globus, Chupa Junior, the list goes on. A casual visit to a food factory turns into something an entire mini-series could be based on, rats are used for wine-making, headless orgies are the new thing and then I didn't even mention a particularly trippy trip through the Madman's tunnel. Amid all this strangeness we get level-headed narration, dialogues and inner monologues that ensure that this wild and crazy universe never stops feeling comfortable and homelike. The bigger picture No matter how crazy the direction the plot is taking you might seem, it all means something. It's a big, gooey puzzle and rest assured that every slimy piece will fit with another, ensuring a big, consistent picture at the end of the ride, with no question unanswered no matter how outrageous the riddle might seem. Conclusion While this is a sequel and I can only keep on recommending to read Grudge Punk, this book can also be read by itself. As someone who has read Grudge Punk I do want to add that I greatly enjoyed the references to characters and events in that book, even answering some questions that were on my mind since reading it. In short: Petroleum Precinct does everything a sequel is supposed to do, and on top of that you can read it as a stand-alone. I can imagine DC Comics and Marvel fanboys participating in cage fights over this, in hopes of their favorite franchise including Grudge Punk in its library. But the truth is that Grudgehaven is above all that. It's in a completely different league. Do me, the author, but mostly yourself a favor and get these books. Oh, I see what you're thinking, you'll add it to your to-read list, right? And then forget all about it, right? I'll have none of that! Go get it NOW. Read it ASAP. And enjoy the ride!! ____________ The alleyway lay almost deserted as a new acid rainstorm, Category 5, was approaching Grudgehaven. The only movement came from a container, within which a metallic purring resounded. The Old Cat peered out from the trash bin, on the lookout for toads to eat and drunks to rob. The only thing he could teleport in his old days was his paw, but that proved to be enough to stay alive, even thrive. He realised it would be a quiet night as he gazed up at the heavy sky. It was rumbling just like it did on his first day here, now many years ago. So much has happened since then. He had started by looking for a way out, only to find himself fall in love with this crazy, wondrous place. He jumped out of the container, into the rain, and felt the acid raindrops pelt down on its aluminum body treated to withstand even category fives. One of his first and most expensive investments, paid for with a Wonderland Diamond, and a most useful one. The rain was both hot and refreshing, sizzling his skin and exciting all his senses. If anyone else had been outside, the only thing they'd see in the darkened alley was a grin as white as it was wide. A grin of a cat who found his home and had no need for rabbit holes that would only lead back to sanity. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Aug 02, 2016
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Aug 07, 2016
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Jul 29, 2016
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0241951445
| 9780241951446
| 0241951445
| 4.00
| 745,605
| 1962
| Apr 07, 2011
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it was amazing
| Freude, schöner Götterfunken, A Clockwork Orange. That title has stuck to my mind for a big part of my life, without ever maki Freude, schöner Götterfunken, A Clockwork Orange. That title has stuck to my mind for a big part of my life, without ever making sense to me. The only image I had in association with these words, not having seen the movie but only some references to it, was a guy forced to keep his eyes open, forced to watch horrible images of extreme violence accompanied with music so loud it made his ears bleed. I could not make sense of that title, oh no. I was afraid of that title and of the question as to what it meant. The image of that guy strapped into a chair seemed too scary, the title too absurd to merit further thought. In my mind, it was probably just some artistic take on absurdity, and the image the result of a quest for art trying to cover up a primitive need for showing and seeing violence, for being shocked. I could understand this being in the height of fashion at some point, but that point was long gone. I didn't need such a thing in my life, not Your Humble Reviewer, oh no. I've tried dismissing its existence from my thoughts, but the orange, tic-tac-tocking in my brain, kept gnawing and nagging and I caved. And so it is that I decided to enter Nightmare Theatre. * Wir betreten feuertrunken, The first thing one notices when reading this book, or even reviews on this book, is the language. Nadsat, slang used by British youth in this hypothetical future, is influenced by English, Russian (this being a dystopian British novel written in the sixties, after all) and teenagers in search of identity through the appropriation of language. Our narrator, Alex, being a molodoy malchick with his em's moloko still dripping from his rot, uses it consistently when addressing the reader, making this language inescapable. The first page may seem utterly daunting because of this, but put your mind at ease. It's not a coincidence that so many reviews chose to assimilate its words. It's very easy to catch on, with a lot of the words being sufficiently repeated (I don't think there's many novels using the word "mouth" as much as this one uses "rot") in a context that makes their meaning clear. And if you like puns, you'll find plenty in this book. My favorite one was a "symphony" being called a "seemfunnah". Well, it seemed funny to me at least. Most of the nadsat words pertain to the body and verbs of the five senses, making the image of zoobies being pulled out of one's krovvy rot a little easier to digest. This way the subject is very fleshy, violent and bloody up-close and personal, while keeping the tone surprisingly light and distant. Anyone up for a little ultra-violent in-out-in-out? Deine Zauber binden wieder, The theme of this book is a lot deeper than I had given it credit earlier on, and surprisingly easy to find. First consider the following key passage showing the badness of the narrator, in his own words: "This biting of their toe-nails over what is the cause of badness is what turns me into a fine laughing malchick. They don't go into the cause of goodness, so why the other shop? If lewdies are good that's because they like it, and I wouldn't ever interfere with their pleasures, and so of the other shop. And I was patronizing the other shop. More, badness is of the self, the one, the you or me on our oddy knockies, and that self is made by old Bog or God and is his great pride and radosty. But the not-self cannot have the bad, meaning they of the government and the judges and the school cannot allow bad because they cannot allow the self. And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of brave malenky selves fighting these big machines? I am serious with you, brothers, over this. But what I do I do because I like to do." So here we have a guy who enjoys being the bad guy, considers it part and parcel of his identity. On the other hand, as he himself puts it, we have a government who doesn't want all this theft, rape and murder in its streets. Upon seeing that incarceration doesn't work, they figured out a way to brainwash criminals into being good people, or rather, good citizens, stripping them from their identity. Their method consists of some chemical treatment and also the exercise of forcing someone to look at evil without the luxury of turning away. Without the luxury of blinking even. A punishment that even the best among the good could learn from, I would think. Now consider the following statements and questions raised by the prison chaplain: "Goodness is something chosen. When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man." "It may not be nice to be good. It may be horrible to be good. And when I say that to you I realize how self-contradictory that sounds. I know I shall have many sleepless nights about this. What does God want? Does God want woodness or the choice of goodness? Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him?" This discussion was then poured into the metaphor of the "Clockwork Orange", and it's then that all my doubts and wonderings over the title of this book finally clicked into place: "The attempt to impose upon man, a creature of growth and capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily at the last round the bearded lips of God, to attempt to impose, I say, laws and conditions appropriate to a mechanical creation, against this I raise my sword-pen." Begging the question to the reader: where do you stand in all of this? Alle Menschen werden Brüder, If those questions aren't enough for you, oh my brothers, to sit and think hard on your own value systems, Anthony Burgess uses this amazing protagonist as a mirror for your mind, inescapable and uncomfortable. We're talking about a teenager, shown in his worst possible light. He steals, he rapes, he murders. Mercy and remorse are unknown to him. But he likes you, the Reader. He trusts you with his innermost thoughts and feelings. In the beginning of the book I thoroughly hated the guy and couldn't wait for him to go sit in that chair. But then the questions came. If we decide to kill his mind, why not just decide to kill him whole? And how good does that make us, the good people asking themselves these horrible questions? I don't know if it is because he went through that brainwashing treatment, meaning I would agree with it in the end, or because of the trusting, innocent tone he uses when telling his tale, but the bastard did grow on me. The raping, murdering rascall won me over and made me shed a tear of sympathy at the close of this book. Watch out, my brothers, for he's good with words. His tongue is sharp but his heart is twisted. Twisted and juicy and beating with life and wih a purity I can't help but admire and love. I have no answers here. It's all about good and evil and many men before me have pointed to the skies in exasperation, in search for an answer to these things. I'm just another guy, thankful for the questions raised, questions heard by the tic-tac-tocking orange in my chest, tic-tac-tocking without knowing a single thing but tic-tac-tocking none the less and all the more. ________________________ Note by Your Humble Reviewer: This review was written on the tunes of Beethoven's 9th (on repeat), the anarchist-protagonist's favorite song, an ode to joy and currently the anthem causing some European government bratchies to put their rookers over their chest. Believe me or kiss my sharries, oh my brothers, but that's what truly happened here. ________________________ * Some shameless° self-promotion in spoiler: (view spoiler)[I'm probably not the first one to notice, but I think I have discovered a direct link between this book and Alfred Bester's book "The Stars My Destination", published a couple of years prior to "A Clockwork Orange". In that book, a Nightmare Theatre is mentioned in which a person is confronted with his worst nightmares without a chance of escape. When Alex is wheeled out of the movie room, one of the nurses tells him: "Come on then, little tiger.", this being a reference to Bester's original title: Tiger! Tiger!, I think. I felt pretty pleased with myself for having found that connection all on my oddy knocky, figment of my imagination or not. (hide spoiler)] ° Well, not really that shameless, I did put it in spoiler-tags. ________________________ And now for that movie! Here I itty to viddy that sinny. ...more |
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Mar 14, 2016
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Mar 20, 2016
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Mar 14, 2016
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| B00I60LSIO
| 3.73
| 6,127
| Aug 1948
| 2005
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it was amazing
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"There are times, and this is one of them, when the world seems purposefully beautiful, when it is as though some mind in things had suddenly chose
"There are times, and this is one of them, when the world seems purposefully beautiful, when it is as though some mind in things had suddenly chosen to make manifest, for all who choose to see, the supernatural reality that underlies all appearances."
I was reading Ape and Essence in a sunlit park when I was struck by this line. It emitted a beacon of light that folded back on itself and enveloped these words, this book, my hands, my legs, the ground under my feet, the park, the city, its surrounding forests, the seas and the planet in a golden glow that made me look at it all with a disposition that was more generous than ever. I've got a weak spot for sumptuous prose, whether carefully crafted or welling up from a natural spring, but it's been since reading G.K. Chesterton and Charles Dickens that I've been so smitten with man's way of words. Ape and Essence made me discover that Huxley belongs up there with the other wizards of writing. The fact that the strongest point of this book is its prose doesn't help me in reviewing it very effectively. I can't hope to emulate it, obviously. Weaving some kind of metaphor around it with silly beacons of light folding back on themselves can tell you something about the effect it had on me, but it doesn't convey what it is in its essence. Its essence can only be experienced through direct contact with this book. Much like with a song, people can tell you it's good, but it's only upon hearing it for yourself that you can truly be immersed into what other people's opinions unsuccesfully tried to convey. Brilliance. Simple, basic brilliance. I could present you with some more quotes, a selection of flowers grown and cultivated in this bright author's garden patch of a book, but they'd whither in my clumsy hands, out in this cold review. So what else can I do to convince you to read this, aside from maladroitly trying to describe its beauty beyond expression? I can try by mentioning this tells the stories that Fahrenheit 451 and Lord of the Flies tried to tell, only with more humour and more grace, and that it did so way before those well-known books. That it paints the picture of a grey post-apocalyptic world, but with colour and poetry. That it dissects modern society in a way that is as pertinent today as it was when it was first written. That it recognises both the ape and the essence within all of us, that amidst the bleak remnants of a collapsed society it offers an optimistic vision, a convincing explanation of why evil can't endure. That it made me smile. Faced with the limits of my reviewing prowess in the face of this work of congenial genius, I decided to give you another flower. A small one, a description of a woman that wears the same expression this book would if it had a face. Cherish it, give it warmth and let its scent convince you to explore this story for yourself. "In a minute or two, she is lying quite still in the crook of his arm. Sighing happily, she opens her eyes, looks up at him and smiles with an expression of tenderness, to which the dimples add a ravishingly incongruous hint of mischief." ...more |
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Sep 08, 2016
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Sep 13, 2016
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Feb 09, 2016
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| 1780746350
| 9781780746357
| 1780746350
| 3.89
| 36,808
| Oct 02, 2014
| Jun 04, 2015
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it was amazing
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A Brief History of Seven Killings should not be evaluated based on its supposed brevity, nor on the amount of killings featured in the book. The title
A Brief History of Seven Killings should not be evaluated based on its supposed brevity, nor on the amount of killings featured in the book. The title could be the source of misguided expectations in this regard, as it is being overly modest on both counts. But if you're expecting a clever, fast, insightful, colourful and authentic novel, you won't be disappointed. My first instinct when I see a book that has won a prize (in this case the Man Booker) is to have zero expectations of it. Even less. I usually tend to avoid those prize-winning novels, because I always imagine a stuffy jury of academics wearing woolen suits in August and greasy glasses on the tips of their veiny noses, deciding which high-brow book to call "brilliant". All this just to make the masses who buy the book feel a little bit more stupid while they try to make sense of the decision to give it such an award. I took my chances on this one, because the title alone already gave me the distinct impression this was going to be anything but stuffy. Needless to say -but I'm gonna say it anyway- I'm glad I did give this a chance. Even though I remained skeptical at first and I was looking for reasons to hate it, I quickly found out there were none of those, and instead I got an amazing ride in the Jamaican suburbs. The strenghts: - Characters: The cast of characters is quite big: gang members and cops, Americans and Cubans, addicts and reporters, the average Joe, the average Jane and an anything but average Singer. This impressive list is presented for later reference in the beginning of the book, which is very practical. This big list might seem daunting, but there is nothing to worry about, all the characters, especially the main ones who get their own voice as a narrator, are colourful enough and very distinct, in order to avoid any confusion. The one thing that binds them all: they're all smart in their own way, and they're all authentic. This is the first similarity with Quentin Tarantino's works I see: everyone is awesome. In the highschool cafetaria they'd all be sitting at the cool table, even though some hate each other. My favorite character in the book is Josey Wales. I won't go into too much detail as to why, in order to prevent spoilers, but I will mention one aspect. He's the kind of guy who likes to be underestimated when it comes to his intelligence, so he can use it to his advantage. But he also hates being underestimated, because he considers it an affront, and will react accordingly (he's a bit of a psychopath sometimes). Even though I'm not a psychopath, I recognized the sentiment vis-a-vis being underestimated within my former self. And it made me glad I changed, because the writer describes perfectly how tiring and flat-out insufferable such a person can be for other people. Different perspectives are used, so many of the characters get several chapters that are narrated in their voices. A very good choice. Suffice to say: I have grown to love them all. There's a deep connection that is established with these characters, making for sometimes very heavy, sometimes cringeworthy, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes laugh-out-loud moments. You really "live" these peoples' lives, you even live their deaths in some cases, the immersion is complete. - Dialogues: The second similarity with Quentin Tarantino's work: all the characters are upfront, witty and can always fit in a clever retort. They can speak their minds and do it very elegantly and with a wonderful sense of timing. Many of the dialogues, monologues and thought processes build up nicely to very juicy oneliners. I'm very tempted to write down all the oneliners I've copied, but having them in this review without the build-up wouldn't do them justice. I'll share a few, just to give you an idea: "Jamaica never gets worse or better, it just finds new ways to stay the same." "The quickest way to not live at all is to take life one day at a time." "My mother is so afraid of trouble that trouble sticks to her close just because he never gets tired of proving a point." "Besides, who trusts a man who drinks hot water with lime instead of whiskey or even coffee? What's next, peeing sitting down?" - Setting: I had no idea about how Jamaica is or was during the seventies, or how the New York streets looked like in the eighties and nineties, but I think I do now. I'm not going to double-check, but also according to the acknowledgements this is all very authentic and that's the impression I had gotten. I could almost smell the jerk chicken off the pages. Aside from the locales, there is of course the setting of gang wars. Here I must warn the faint of heart: this book is not for you. This book gets extremely violent at times. Rape and murder are described in sometimes excruciating detail. Not just the violence gets this very detailistic treatment. There is a lot of sweet man-on-man lovin' in the fourth chapter that has forever changed my views on flowers blossoming in spring. Marlon James actually warns his mother not to read that fourth chapter. It is extemely explicit. The presence of Death is overwhelming, which will be less surprising because that usually comes with the killings. This book opens with a dead person talking, by ways of introduction, which didn't strike a big chord with me at first. That intro actually left me completely clueless. But the way Marlon James gives the sometimes very recently deceased a voice is powerful beyond compare. You'll look into the minds of people about to die or just having died and I can tell you, those thoughts strike home. - Jamaican Patois: The star of the book. Jamaican Patois with a capitalized "P" as far as I'm concerned. It's a beautiful language, that sadly I cannot emulate for you. As Marlon James himself repeatedly says, nothing makes a white boy sound more white than when he tries to "chat bad". I have found a review of someone who can do it very well (don't know her cultural background), but if you want an idea of what it sounds like, check out this review by Nicole: Jamaican Patois in action. Remember the violence so brutal and the lovin' so sweet it will make you diabetic just reading about it? Somehow, the Jamaican Patois all makes it more palatable. "Sufferah", it sounds all cool and light, but a dramatic meaning lurks behind it. Even their swearwords sound like superheroes. Bombocloth and Battyman, to the rescue!! This strength is a possible weakness though, marketing-wise: I don't think this book is translatable. I doubt it can be done without losing the all-important context of the story. The Jamaican Patois is the identity of this book, translating it into anything else would be equal to killing that identity. - Plot: The plot is very reviting. The central element is an assassination attempt on "the Singer" (we all know who that is), but it actually isn't his story. It's the story "about the people around him, the ones that come and go that might actually provide a bigger picture than asking the Singer why he smokes ganja". All the characters have their own struggle, and all of them are in danger of something. The central question: "Who will finish on top?" Everyone is striving for that top in their own way, by killing, seducing, negotiating, working until they realize that the "on top" usually means "on top of a pile of corpses" and they try to change directions, turning it all into a question of survival. This story is about that, but also the little things, like a bad marriage (somehow I got the impression Marlon James doesn't really like white women by the way), kids not being able to sleep at night or a jealous sister nagging on the phone. I've upgraded my initial 4-star rating to 5 upon writing this review, realizing there aren't any weaknesses worth that name. Let's call them taches de beauté. Slight imperfections that make the whole more beautiful. The one thing that almost prevented me from putting this one on my favorites shelf is that sometimes the book made me work a bit too hard. I get that Marlon James put a lot of work in this, and I got the distinct feeling he wanted to make his reader put in the little extra effort too once in a while. When he explained the word "duppy" on page 526 (more or less) when having used it 77 times (more or less) earlier in the book, I was convinced that Marlon was having a laugh at my expense. Two more examples: - With all the different perspectives and the rather high volume of pages, there is a lot of information to process. Sometimes they're unimportant details, but sometimes one of these details is referred to later on. At some point in the book, Josey Wales has to laugh because he hears "Ma Baker" being played on the radio. Now, you know as a reader that this is a reference to something earlier, an inside joke, because "Ma Baker" had been mentioned before, way way earlier in the book. But I couldn't remember exactly how, or in which context. And I couldn't find it again either, because with all these narratives intertwining, finding it would simply mean re-reading the book. So a joke went over my head even though it shouldn't have, and it annoyed me. I guess this is partly my fault, and probably the reward would have tasted all the sweeter if I would have gotten it, but it stings. I consider myself a fairly meticulous reader. So hereby a request: Anyone reading this review and able to fill me in on the joke will get another great joke in return! - The streams of consciousness: I'm not against streams of consciousness in general, they usually make for a very immersive experience. But in this book those streams were the weakest part of the book, and sometimes aggravating. The reason for this is that whenever Marlon James chose to use this writing method, it was always when a character was either on a drug trip or in a panicky state. Having just read "A Scanner Darkly", I know this can be done much better. The fact that important information is sometimes included in the rants of repetitions, swear words and psychedelic experiences made this less pleasurable than it was probably intended. That said, I think there's a full total of 20 pages of these kinds of streams, so on a total of close to 700 pages this boils down to criticism equivalent to not liking the lay-out of the table of contents. There, I've said it all. I just want to end on a positive note, because this book is definitely a must-read and has got all the potential to be a timeless classic, a book that people from faraway futures will be reading. Don't be one of those people though. Read it as soon as you can! ...more |
Notes are private!
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Nov 19, 2015
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Dec 02, 2015
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Nov 19, 2015
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Paperback
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| 185798806X
| 9781857988062
| 185798806X
| 3.79
| 6,653
| 1930
| Jun 10, 1999
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it was amazing
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"Last and First Men" has been a unique experience. It teaches and entertains, not by presenting the reader with facts, but by serving him and her with
"Last and First Men" has been a unique experience. It teaches and entertains, not by presenting the reader with facts, but by serving him and her with a broad range of possibilities that don't only open the eyes but also the mind. On a basic level, the experience was very pleasant because of the imaginative power of Olaf Stapledon. His imagination is second to none. The images he conjures up provided me with the biggest spectacle I've ever seen, and that I can hope to see in the future. A single paragraph sometimes contains more wealth than the complete oeuvres of our most celebrated authors. To an author, this book must read like a succession of story settings, and it's not surprising to see many claim it has been a source of inspiration to their own work. And yet while this book is rightly praised for this abundance of imagination and the mind-blowing proportion of it, this praise falls short of expressing what made "Last and First Men" such a magnificent read to me. A love for life seeps from its pages, rooted in common sense but also in the romantic. It's a symphony of reason and emotions, of smallness and vastness, and its conclusion left me enriched, happy and deeply moved. A fear I have while writing this review is that my admiration for it won't do this book any justice, nor any favors. That it will imperfectly shape expectations of anyone reading this review, that it will put so much emphasis on my experience of it so that it doesn't leave room for you, the reader, to form an opinion that completely disregards what might be perceived as the opinion of a wide-eyed fanatic. Or that people not having liked the book will use my possibly emotional arguments against the very thing I hold so dear. But I have to take my chances. I do want to share it, given that at times my heart literally was beating faster while reading, and that my eyes could simply not believe what they were reading. The fact that this book was written/published in 1930, before even World War II happened, adds to the sense of something miraculous having occurred here. I repeatedly double-checked if this 1930 wasn't in reference to something else, a symptom of the lack of belief that characterized my eyes at the time of reading. One of the things I liked aside from the bedazzling scope of the author's imagination is the way the fourth wall was broken through the idea that the author himself was but a vessel of communication between a very distant future human life form and the reader. The account of all the iterations of mankind's evolution and the richness in detail and nuance make it read like a convincing historical account, convincing enough to even entertain the idea proposed by the author that the future speaks to us through these pages. This leads me to react on two criticisms I have read here repeatedly. The first is that the near-future predictions were wrong. While I guess this is true when it comes to certain details, protagonists, scientific discoveries and so on, I think no justice is done to this book by considering it a "historical account of the future", a creative exercise in future forecasting. It's more than that. It's more than anything I know, and categorizing it is a mistake. Even science fiction is too narrow a field to contain all that is within this book. In any case, running your finger along its lines and double-checking it with reality is futile and senseless, and completely besides the point. In fact, even in his supposedly wrong predictions of the near future, Stapledon touched on some very true traits of human nature. In my version of the book the foreword by Gregory Benford actually recommends not reading the first chapters because of their factual errors. Please do not follow this man's advice. Don't skip anything in this book, or at least not anything Stapledon has written. A second criticism I read is on the way the "story" is presented. There is a lack of a constant character to relate to and the birdseye-view (or Flying Man's view) prevents any bonding between reader and story. I can't but disagree. First of all, the civilisations are presented in a way that is detailed and passionate enough as to allow the reader to feel right at home among them, whether they'd be on Earth, Venus or Neptune. Sometimes (though rarely) Stapledon also zooms in on individuals, providing the reader with yet another way of engaging with the millions of characters that are within this book. And ultimately, I myself couldn't help but feel like a character within it. How's that for immersion? This story tells the story of humanity, so the leap is not that big to make. This book is deeply philosophical. And here we come to the main reason why I don't just like this book, but love it. It asks life's biggest questions without falling into the trap of falling on one's knees and shout out an exasperated "WHY?!". Rather, it's written by someone with a tender yet firm, a questioning yet reassuring voice. It's always very collected, dispassionate when exploring possibilities, when describing the search of so many people, the defeats they endure, their disappointments and their small victories. It's an ode to humanity, without forgetting the baseness and evil that sometimes characterizes us. And despite the theme, it doesn't present humankind as the center of the universe, though it does shortly consider the possibility that it is its most beautiful flower. This consideration is blissfully left open without a conclusion. It's an ode to light despite all the darkness that surrounds it. It's an ode to the temporary in an eternal setting. It's an ode to the cosmos despite not knowing what the hell it is. It's telling me that life is ultimately beautiful, despite its insignificance in the vast expanse of time, space and possibilities. That the universe is a wonderful riddle, regardless of whether we can solve it or not. That being able to recognize the mystery that surrounds and pervades us is a gift in itself, a spark that can take humanity a far way. I highly recommend this book to everyone. I won't judge you if you don't like it, I can't offer the guarantee that you will, but I can only say I'm very glad I can count myself among those who really do. I won't claim this book is an easy read. There were days where I didn't feel I had the mental capacity to fully get what was written and move forward. But it's a fulfilling read. Be patient and give yourself the time to find the right moment to read it. I'm surprised this book isn't a worldwide, timeless success, given its scope. There's something in there for everyone and it's surprising to me that it's not part of mass culture, but this surprise makes me all the more grateful that I got the chance to discover it. I'll see what I can do in making other people get acquainted with it as well, hoping but not expecting them to like it as much as I did. Maybe I can start by convincing you? ...more |
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Sep 10, 2015
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Oct 04, 2015
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Sep 10, 2015
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| 0441627404
| 9780441627400
| 0441627404
| 4.07
| 115,576
| 1958
| Jun 15, 1987
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it was amazing
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Five stars? All the stars! This is the best book I have ever read. My other 5-star-ratings pale in comparison to this big wonder of a book. My Goodrea
Five stars? All the stars! This is the best book I have ever read. My other 5-star-ratings pale in comparison to this big wonder of a book. My Goodreads-rating system needs revision. Hors categorie. A fantasy classic? It's so much more than that. It's about everything that matters in life, told in the warm voice of a brilliant and gifted author. He has struck a chord within me that will keep on trembling forever. Humor, adventure, suspense, tragedy, poetry, romance, philosophy, history, faith, sociology, tradition, fantasy, the list goes on and on. It contains everything. A page-turner. More than 600 pages? Not to worry. By the time you're done with them it will have felt like 600 days do after they are over. Short. But not 'too short', for they will have left a mark. This book is a friend. Possibly, probably, for life. I love him first page to last, and finishing it hurt a little as with all tender goodbyes, but I will revisit him often. I have already encountered difficulties suggesting and praising this book to friends, given their association of Merlyn = just for kids. They are wrong. This book is perfect in every way, apart from the problem it presents me with now: What to read next? Which book(s) to taint with its enormous shadow? ...more |
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Aug 13, 2015
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Aug 24, 2015
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Aug 13, 2015
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 1593080638
| 9781593080631
| 1593080638
| 4.04
| 250,305
| Nov 1850
| Dec 01, 2003
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it was amazing
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I picked up this book in a bookstore (if you can believe it), not really thinking I'd buy such a big pile of pages in classical English, figuring it w
I picked up this book in a bookstore (if you can believe it), not really thinking I'd buy such a big pile of pages in classical English, figuring it would bore the hell out of me. I read the first page. I then proceeded to the counter, and bought it. This is the beginning of my love story with "David Copperfield", an absolute favorite. It takes a particular mindset to read it I think, so it took me a while to finish it, matching my reading moments with that mindset as much as possible. You need a romantic side and you need to be able to get in touch with it in order to enjoy this book, but if you give this tale a chance, it will nurture that sensitive side and make you get tears of joy. This book is a biography of a wonderful, semi-fictional person, David Copperfield, whose ordeals and adventures are based on those experienced by Charles Dickens. David's thoughts are generous and because this book is written from his perspective, everything he describes around him is depicted in their best possible light. The world is such a nice place through his eyes, even in the most dreary situations of poverty, abandonment and death of loved ones. Plenty of songs of happiness and love are sung in this book, but like in every life, there is not just that. Sadness, death, loss, heartache become beautiful because of their purity and their core of warmth, a warmth so well expressed in this book. Betrayal and jealousy become even uglier when put next to the purer feelings. It hasn't always been an easy read. Some passages are rather slow and a rare couple of segments that were meant to be funny have somehow lost their edge (most humourous instances still retain their power over your mouth corners and unshaken belly, though. They will yield, I assure you!). The local dialects in which some of the protagonists speak sometimes make it very difficult to understand for a non-native English speaker like myself. I have read this book with a little notebook next to me to take down the most memorable quotes. It was difficult not to just simply copy entire pages at times. Here are some of my favorite quotes -who are really stories in themselves- which show the timeless humour and the great pen of an author who has shown that the most naive thing to be is to be anything but continuously amazed with the wonders all around you: “Be thankful for me, if you have a kind heart, as I think you have, that while I know well what I am, I can be cheerful and endure it all. I am thankful for myself, at any rate, that I can find my tiny way through the world, without being beholden to anyone; and that in return for all that is thrown at me, in folly or vanity, as I go along, I can throw bubbles back.” "Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What with her dress; what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of; what with this, that, and the other; her merits really attracted general notice." "This country I am come to conquer! Have you honours? Have you riches? Have you posts of profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them be brought forward. They are mine!" "Oh the river! I know it's like me! I know that I belong to it. I know that it's the natural company of such as I am! It comes from country places, where there was no harm in it - and it creeps through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable - and it goes away, like my life, to a great sea that is always troubled and I feel that I must go with it." "If, any sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of wings and flown away before my eyes, I don't expect I should have regarded it as much more than I had had reason to expect." "And if ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had one made that day." "I shall never forget the waking next morning; the being cheerful and fresh for the first moment, and then the being weighed down by the stale and dismal oppression of remembrance." "It would be no pleasure to a London tradesman to sell anything which was what he pretended it was." "...and that she desired her compliments, which was a polite fiction on my part." "When I woke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no other question that I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the answer to it." "Love must suffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it ever would be so. No matter. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at last, and then Love was avenged." If you love Love, with the big L, you'll love this Book. ...more |
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Nov 23, 2014
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Mar 20, 2015
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Sep 16, 2014
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Paperback
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| 0141043695
| 9780141043692
| 0141043695
| 3.55
| 79,629
| 1516
| Sep 22, 2009
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it was amazing
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This book has been close to a revelation for me. It took me completely by surprise, considering these ancient books always seemed rather dry to me, ho
This book has been close to a revelation for me. It took me completely by surprise, considering these ancient books always seemed rather dry to me, however intelligent their writer. I don't know how much of this is owed to the translator, Paul Turner, but I reckon at least enough for him to merit the explicit mention here. I used to be, I still am in fact, very fond of dystopian novels. Brave New World and 1984 are classic examples which I thoroughly enjoyed. But after reading Utopia, I'm left far more impressed. It's infinitely more challenging to try and come up with a society model that works, rather than one that screws things up. Granted, Utopia more than probably wouldn't work, and some of the notions are dated. Thomas More's treatment of women's role in society probably will not make him very popular with our contemporary ladies, not to mention his statements on the "mentally deficient" as well as those on atheists and slavery. Utopia can only work because of the mistakes other countries around it make, and by cashing in on it, either by using their criminals as slaves or their thirst for gold as a weapon against them, ruling out the possibility of a worldwide Utopia, but somehow expecting that those who are left out stand idly by. The reason why I like this book is not because I think an Utopia would work, but because I greatly appreciate the effort of trying to design such a place. I feel some lessons could be distilled from it, despite its shortcomings, and these lessons are brought in such a humble tone that the book never strikes me as condescending in that respect, making it all the more powerful. Aside from the dated notions mentioned before, More's emphasis on Christianity might offend some people as well, but I chose to read it as an afterthought rather than the cherry on the cake (as it was probably intended). Reading it that way allowed me not to forget about some ideas where Thomas More was indeed ahead of his time, apparent in small issues such as female priests or big ones such as euthanasia, international treaties and freedom of religion. Thomas More seemed so much ahead of his time, bringing up all these points still relevant today, but was he really? Or was he so perfectly in tune with human nature that what he wrote down applies as much to what happened 1000 years before he was around as 500 years after it? There is something universal and timeless in this book that can't be ignored I think. I haven't given many books five stars so far, but this one gets them, not only for having me thoroughly enjoy it while reading, but for inspiring me to think about life and society in my own modest way, long after I closed it. I'm definitely going to return to it one day. In closing, and as I couldn't say it better myself, some quotes I particularly liked: On his friend Peter Gilles: "Certainly he is a very fine person, as well as a very fine scholar. He is scrupulously fair to everyone, but towards his friends he shows so much genuine kindness, loyalty and affection, that he must be unique in his all-round capacity for friendship. He is unusually modest, utterly sincere, and has a shrewd simplicity all his own. He is also a delightful talker, who can be witty without hurting anyone's feelings. I was longing to get back to England and see my wife and children, as I had been away for over four months; but my homesickness was to a large extent relieved by the pleasure of his company and the charm of his conversation." (Doesn't this describe the kind of friend we should all aspire to be?) "However, there are also physical pleasures which satisfy no organic need, and relieve no previous discomfort. They merely act, in a mysterious but quite unmistakable way, directly on our senses, and monopolize their reactions. Such is the pleasure of music." "For, if you think that sort of thing will make you happy, you'll have to admit that your idea of perfect felicity would be a life consisting entirely of hunger, thirst, itching, eating, drinking, rubbing, and scratching - which would obviously be most unpleasant as well as quite disgusting." "For they assume that He has the normal reactions of an artist. Having put the marvelous system of the universe on show for human beings to look at - since no other species is capable of taking it in - He must prefer the type of person who examines it carefully and really admires His work, to the type that just ignores it and like the lower animals remains quite unimpressed by the whole astonishing spectacle." "For instance, the Utopians fail to understand why anyone would be so fascinated by the dull gleam of a tiny bit of stone, when he has all the stars in the sky to look at." "The Utopians never make any actual treaties of the kind that are so constantly being made, broken, and renewed by other nations. What, they ask, is the good of a treaty? Aren't all human beings natural allies already? And if a person's prepared to ignore a fundamental bond like that, is he likely to pay much attention to a mere form of words?" "...you can't rely on treaties at all. The more solemnly they're made, the sooner they're violated, by the simple process of discovering some loophole in the wording. Indeed, such loopholes are often incorporated deliberately in the original text, so that, no matter how binding one's commitments appear to be, one can always wriggle out of them, thus breaking treaty and faith simultaneously. The fact is, such diplomacy is downright dishonest. If the very people who pride themselves on suggesting such tricks to their rulers found the same sort of thing going on in connection with a private contract, they'd be the first to denounce it, in shrill, self-righteous tones, as sacrilegious and criminal." ...more |
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Aug 05, 2014
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Aug 06, 2014
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Aug 05, 2014
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 0440180295
| 9780440180296
| 0440180295
| 4.10
| 1,431,851
| Mar 31, 1969
| Nov 03, 1991
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it was amazing
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Listen: This reviewer is stuck in time. He is unable to escape the narrow confines of the invisible, intangible machinery mercilessly directing his lif Listen: This reviewer is stuck in time. He is unable to escape the narrow confines of the invisible, intangible machinery mercilessly directing his life from a beginning towards an end. The walls surrounding him are dotted with windows looking out on darkened memories and foggy expectations, easing the sense of claustrophobia but offering no way out. The ceiling is crushing down on this man while he paces frantically through other people's lives and memories in hopes of shaping his own and forgetting the enormity of oblivion looming above his head. He reads book after book after book. He reads Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. He gets immersed, he gets lost in the pages. He smiles. He wonders. He tumbles. He laughs a laugh that seems to come from somewhere deep within him, telling him that everything is beautiful. A laugh that shoots up from a dark place and illuminates the universe, bathing it in colour, showing all the hidden threads in a fraction of a second. The man is consoled, recognizing that fraction as an eternity. He closes the book and looks around him. The space got bigger, the windows show a clearer picture. He sees his situation with a new light emanating from his own eyes and, looking up, notices the oppressive ceiling is no longer there. It made way for the sky, sometimes blue, sometimes painted with stars and clouds. He ruminates on this new canvas for his thoughts as a bird flies by and calls to him. Poo-tee-weet. ...more |
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Aug 13, 2016
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Aug 19, 2016
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Aug 05, 2014
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| 0140183884
| 9780140183887
| 0140183884
| 3.83
| 43,879
| 1908
| Jan 01, 1990
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it was amazing
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This book is on my favorite shelf but was missing a review, even though I loved it from the very first time I encountered it.* Time to set things stra
This book is on my favorite shelf but was missing a review, even though I loved it from the very first time I encountered it.* Time to set things straight. "The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare" is a unique book, that starts as a spy novel with a very compelling premise of underground anarchists, a mysterious police force and a game of hide-and-seek. Pretty early on there's shimmers of philosophical ramblings that will grow into an overpowering element later in the book. A table in a bar that turns out to be an elevator way down to the anarchists' local headquarters is the beginning of the spy-novel-ride getting bumpier, wilder and certainly stranger. Soon you'll find that nothing is what it seems. The anarchists are mysterious and darkly looming, and you dread being there when their plans and identities are exposed. But it's the mission at hand to unmask these devils and as Gabriel Syme, the protagonist poet-detective, walks closer to his goal his steps become a glide and he slowly seems to lose control over where he's going to. Things get weirder and the tumble down the rabbit hole gains in pace. Elephants give chase to hot-air balloons through English landscapes and snow starts falling on summer days. And so the book itself turns into something that you'd never expect it to, given the way the stage was set. Sure, it says so in the title: "a nightmare", but it's often quite funny and not really scary enough to fall under that category. Anarchists have lost some of their fear-factor since the time this book was written, so I imagine it must have been more of a nightmare to Chesterton's original readership. This book doesn't scare like a nightmare does, not until Sunday gets in the picture, that is. By the end of the book I wasn't quite sure how the hell I got there or even where I was, but I loved the ride. Magical realism, philosophy, humour and a very sharp pen all in one book, and it seems to be well ahead of its time. All this is coming from an author who's mostly known for books on Christian orthodoxy, which in itself seemed somehow surprising, even though Christian philosophy is clearly present, especially towards the end. But it's not dry at all, not at all like how I would have expected someone preaching orthodoxy to deliver his message. Additionally, the idea of having weekdays as codenames somehow strikes an enormous chord with me. It just seems all the more sinister by using these everyday codenames**. I wonder if this is where the Reservoir Dogs got their inspiration from, or if it really was just M&M's and Skittles. All I can say is that the title alone completely hooked me, and I'm glad it did, because the rest of the story reeled me in. * My first encounter with this novel was through a video game, Deus Ex. I'm adding this reference because it introduced me to many books, such as Gravity's Rainbow (Pynchon, which I haven't read yet), Underworld (DeLillo, not read yet either) and The Napoleon of Notting Hill (written by Chesterton as well). The Man Who Was Thursday in particular was presented in this game with small excerpts of dialogues, whose power and intriguing nature even as stand-alone pieces of text completely won me over. ** Pun intended ...more |
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Sep 02, 2014
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Sep 07, 2014
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Jul 17, 2014
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Paperback
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| 0141036141
| 9780141036144
| B006QNC5VC
| 4.20
| 5,093,067
| Jun 08, 1949
| Jul 03, 2008
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it was amazing
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None
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not set
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May 30, 2012
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| 0099908506
| 9780099908500
| B0755DC1MT
| 3.79
| 472,641
| Oct 22, 1926
| 1994
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it was amazing
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Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises could be read like it's some kind of evil social experiment. You take a room and you put in three elephants. (You may also
Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises could be read like it's some kind of evil social experiment. You take a room and you put in three elephants. (You may also choose to build the room around the elephants for practical reasons.) You give the elephants names, and paint these names on their flanks in letters big, bright and red. You call them Impotence, Jealousy and Loneliness. Then you have a group of people enter that same room, a couple of guys and a gorgeous girl. They can do anything they like, they get the freedom to do anything they want. The only rule: They are not allowed to address the elephants in the room. To make things more interesting there's an open bar and all the liquor in the world. Sounds like a party alright. Except, it didn't read like a social experiment to me. It didn't on my first reading, and it didn't on my second. So yeah, time for some creative writing and dramatisation! __________ First Reading - Vienna The academy hallways were full of sound. The sun blasted through my window, the room was hot. I got off the bed, splashed some water on my face and headed out the door. The hallway was white and cool. Familiar faces were smiling at me and at each other. Bags and suitcases were strewn all over and I made my way to the big stairway. I hugged some people. Students were returning from the summer holiday, they were in good spirits. I had stayed over summer. An internship had kept me in Vienna and in the academy for the hot season full of tourists. I saw David. He was talking to some people and I headed over to his group. He had come from Canada and looked pretty tired. His checkered shirt was wet under his arms. "Hey man! You had a good flight?" "Yeah, pretty beat. Going for a quick nap." "You're up for drinks later?" "Sure." He went up two flights of stairs. The other students had started up their own excited conversation about their summer holidays so I decided to head down, into the garden. It was surrounded by the white architecture of the academy. Some trees stood huddled up in one corner, a bench overlooking a green lawn sat in their shade. Lucian was reading a book. "Hey." "Hey, old sport. Had a good summer?" "Yeah, Vienna is swell in summer. A lot happened." "Nice. Weren't feeling too lonely then?" "No, not too much. She's been really nice, you know." "Who?" "Are you up for drinks later?" "Of course." "You see Andrew yet?" "No and I haven't heard him all summer." "Me neither. Doesn't surprise me." "Yeah." "Will be good seeing him again." "Yes." He continued to read and I went back up my room. It started to cool off a bit outside so I opened my window to let in the fresh air. I tried to read a bit but my stomach hurt. I hadn't eaten well in the morning, just a biscuit and some yogurt. I lay face down on my pillow and sighed. The breeze coming from outside stroked the back of my neck and my hair. Voices and laughter came from outside. My stomach ached. I woke up a couple of hours later. The Gymnasium next to the academy had blocked off the rays of the low-hanging sun from our garden. It was thrown in grey shades and a fresh silence. I took a sip of water and got changed. As I headed out I saw David on the stairs. "Let's go?" "Yes sir, I was just on my way." "Not too tired?" "A bit, I got me a bit of the old desynchronosis." "I see you're still sleeping with your thesaurus." "What? It's a normal word." We went through the big wooden door of the academy, out in the street in the evening sun. We turned away from it walking eastward towards Karlsplatz. A small, white church lay at the end of the street. It was closed. It had been all summer, as far as I could tell. We passed by it, crossed a busy street with a tramcar and saw a red bus parked in the street ahead. The owner of the bar had bought a British double-decker. Signs were put on its windows advertising book readings for children. The "Lesebus", Johnny chose to call it. The pub's terrace sitting in the double-decker's shade was full of people. We went in and saw Lucian sitting at one of the tables. He was writing something down in a notebook before he looked up and saw us coming. "Good evening, old chaps!" "Good to see you again, Luke. What are you having?" "Kilkenny." My stomach ached. "What about you, Matt?" "Yeah, same thing." David went to the bar to order. A line of people had formed, their places were being reserved outside on the terrace. Nobody seemed to anxious, it was still early. Most of the noise came from outside, some of it drowned out by the rock music coming from within. "Did you see her yet?" "Didn't see anyone I know since I got here, just Jake behind the bar. Asshole." "Yeah, he's an asshole." "So, how are you?" "Alright, you know, a bit rusty on the drinking. I don't drink as well as you guys." "You're a poor drinker." "Give me tequila or vodka and I'll handle it. Did you see Andrew yet?" "You're a poor drinker." "I don't drink beer very well, that's all. Must be the fermentation stuff or whatever. Did you see Andrew around?" "No. Probably didn't get back from England yet or he'd be here. Man loves a drink more than a momma loves her babies." "What are you writing?" "The usual. I've been reading a great book. Hemingway. Fiesta. You know it?" "I can't say that I do. Just started reading you know. I'm now in the middle of "A Confederacy of Dunces"." "Now there's a funny book. You should try Fiesta." David came back with three glasses. "Cheers, guys." "Hey David, did you read Fiesta?" "Hemingway? Sure! Great book." "She's such a bitch, right?" "Yeah." "What a bitch." "Yeah. And such poor sods too." "Hey, don't spoil the book guys, I haven't read it yet." "Don't worry, it's not a spoiler. It's pretty obvious from the get-go. She's a bitch." "Yeah. Poor devils. I've never been to Spain. Maybe next summer." "It's nice. I'm not too crazy about their bullfights, but their food is excellent. They got these big, dried hams everywhere." "Bull ham?" "Ham doesn't come from bovine creatures Matt." "I know. I was in Barcelona a couple of times, good place. The sea, the city, it's got it all. Good place." "We should go to Barcelona together, have a party. We'll have a blast." "Isn't it pretty to think so?" "Yeah. You guys want another beer?" "You didn't finish yours yet." "You know I can't keep up." "Keep up." "I can't." "Keep up, you bastard." "I'll finish it on the way." I stood up, picked up my jug. Lucian gave me a dirty look. David rubbed his face and looked at the wall. I went to the bar and stood in line. People were pushing against me as I was finishing my beer. It was hot. Sweat was running from my forehead, irritating my eyes. Things were getting blurry. "What will it be?" "Hey Jake. Three Kilkenny please." "Big ones?" "Big ones." He handed over the beers. I handed over the money and told him to keep the change. It was a big tip. "Have you seen her?" Jake didn't hear me. He was already looking over my head towards the next customer. I returned to the table. David had pulled out a game of cards. "Why aren't they here?" "Who?" "Andrew." "I told you, he's probably still in England." "Everyone returned today. I'm pretty sure he's in Vienna. Why isn't he here?" "Maybe he's tired? I know I am. Wanna play?" "And why isn't she here? She's normally always here on Tuesday nights." "Wanna play?" "No." "Play." "I don't feel like it." "What's up, Matt? You can't handle beer, you don't want to play. Had a rough summer?" "I had an excellent summer." "Great to hear it! Cheers!" "Cheers guys." "Cheers!" "Now let's fucking play." She hadn't come. I had heard a noise from Andrew's room before going back to mine. I didn't turn on the lights but walked to my bed and fell face down on my pillow. I punched my mattress. My knuckles were burning. My stomach ached. __________ Second Reading - Brussels We're lying in bed. It's getting dark outside but the street is still alive with sounds of children playing. It's a hot summer night, holidays are almost over. She's playing with her phone. I'm reading the last pages of Fiesta. "Isn't it pretty to think so?" I close the book and put it on my night table. I turn off my lamp and get ready to sleep. "Going to sleep already?" "Yeah, pretty tired." "Did you finish your book?" "Yeah." "Was it any good?" "It was excellent." "Nice. Good night, my love." "I love you." "Me too." I closed my eyes. I felt myself slipping into a deep sleep. I felt strange dreams lying in wait for me behind a cold veil of darkness. She stirred, turned her back to me. I turned on my side and opened my eyes. She glanced sideways, looking up. I took her by the shoulder and gave her a kiss. I lay back down and drifted off. ...more |
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Aug 31, 2016
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May 30, 2012
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 0099448785
| 9780099448785
| B007YTFBOA
| 4.12
| 145,884
| Jun 15, 1985
| Sep 28, 2001
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it was amazing
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In the unlikely event that Haruki Murakami's name on the cover is not in some way a quality label to you, guaranteeing profoundly outlandish scenarios
In the unlikely event that Haruki Murakami's name on the cover is not in some way a quality label to you, guaranteeing profoundly outlandish scenarios and magic, he threw in the term "wonderland" to make sure everyone knew what to expect. Does the story deliver on all the promises this wonderful title embodies? Yes. I decided to re-visit this book after having read it around 3 years ago (before my reviewing habit kicked in) because I remembered it being an instant favorite but didn't remember why exactly. I had some vague notions of course, but pinpointing the thing that drew me in, really making a case for why others should read it as well, I could not. Can I do it now? No. But I'll try anyway. What I can say is that this is: a. the best Murakami I've read; b. a superb introduction to this great author. While in the other books I've read by him it felt as if all the characters were conspiring to make things as strange as possible for the reader, thinking so far outside of the box the mere notion of a box seemed ludicrous, in this one they seem more sympathetic. Especially the protagonist. He seems like he's a good friend of Murakami, introducing him to you, but regardless of their bond, the main character is on your side. When Murakami comes up with something fantastical, he'll go with it, sure, but not without raising his eyebrows to you, signaling "I don't know what the hell is going on either, but it's fun, right?" Yes, yes it is my friend. And the complicity between the protagonist and the reader will be the thing holding you in your seat when the Murakami rollercoaster ride gets really wild and upside down. I don't want to give away too many details on the story, I think it's best discovered by reading it for yourself in all its glory. It deals with one of my favorite topics: the mind, its powers, its mysteries, its pitfalls. The joys of losing yourself in thought, the dangers of a closed mind, the connections with the heart: they're all poured into wonderful metaphors that together make for a great adventure. The novel alternates between two settings: the Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. Which is real? What is their connection? Can both exist in harmony? Which would you rather live in? A place of passions and dangers, but only for a limited time? Or a place of peace and tranquility, forever? Is an answer even possible? Not in my book, maybe in this one. The unnamed protagonist in this story tries to answer these questions in the midst of information wars between the System and the Factory, in a village completely surrounded and isolated by an impenetrable Wall, in a race against time, running from sinister enemies in underground tunnels, all the while trying to make sure his shadow can keep up. I tried to cover a lot of what's in the story here, but I didn't even come close to getting it all. This isn't the kind of story that can be summarized into a blurb. It's exciting. It's deep. It's funny. Its settings are mysterious and thought-provoking. Oh, and there's a map! I love stories that come with maps. There was a lot of time spent simply gazing at that map, imagining to walk the river shores into the woods, dreaming away. In short: an all-time favorite. It also has my favorite quote of all time. A quote on how everything is fine. And always will be. Take a moment, sit back, relax, and read these words that never fail to impress me, no matter how many times I've read them: “The sun sliced through the windshield, sealing me in light. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth on my eyelids. Sunlight traveled a long distance to reach this planet; an infinitesimal portion of that sunlight was enough to warm my eyelids. I was moved. That something as insignificant as an eyelid had its place in the workings on the universe, that the cosmic order did not overlook this momentary fact.” Reading this book has been like soft rays of sunshine finding their way to my eyelids, an experience I wish to highly recommend to everyone. ...more |
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Dec 30, 2015
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Jan 26, 2016
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May 30, 2012
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