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| 4.14
| 2,145,097
| 1985
| Jul 05, 2007
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really liked it
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Don't let the bastards grind you down.
There's a lot of talk about women's rights these days. There were times where I thought: enough already. You Don't let the bastards grind you down. There's a lot of talk about women's rights these days. There were times where I thought: enough already. You girls got it good. I looked around me and saw women with strong voices and a million choices. If they wished to go for a career, they could go for it. If they didn't, no biggie. Their liberty seemed greater than men's in a lot of respects. The power they wield over men is magnificent and often described as the greatest humanity is capable of: a woman's love. They can choose to give it or withhold it. Men's political and physical powers look puny and artificial in contrast, as their strings are constantly pulled by forces they can't resist. Somewhere deep inside me I had a hard time believing things could really be so bad for women, with their majority in numbers and all this strenght at their disposal. But then you turn on the news or you open a history book. You look outside your own country. You look at a presidential candidate talking about women as animals, as goods to be acquired, as territories to be conquered. You see people making excuses for it, making light of it, you see in their eyes they assume that it's normal. You see laws that tell women what to do with their own bodies, in the name of religion or the greater good. You hear of households where tiny kings use their physical power to terrorise their tiny kingdoms. And then you see all the machinations that have gone into trying to rob women of their mystical, almost holy, powers in greater kingdoms, machinations that often seem on the verge of systematising in the blink of an eye. So, having accepted that the Woman's struggle is real, I was reading The Handmaid's Tale that paints a picture of how things would look like if circumstance and evil succeeded in stripping women of all the agency they have. When they have succesfully been ground down by the bastards. Bastards aren't Men, per se. Or all men. Or only men. This isn't so much a story about women versus men. It's a story of the artificial power against the real one, a story where the former won. It's a bleak picture. Atwood uses the very claustrophobic perspective of Offred to great effect. Offred is the eponymous handmaid who find herself in a dystopia where her only societal value is also a curse: her fertility. Her world consists of her room, a stroll down the stairs, a garden, a walk to the butcher and her one and only societal mission: to get pregnant. She has to wear a cape that allows her to only look directly in front of her. She's isolated and stripped of her identity. Even her memories are slowly disappearing and losing relevance in a surrounding that offers nothing to link them to. Through this narrative Margaret Atwood succeeds in donning that same vision-confining cape on her readers' heads, immersing them in that same claustrophobic atmosphere. This books does very well what it set out to do and that also explains why I didn't thoroughly enjoy it. I wanted more background. I wanted more explanations. I wanted more adventure. I wanted more action by the protagonist. I wanted her spirit, still apparent in the secretly hoarding of butter and the plotting of small thefts, to break free and wreak havoc among the bastards. Make them lose without losing herself. I wanted more direction. I wanted the flashes of hope to last. In short: the author succeeded in making me want what the protagonist wanted. She showed me what it is we should all strive to avoid actively. An important book, and a good one to boot. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Sep 26, 2016
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Oct 13, 2016
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Sep 26, 2016
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Paperback
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| 0307744868
| 9780307744869
| 0307744868
| 4.13
| 37,004
| Jul 12, 2011
| Jul 10, 2012
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really liked it
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The places described in this book are said to be located somewhere in Ohio. Small towns and highways connecting them to other small towns with conveni
The places described in this book are said to be located somewhere in Ohio. Small towns and highways connecting them to other small towns with convenience stores, schools, cornfields, dirt roads, churches, wood-paneled homes and their sheds. But it doesn't take you very long to know that this decor is just a façade for where you really are. The plants have withered, the dogs are skinny, all eyes are dead. Everything is thirsty. The pure thirst for water is numbed and buried in dust. Alcohol and blood are all that is left to appease the cruel tongues slithering in the dried-up maws and mouths. The only soft caress you're likely to get is that of a rare breeze that seems out of place in the rough landscape and flees just as soon as it arrived. The only color comes from reddish brown stains in the sand, the only sound comes from your own laboured breathing. You are in Hell. The Devil has taken a seat in his favorite throne: the stone-cold hearts of the people who roam this desert. Senseless violence goes hand in hand with outrageous sexual proclivities. As the Devil is steering everyone in desperate circles of debaucheries and murders, it is easy to be entertained by the spectacle but difficult to empathise with the grim cast of characters who are slowly casting off their human shell. The only warm, sweet sensation that is left in these arid lands is that of a possibility of revenge, the prospect of somehow ending this miserable display. Some of the people have embraced the Devil willingly. Some have tried to stay ahead of him but were caught up in his remorseless swoop. Some have tried to confront him with dry decomposing Bibles and pitiful prayers to grey skies only to find themselves choking in the sand. Their tales and their vividly detailed backgrounds are what you'll find in this book. The most interesting story came from the one who managed to stay behind the Devil, staying out of view and cleaning up the mess. The one who decided to have a staring contest with the abyss as it gazed back into him, unblinking. His own brand of emptiness is pitted against the endless depths of evil as the pages turn and the reader is swept away in this mesmerising story of a handful of good intentions in a world of evil. It's not hope that gets you through this desert, but the thrill of witnessing the wicked and the chance of beating the Devil at his own game while secretly enjoying his company. Don't miss this journey. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 03, 2017
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Jan 10, 2017
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Sep 23, 2016
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Paperback
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| 0099560437
| 9780099560432
| 0099560437
| 4.23
| 1,214,184
| Aug 16, 2011
| Apr 05, 2012
|
really liked it
| Did Ready Player One push all the right buttons? Let's find out! ______________________ Ernest's Quest The Five Golden Stars Mattendo® All rights reserved _ Did Ready Player One push all the right buttons? Let's find out! ______________________ Ernest's Quest The Five Golden Stars Mattendo® All rights reserved ______________________ Start Game Options Quit ______________________ Select difficulty level Easy Medium Hard ______________________ Loading ______________________ Level 1: Command & Conquer: Starbase Defense Ernest is seen from a top down perspective. He's in the top left corner of a green battleground dotted with trees, mountains and rivers. The bottom right corner, the enemy's base of operations, is shrouded in impenetrable darkness. Ernest is standing next to a star-shaped command center he needs to defend against the enemy at all costs. An Idea Harvest Truck is parked next to the command center, engine running. Ernest jumps in and gets going to the center of the map where Ideas are known sprout up continuously. Top priority: to create a setting. The first idea he harvests is that of Dystopia. This generates a whole city around Star Command. The city is dilapidated but huge, providing a buffer against the enemy who is already sending scouts of Skeptics to Ernest's base. They don't get far as the city, already teeming with life and possibility, swallows them whole. The stacks of RV's on the outskirts of the base provide not only a magnificent sight but a great vantage point for Ernest's snipers. Ernest continues harvesting and stumbles on Technological Advances. The run-down city and its inhabitants are outfitted with any weapon you can think of, be it from fantasy worlds, movies, books, video games, television series or your own wild imagination. It's already clear that Ernest's enemies don't stand a chance, so a new challenge pops up. Bonus objective: Cultivate Starfruit Just outside of the city there is a patch where starfruit can be grown. Ernest sends groups of farmers out to the field but as they venture out of the protective city they are easily killed by the Skeptics. Ernest continues harvesting for ideas and hits the mother lode: OASIS. Virtual reality taken to its extremes, wherein everything is possible. A universe of planets, challenges, references, memories, people. A milky way with only planets referring to cereals? You got it. A solar system perpetually set in the eighties? Check. A planet devoted to the first Rush album? Check. An asteroid recreating your favorite TV show? Check. Check. Check. You got it all. Literally everything is possible and everything feels real. The universe is an amusement park that you yourself can create, that you yourself can enjoy, touch, hear, smell and almost taste, provided you've got the hardware. A universe in which you can die and start again, in which you can make sure that you're ready before starting to live. After Ernest safely made his way back to Star Command, the OASIS idea generates a force field encapsulating both the city and the surrounding fields, so that the starfruit can safely be harvested. The Skeptic enemies all try to attack simultaneously in a last ditch effort but they crash into the force field and die bloody deaths. Mission Accomplished - Objective 1: Starbase defended. - 1 star earned - Bonus Objective: Starfruit cultivated - 1 star earned ______________________ Level 2: Out Run: Star Circuit Ernest finds himself in a red sports car, the licence plate reads PLOTMOBILE. There's a hot blonde sitting in the passenger seat, yammering relentlessly. The setting having been successfully created in level 1, he now needs to race through the plot with adequate pacing, respecting the twists and turns without losing grip on his mobile and reach the finish to earn a star. 3, 2, 1, GO! Nemesis Booster engaged. A hugely impressive and worthy opponent-boost drives the Plotmobile forward. Ernest takes the turns in and out of reality fluidly, giving adequate attention both to what goes on in the real world as well as exploring some of the endless possibilities within OASIS. It's clear Ernest understands the mechanics of his machine well, as he effortlessly cruises through the landscape and dexterously avoids the plot holes in the road. The Finish line in sight, Ernest engages his Tolkien Quest-thrusters that work remarkably well in this new setting. He honks his big Finale horn as the car crosses the line and his passenger finally stops talking and decides to embrace him. Finish! He gets a neat parking bonus illustrating his keen eye for detail and takes his third star to the next level. ______________________ Start Level 3: Super Nostalgia World Ernest is now a plumber and needs to hit as many Nostalgia Mushrooms before reaching the castle. Not an easy challenge because most Nostalgia Mushrooms are from the '80s. They're not worth much bonus points given the score is mainly sensitive to the '90's variety. The cheat code "EARLIEST CHILDHOOD MEMORIES" is entered and in the distance the Lambada can be heard. Ernest jumps on Pac-Man references, arcade hall-turtles, Monty Python-mushrooms and a whole army of old video game console systems. After this stroll through memory lane and thanks to the cheat code he racked up a considerable NOSTALGIA bonus as he reaches the doors of Futuro Castle. Once inside the castle things are different and far from nostalgic. Enemies can no longer be stomped on so now Ernest needs to refer back to his harvested Technological Advances idea and design a whole array of inventions. Some are possible and may very well see the light of day in reality, others are far-fetched, but all of them allow him to move forward in this futuristic landscape with grace and even humor, defeating Skeptics, Boredoms and Doubts in the process. He reaches the final room where a fourth star jumps out of a bag, ready to be taken home. It also carries a note. Thank you Ernest, but the fifth star is in another castle. ______________________ Boss Fight: Dr. Skepticor After the castle stage Ernest is immediately teleported to Dr. Skepticor's lair. Dr. Skepticor is an evil reviewer who holds power over all the stars. Having already lost four he now clutches on to the fifth, final star, dubbed The Amazing One. Ernest will need to use all in his power to defeat this terrible monster and grab the elusive star. He stands at one end of a bridge that spans over a pool of lava. Dr. Skepticor awaits him disdainfully at the other side. Ernest starts the fight by sending out power beams that emerge out of his skillful hands. He starts with strong bursts of Plot and Nostalgia that immediately put his enemy off balance. A barrage of Excellent Pacing further eats away at the health of Dr. Skepticor, who's already loosening his grip on the star. The villain, intimidated by the aura of Historical Relevance which our hero is emitting, throws up a barrier of Impossibly High Standards. Ernest shoots more of his earlier beams but they bounce off the mystical shield. He tries it with salvos of Character Development but they prove insufficient to pierce through Skepticor's defense. Ernest had heard about this barrier and read that it is virtually powerless against Pure Beauty, Philosophical Meaning and the lucky charm "Exceptionally Good Mood". Ernest looks in his inventory but has got none of those. He's got some easy-access Life Lesson Bullets and some ammo of Political Correctness Extravaganza but they might as well be blanks for all the good they are against Dr. Skepticor's shield. His mighty Finale seems to at least put cracks in the monster's defense, but it's not enough to destroy the creature. In a desperate attempt Ernest casts a Love Story spell on Dr. Skepticor but it backfires completely, flying back in our hero's face and sending him tumbling off the bridge. He manages to hold on to the side of the platform but he already knows he's lost when he sees Dr. Skepticor charge up his ultimate weapon: The Review. Ernest glances one last time at his inventory with his well-deserved stars sparkling in it, before letting The Review do its work and finish it off. Game Over ______________________ Congratulations! You earned 4 stars! Insert Some Years To Try Again ______________________ Credits My gaming memories: Level 1 inspired by Westwood's Command & Conquer: Red Alert Level 2 inspired by Sega's Out Run Level 3 and Boss fight inspired by Nintendo's Super Mario Bros. ______________________ ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 13, 2016
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Sep 19, 2016
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Sep 13, 2016
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Paperback
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| 024195682X
| 9780241956823
| B01EKIGOKW
| 3.84
| 75,284
| 1889
| Apr 05, 2012
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liked it
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Three Men in a Pastiche: To Say Nothing of the Boat Three tourists - A spicy meal - The effects of a typhoon - Picasso's masterpiece - Random thoughts Three Men in a Pastiche: To Say Nothing of the Boat Three tourists - A spicy meal - The effects of a typhoon - Picasso's masterpiece - Random thoughts on helicopters - The joys of being on land Three young men were waiting at the docks to be picked up by a ferry boat. The first of these men is Ted, a man widely praised for his lust for action. It is in his hands, his feet, his nose and other such things that the essence of his being lies. He is said to be the only man who is able to act more quickly than he thinks, regardless of the fact that he does the latter so swiftly that many seem to doubt he does any thinking at all. This ability is most surprising in combination with his stubbornness to survive the whole business that is life with such bravado. He's a decentralised affair that would send many great communists in a frenzy, with his left hand doing a complicated thing with a phone while talking to a woman while his right eye is looking at his left foot as it kicks someone in the behind, with no apparent logic threading these disparate actions together into what one hopes can be called a "harmonious life" at the end of it all. The second man whose behind was just briefly mentioned is Earl. Earl is of a different nature altogether, so while his brother is widely praised for action, he is widely praised for nothing whatsoever. That is in part because kind hearts receive no praise in these cold and vicious times and because in a world where actions speak louder than words, he's got nothing to speak for him. He thinks before he acts, but he does the former so slowly that many seem to doubt he does any thinking at all, thereby allowing observers to give credence to the notion that he is his brother's brother after all. The third man who was accompanying these brothers is what one could call the happy medium, though he himself prefers to be referred to as the Golden Mean, since it has got a far less mundane ring to it. An astute observer with a charm that has enthralled entire ballrooms, a companionable polymath with the kind of razor-sharp wit that enlivens many conversations, a man that couples thinking to action like internet dating sites couple lovers to psychopaths, he is a man that is mostly known for his humility despite his many other talents. That third and quite frankly ravishingly handsome man is, as you may have surmised, your humble narrator. As we were sitting at the dock waiting for the ferry boat that would take us from one paradisiac island to the next, a pang of hunger got the better of me. A small food stand that was intelligently placed in the vicinity of the waiting space caught my attention and I sped towards it as rapidly as a crocodile would chase Louis Vuitton. Earl shouted some warnings as I went, relating to the poor quality of the overpriced food and the questionable hygiene and other such trifles that are exceedingly insignificant to a hungry man. I ordered some noodles with chicken and upon being asked if I wanted it spicy I requested it to be the Golden Mean of Spicy, where small tears of joy well up as your throat emits a gentle warmth and your tongue tingles in delight. Despite this elaborate explanation the vendor had misconstrued my meaning and served me with what once were the contents of the now dormant Mount Vesuvius. Appearances would have it that this devious man had scooped up the insides of this legendary volcano and decided to pour them on my chicken noodles in great quantities. I would have uttered an objection to his recipe, had it not been that my voice had made way for a column of blazing hellfire that only the steady stream of my salty tears could hope to put out. Miraculously I averted slipping into a coma and made my way back to my friends, just in time to get on the boat. As I regained the first traces of the power of thought, I ruminated on those tales of firebreathing dragons and thought it very logical that they always seemed in such bad spirits and further considered it to their benefit that they hadn't been expected to actually exist. It was a big ferry, and a fast one, if one could trust the pictures that adorned its flanks. On them the ferry was flying over the whiteheaded waves across a sky blurry with birds, clouds and rays of light. It was a white streak across a blue canvas that would make the most celebrated action painter, if ever there were such a thing, envious. As we settled down in the seats I mentioned to my friends that I have been known to get seasick, both as a warning as well as a supplication for comfort. I was met with a boatload of encouraging remarks. Ted pointed to the sunny sky and said that if the weather would be any calmer it would be mistaken for Earl. Earl pointed to the tiny waves and said that the only thing that could stir up a sea so calm would be Ted's feet after a cup of coffee. Thus it was with an easy mind that I heard the engines start up and we left the safety of the docks. Not five minutes had passed since we left the island when the sea changed its mind. Even though it was leisurely bathing in the sun only moments before, it now seemed to get itself into quite a state, as if suddenly recalling an important deadline or being roused up by a hysterical pregnant woman during an otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon. As the waves got higher and the bumps got rougher, my visage must have gone through fifty shades of green. It had just settled on pistachio green with touches of grey and yellow when Ted and Earl gave me some concerned looks. Ted, who was sitting next to me, seemed mostly concerned for his trousers being in the line of fire in case my disconcerting complexion was but the forerunner of more imposing symptoms, while Earl himself didn't seem to possess the iron stomach he thought he did. Ted decided to get up on the roof of the ferry and get some fresh air, while Earl settled for a trip to the head. For some reason boats don't have kitchens or toilets but consist of "galleys" and "heads" instead. I have since come to believe these terms find their ancestors in the words "gallows" and "beheadings" and other such references to painful deaths, considering the entire construction makes one consider public executions as a blissful means of escape from that infernal vessel. To add insult to injury the seafaring folk devised the system of "nautical miles", giving false hope with regards to the distance one needs to traverse before being once again graced with land under one's feet. I would have gotten up as well and followed my companions outside, if only to throw myself into the sea under a lonely cry of despair, had not the adage of "you are what you eat" proved itself to be true as my legs slowly turned into the limp noodles I had eaten only moments before. A voice on the intercom informed the passengers of a typhoon that had been raging many miles away, a natural disaster of which we were now feeling the comparably tiny side effects. I had heard of the effect a small flutter of a butterfly's wings could have over great distances, so it came as no surprise that a typhoon should bring about catastrophic consequences on my feeble constitution. In response to the storm that had raged over fisherman's villages and quaint coastlines far away, ruining shelters and holidays alike, my stomach churned in empathy and cried for a prompt evacuation of its own residents. I've always thought of myself as a kind man with a good heart, but it appears that my stomach is my most sympathetic organ. It made me wonder if all that connected the wise and noble prophets of our great religions was that they all had a weak stomach in the face of misery, rather than a heart of gold. One of the seamen with a keen eye for discoloured faces had offered me a black, plastic bag that reeked of chemicals. Before I could even consider the idea of wrapping it over my head and letting the lack of oxygen put me out of my wretchedness, I had filled it up with my lunch, sadly noting that it had lost none of its spicy spunk before its return voyage. The fire was back and with a vengeance, as this time it seemed to have found the way through my nose as well. I cried silent and bitter sobs, my eyes red with burning tears, my cheeks grey, my forehead yellow and my chin dripping with green drops hovering over a black bag. I fancy I must have looked like my portrait if I had chosen to commission it to Pablo Picasso. In the meanwhile Earl had ventured outside and apparently had had the same idea to simply jump into the sea and hope that Heaven was a real place. He had lost his nerve at the last moment and held to the railing while being splashed by the cold water and attacked by an evil wind. Trembling, he welcomed this agony as it made him forget the reality of Hell that was his own body. His belly seemed to host the devil himself and all his minions, intent on entering this world post-haste. During the first convulsions Earl somehow still had the clarity of mind and the good fortune to find a vacant toilet bowl and lay next to it as long as necessary. He locked himself in and didn't mind the outrage of all the people, equally sick, rapping on the door. If this torment would last much longer he would offer himself up as a sacrifice to the murderous mass and do it all with a contented smile. On the upper deck Ted was feeling a bit queasy. He resolved to look at the horizon and fell asleep shortly after. I was working on filling up my fifth bag and had already gone over all possible solutions. Jumping off the boat was no longer an option and I could find no way to the Gates of Heaven with the limited tools at my disposal. No matter how hard I wished for a gun, the only thing that would be delivered was another plastic bag. Even though the evacuation of my stomach had been a resounding success, with not a single entity still present in that godforsaken place, the safety mechanisms seemed to prefer to make absolutely certain no noodle would be left behind. I think I have left my very soul in that last bag. Given the absence, thanks to lazy scientists all over the world, of immediate teleportation, my only hope was a helicopter, swooping down from the sky like an angel and taking me to golden shores. Who would have thought that such a ludicrous contraption would be the main flicker of hope during my darkest times? It looks like a curiously constructed metallic fish with a sad flower on its head, whirring through the skies in search of a place where it doesn't look ridiculous. Finding that such a place does not exist, some good souls resolved to paint big white circles with an "H" in the middle to give the mechanical monstrosity at least some semblance of a home. And yet it was this silly thing that I longed for in my last and most difficult moments on that diabolical boat on an equally satanic sea. After what according to my estimations must have been twenty-six eternities, we finally reached the harbour and were assisted to come to land. Once there it was with surprising ease that I found the will to live again, which was followed up by a healthy appetite and the desire to share my story with my companions. Earl had easily made his way through the angry mob, for they had helpfully decided to collapse outside of the toilet in a last effort to get the better of the motions of the sea. We looked into each other's eyes and found therein the understanding that we had been in hell, and survived. Ted merely agreed by saying that he found the trip, on the whole, rather uncomfortable, and that it would probably be best if we took a plane for the return trip. However aggravating his equanimity, both Earl and I hugged him in a moment of joyous relief and didn't let go until he punched us both in the ear. Oh, we were so happy, happy to live, happy to be on land, happy to note that regardless of everything that ferry had put us through, it did deliver on its promise to take us to Paradise. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Oct 29, 2016
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Nov 03, 2016
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Sep 09, 2016
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Mass Market Paperback
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| B0DLSQXX9N
| 4.30
| 290,027
| Aug 04, 2015
| Aug 04, 2015
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really liked it
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Noble Kreator Jemisin Goddess of Broken Earth and Fallen Moon You have made us a home A planet of potential You have gifted us with history Full of strife Noble Kreator Jemisin Goddess of Broken Earth and Fallen Moon You have made us a home A planet of potential You have gifted us with history Full of strife and wisdom We are surrounded with beauty Shrouded in mystery Talents were bestowed on us And the earth shakes as we discover them Angrily, it shakes Breathing fire, rock and poison We are strong but stand uncertain In the face of our Father's wrath We love We learn We live We fight We flee We fear Please have mercy on what you have created. But the Goddess does not listen. The flesh and spirit of her characters will serve to make them burn more brightly. Her world has been carefully constructed with the intent of its spectacular collapse, for the beauty of her creation will pale in the resplendent wake of the glorious destruction she has foreseen. The Fifth Season has begun. ...more |
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Jun 10, 2017
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Jun 23, 2017
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Aug 22, 2016
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Paperback
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| 0241967392
| 9780241967393
| B016MNETD2
| 3.58
| 3,338
| Feb 02, 2014
| Feb 26, 2014
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liked it
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When is the last time you heard something new in the news? Considering all the time spent reading, watching and listening to the news, what did you lea When is the last time you heard something new in the news? Considering all the time spent reading, watching and listening to the news, what did you learn from it? What do you remember? What remains of all this information aside some vague ideas about the economy, the other side of the world, your compatriots? I was wondering about these questions myself and decided that instead of reading the news, it was time to read about the news. Alain de Botton, an author relatively unknown to me before my eye fell on this book, seems to be mostly famous for endeavoring to bring philosophy and psychology closer to the people. He tries to accomplish this by linking topics close to people's hearts, such as love and traveling, to grander ideas, hoping to create a greater consciousness of being well and truly alive. Popularising philosophy always comes with certain dangers, of oversimplification for example, and apparently the dear man has come under some harsh criticism, but I like what he's trying to do. Even more so because in this book he chose to address a topic that I feel rather strongly about. The news is omnipresent. Every minute of the day one can plug into the world information machine and receive an overwhelming stream of data, stories and events. Important information. Crucial information. You can read and hear about it everywhere, television programming is organised around the holy hours of 1, 6, 8 and 11 PM in which news bulletins spread their gospel. Radios have an even stricter regimen with hourly updates and repetitions on the important goings on in the country and in the world. In his introduction, incidentally my favorite part of any non-fiction book, de Botton managed to crystallize the general, fluid antipathy I feel towards the news and the respect it garners. The unease I felt with opaque news organisations' largely unacknowledged but nonetheless exceedingly high demand on our time and attention got a clear formulation through this book's opening chapters. The way news anchors condescendingly tell me when to be worried through their frowns, when to take note of serious and difficult economic trends and when to be happy with their merry reports of animals born in a zoo at the end of their depressing bulletins has annoyed me for many years, and it seems I'm not alone in this. The symmetry with organised religion is inescapable, what with the regular hours and the formulaic way each bulletin is organised into well-timed segments of sensational news, serious news, sports, the weather and some town's festivities to round it all off in a spasm of happy ending. I tried to disconnect from it all, limiting myself to opinion pieces and word on the street. If it's really important, I'll hear about it in the cafeteria at work. But there seems to be no way to truly disconnect. My phone's home screen gives me unwanted headlines of people murdered, people arrested, celebrities spotted in their underwear and cataclysmic weather events. But not only technology is an adversary in my struggles. If one doesn't follow the news, one is considered an idiot. Today it might be blasphemy to be a fully clothed woman on a French beach, but what's even worse is not knowing about the whole hubbub surrounding this issue. The news wields an almost dictatorial, unquestioned power over our senses. We must LISTEN to the news. We must STUDY the news. We must FORM OPINIONS and DISCUSS these IMPORTANT events. Only to forget about them a week later and talk about something else. This book takes you through the news by looking at how different kinds of information speak to us. Why are we so drawn to stories about accidents? Are we really happy when watching feel-good programmes with stories of ludicrously successful people? What do we feel and think about when reading yet another story of a dad murdering his children and committing suicide? What's with the giddy anticipation when there's news of an approaching blizzard? Alain de Botton takes us through all these questions and more, in the way a stand-up comedian would: by pointing out controversial but surprisingly common inner thought processes that we all recognise but thought to be only valid for ourselves, in the context of something mundane like shopping, asking out a girl or ... the news. In this book, an endearing "we" is used and it works convincingly most of the time, but when it doesn't, the writer comes off just as bad as the conceited news anchors. A thin line any writer pretending to know his reader walks on, and a personal one. For me de Botton usually stays at the right side of it so that it felt like he held up a mirror, but it all depends on how much you identify yourself with his opinion. The way de Botton states his opinion is what will have me read more of his books in the future. I love his prose. As some of you may know I'm not particularly fond of non-fiction, usually haunted by dry prose and factual elaborations. But this book is a page-turner and that's not just because many pages are adorned with pictures, news cuttings and white space. Just consider the following quote: "Stock indices leave one juggling a set of varied feelings of admiration for the fertility of modern business, a wonder at the extraordinary degree of intelligence and effort demanded to succeed in any industry, and yet a guilty sense of the absurdity and waste of so much of our toil and, in the middle of the night, when the mind tends to avenge itself on the compromises of the day, a pained wonder at what we might be doing with the ever-more precious bit that still remains of our lives." You have to hand it to him, to jump from stock indices to the image of a pained and self-doubting insomniac in one sentence takes some doing. Or how about the weather? "In the case of this snowstorm, the forecasters have the monster well mapped. In the National Weather Center, an IBM Power 7 supercomputer, with a peak processing performance of one petaflop, keeps the glacial spectre firmly within its sights, though the ability to predict what will happen gives the experts no power whatsoever to alter nature's implacable intent." Whoa, if only the weather man talked like that. With comedy, a relieved sigh of "Aaah, you as well?" precedes uproarious laughter and we applaud. In a novel graced with fine prose, we get taken away by the images forming in our minds. But lest you forget, this book is not intended for purely comedic or artistic effect. Now that I own the BBC What am I supposed to do with this thing? Now that I own the BBC What am I supposed to make of this thing? - Sparks The talented Mael brothers already wondered what they'd do if they'd own the BBC (apart from broadcasting their own underappreciated songs), and Alain de Botton now provides a moralistic answer, pointing out the possibilities of the news' enormous power and where it could help people in leading better, more fulfilling lives. A tall order. While I could easily accept the news as a great vantage point to discern more of man's nature, his internal struggles and sources of happiness, I'm not convinced an exercise in the other direction is fruitful. The author took it upon himself to devise ways to make news better for the people and lost some credibility in doing so. He investigates different kinds of news (political, international, economic, celebrity, disaster and consumer news) and provides a way forward for all of these. For example, while I found the explanation for a longing for fame quite appealing, I didn't find the way it got turned around convincing. : "Celebrity News In this category, we would be introduced to some of the most admirable people of our era - as judged by mature and subtle criteria - and guided as to how we might draw inspiration and advice from them. The famous would make us envious in productive and measured ways, helping us to realise our own genuine but timid talents by the example of their audacity and perseverance. But we would also be reminded that the best cure for a longing of fame would ultimately be a world in which kindness and respect were more generously and evenly distributed." Basically the red line through all of his lessons is that news should be more like books. To turn articles on crimes into true crime novels. To turn tables and figures of the stock exchange into gripping stories of stressed managers trying to delay heart attacks and save their marriage. To provide a clear, full and nuanced image of everyday life on an island while reporting on the earthquake that devastated it. But does anyone really have time for that? What doesn't help is that in all of this, it seems like the reader is a precious little flower who needs to be cradled and fed by the news, unable to find context for himself. Maybe the news needs to change, but there's room for the recipients of the information machine to be educated as well, preferably outside of the news. An aspect that was largely (though not completely) ignored in this book. In all, this was definitely an entertaining and informative read, but it kind of fell flat during the overly ambitious and naive conclusion. My own conclusion? Screw all that news! Unplug! But maybe it's me who's being naive. In my view, what de Botton proposes already exists but it just isn't going to be found in the news. It's called a library. ...more |
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Aug 19, 2016
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Aug 24, 2016
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Aug 19, 2016
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| 1587153742
| 9781587153747
| 1587153742
| 4.03
| 38
| Jan 01, 2002
| Jan 01, 2002
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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 |
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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
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| 1612183956
| 9781612183954
| 1612183956
| 3.94
| 143,241
| Aug 21, 2012
| Aug 21, 2012
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liked it
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In the pines, in the pines Where the sun don't ever shine I would shiver the whole night through. - Leadbelly In case you're planning to read Pines f In the pines, in the pines Where the sun don't ever shine I would shiver the whole night through. - Leadbelly In case you're planning to read Pines for yourself: the less you know about this book, the better. Therefore I intend to keep this review spoiler free, but I can't guarantee that certain judgements I make won't foreshadow events in the book. It is entirely safe to proceed reading through this first paragraph in case you need your fix of my reviews, but there won't be much to see except for something you probably already guessed given my warning: the biggest strength of this story is its supremely intriguing mystery. The plot is a perpetually thickening fog and the fast pace is your only hope of getting out of it. Frantic page-turning ensues. I'm assuming some of you have continued reading beyond the paragraph break because, much like half of the Goodreads population, you already read this or saw the TV series. Luckily for me I've been living under a rock and didn't know a thing about it before venturing into the quaint little town of Wayward Pines. I was immediately immersed in its eerie setting, immediately intrigued by its strangely behaving population, immediately sympathetic to the protagonist, a Secret Service agent by the name of Ethan Burke who wakes up with a concussion after a car accident and a loss of memory. I felt Ethan's unease as my own and not even twenty pages in I was practically begging the author to give the guy some socks because I couldn't keep my own feet from wriggling in empathy-pain throughout Ethan's intensifying sprints. Begging the author to give him some clean, warm clothes as I shivered my way through the pages and the pines. But there would be none of that. And as the main character progressively ran out of unscathed body parts (I think only his left earlobe is left untouched) the questions piled up and I found myself surrounded by mystery. I'm not surprised this got turned into a television series. It was probably written with that in mind. The author cited Twin Peaks as a major influence for this book and referred to other shows such as Lost as coming close to the wonderful experience David Lynch's masterpiece has been to him as a child. This story is set-up in pretty much the same way as these well-known televised mysteries. What the shows have in common is that they manage to create a mystery that speaks to certain basic fears in a setting of beauty and the mundane. This book taps in a lot of nightmares we are all familiar with: small spaces, strange places, darkness, hostile crowds, creepy children, chases, finding yourself naked in public, death, monsters, mutants, loneliness, torture, deserted hospitals. It's almost with the precision of an accountant that the author sequenced one nightmare after the other. It worked until it didn't but to the author's credit: it was already late in the game when I saw the smoke machines in his haunted house. What I enjoy most in the TV shows mentioned earlier as well as in this book is the question: What the hell is going on? What is especially exciting is that instead of getting an answer, the question grows extravagantly larger. The writers weave such an intricate web you start wondering if they'll ever be able to untangle it themselves. You form your own timid theories or starts thereof but can't help to expect something wilder than your own imagination can conjure up. At least that's what I've come to expect from these kinds of mysteries: no matter how wild and crazy the tentacles of the plot writhe about, I expect them to be wrapped up neatly into a nice little box by the end of the story in a fulfilling way. Sadly, shows like Lost lost most of their allure through uncovering their mystery. Can one say this is due to bad writing? Maybe, but I've found that solutions rarely live up to their riddles. Magic tricks invariably become less impressive when you know how it's done. This may be one of the reasons Twin Peaks is still considered to be one of the best shows in its genre: much of its mystery still remains because it got cancelled before it should have been. I have to say that, despite this inherent problem with the mystery formula, Blake Crouch really did an awesome job of both creating a mystery and unraveling it. The reveal came with a satisfying shock. The solution had its beauty to it. And yet, and yet, with the uncovering of the mystery the story took a turn, it played out on a different scale and became a different tale altogether. Some of the plot's tentacles are still showing spasms of uncertainty and ambiguity. I've got the sequels to this book already on the shelf but the fact I'm not immediately running to them is the result of me really liking where this started but being very wary of where it's headed. Coupled with pretty straightforward prose that left this review empty in the quote-department, pointless wartime flashbacks and the absolute humorlessness of what is on all counts a read that shouldn't be above a joke or two, I end up with a rating of 3,5 stars, visually rounded down to a perfectly true "I liked it". I just didn't love it as much as all the unsolved mysteries still out there. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Aug 31, 2016
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Sep 08, 2016
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Jul 31, 2016
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Paperback
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| 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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Aug 02, 2016
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Aug 07, 2016
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Jul 29, 2016
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| 0446675784
| 9780446675789
| 0446675784
| 4.31
| 65,953
| 1998
| Jan 01, 2000
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liked it
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The Bible's Parable of the Sower talks about seeds. Seeds need to fall on good earth in order to grow into majestic trees. Butler's Parable of the Sow The Bible's Parable of the Sower talks about seeds. Seeds need to fall on good earth in order to grow into majestic trees. Butler's Parable of the Sower told a similar tale: The seeds of a new religion need to find fertile minds. The Bible's Parable of the Talents talks about talents that get buried in earth. These hidden talents don't grow but become pointless and represent a significant waste. Butler's Parable of the Talents told a seemingly totally unrelated tale. "Parable of the Talents" continues the story of the birth of a religion and its evolution into a way of life, Earthseed. Where its predecessor, Parable of the Sower , was set in a society damaged by chaos, violence and poverty, this installment looks at how the seeds of a religion fare under a biblically inspired totalitarian regime set on reinstating law and order. Style This book is written in the form of a diary and employs the exact same style as the first in this duology, bringing the same problems with it. The protagonist has the propensity of distancing herself from what occurred to her through her diary writing as a way of self-therapy. Regardless of how therapeutic this kind of factual representation of events can be, it doesn't necessarily ensure an engaging read. The experiences lived through make for a truly interesting story, but the tone just isn't there in order to sympathise with the person you're meant to be sympathising with. Narrators There is a silver lining however. Where the first part of the series was a monologue of Lauren Olamina, new narrators are brought into this volume. For starters, Lauren's husband gets a couple of pages and so does one of her brothers, but these contributions are so small they're actually quite pointless in hindsight. The star narrator of this book is Olamina's daughter. She provides a completely new and fresh perspective, which is not surprising considering she grew up without and far away from her mother. This voice gives the reader a breather from Lauren's self-indulgent narrative and, for those like me who had difficulties relating to the self-declared Messiah, a voice of reason one could relate to. A frightening future Having read the interviews with Octavia Butler at the end of the books, the main aim was to give an idea of the challenges that come with starting up a new religion. This was done reasonably well, and basically boiled down to "not knowing where to begin" and "looking for peoples' support". Because a story needs more flesh than that, more complications were thrown at it, in the form of chaos in the first book, and in the form of oppression in the second. This added color came to dominate the central theme, however, and the main thing I praise in the Earthseed series is the dystopian setting it depicts. The oppressive regime, the way it came about and operates was described supremely well, not just in its viciousness but especially in how close to home it all sounded. Those who have been following my updates got a taste of how eerily close to reality these descriptions sometimes were. A new religion The reason Earthseed and her Messiah were so easily overshadowed is not only due to the strength of the dystopian element, I'm sorry to say. I can imagine it's not easy to come up with a new religion, but Earthseed and its cursed verses never said anything substantially new, insightful, or... substantial. That might be my fault, due to a personal difficulty with relating to abstract ideas (which also hindered a pleasant experience with Hesse's widely lauded Siddharta ). As in Hesse's work, there's a lot of circular reasoning, wordplay hinting at symmetries and interconnections between lofty ideas, resulting in the equivalent of a rose-scented burp. There's a vague sense of something nice in there, but the actual flower is nowhere to be seen. Every chapter starts with a verse like the one below: We have lived before. We will live again. We will be silk, Stone, Mind, Star. We will be scattered, Gathered, Molded, Probed. We will live And we will serve life. We will shape God And God will shape us Again, Always again, Forevermore. To me, that sounds like a heap of drivel. A big bag of airy nothing. Not only does each chapter start with it, but there are numerous references to these verses throughout the story itself. I think there's a little less than twenty verses in total over the two books, but they are repeated ad nauseam, ensuring that even the more acceptable and inspiring poems made me sick in the end. Again, I don't blame Butler for not having come up with a great new religion, but it made the whole thing harder to relate to, especially if, aside from the religion's fanatic founder, you see people in the book vehemently cling to these words and make them their own. This led me to underestimate Butler herself for a while because she seemed to take herself and Earthseed too seriously. In Butler's universe, universities and other intellectual societies were enraptured by the verses, giving the impression that not only Butler's protagonist but also the author herself was seemingly proud of those pompous poems. Thankfully, as the story progresses, criticism on the religion grows and takes the same tone as the one in my mind: "I don't believe in Earthseed. It's just a lot of simplistic nonsense." The person uttering these words later goes on to become a missionary for Earthseed without any explanation for the change of heart, but fine, at least that wall between me and the author was broken for a bit. The introduction of voices different to that of Olamina was what saved Butler's story in my view, and especially the daughter's voice further helped break down that wall and my image of an author who takes herself too seriously. Characters As this is a story about the birth and growth of a religion, it should also be about people touched by it, characters fighting against it. At least in my book. But not in this one. It tries, but it fails. And that's another element where Octavia Butler's Parables lose much of their appeal for me: there are very few characters you can relate to. There are a lot of names to plow through. Olamina meets a great many people (I guess that comes with the job) but almost none of them left a mark. Scores of people important to Olamina die and disappear, but it's all told in such an overwhelming context and in such a dispassionate way the emotional weight of these events falls short of what was intended. Another orphan got raped? A mother watched her husband die? A girl is slowly tortured to death? Oh well, nothing a little verse can't help us to deal with. Purpose and power At its strongest, it's a story that brings up a lot of questions with regards to religion. In essence it shows one religion at the height of its power in the form of a totalitarian regime that controls a whole society, on the other hand it shows a fledgling religion that exists only of ideals, fragile and easily crushed. It's rather natural to sympathise with the latter, yet you can see how both are similar in potential and purpose. Some interesting take-aways: People will follow people who seem to know where they're going. Emphasis on the "seem", right? Earthseed will force us to become more than we might ever become without it. A great pick-up line, apparently also valid for religions. People need purpose as much as I need to give it to them. The protagonist's line of thinking and the cause of many problems, in my view. Everyone looks for purpose. Sources of inspiration aside, I tend not to outsource that quest, but many do. That's where religion comes in. That's where power comes in. If you allow your purpose to be defined by others, you essentially become their slave. I find it striking how such a deeply personal thing as "purpose" tends to be socialised, politicised, religionised, time and again. These all seem like mechanisms that boil down to the same thing: purposes being force-fed to one another. This story shows perfectly how, with good intentions, this all can come about. Conclusion Pros of this book are definitely there: the setting, the idea of telling this kind of story and the questions it provokes. Weaker points are the main narrator's voice, the aggravating repetitions of lofty verses and the lack of a connection with any of the characters. These all come together in what became a mildly enriching, sometimes entertaining but ultimately mediocre reading experience. The Destiny of Earthseed is to take root among the stars. I hope 3 will be enough. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Jul 27, 2016
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Aug 02, 2016
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Jul 27, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1509853782
| 9781509853786
| 1509853782
| 4.14
| 581,929
| Jul 26, 2016
| Mar 27, 2017
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really liked it
|
I’m sitting in a sunlit park, enjoying my surroundings. The trees are rustling in the breeze, people are chatting around a clean and sparkling fountai
I’m sitting in a sunlit park, enjoying my surroundings. The trees are rustling in the breeze, people are chatting around a clean and sparkling fountain, a little dog is running around in circles. Not far from the park there’s an apartment full of boxes and without any furniture. It’s going to be my home for the coming years, but it doesn’t feel like my home yet. Every day I still find traces of the former owner, be it dirt, a faint smell, little plastic things that look like they belong on some sort of apparatus but I have no idea where. I needed to escape the place for a little while, needed to find a temporary home until the walls carry only familiar smells, the fridge is full and the sounds sound less hollow. It’s been a while since I’ve read, but I recall how easy it was for me to find a home in books. Hoping that hadn’t changed, I brought one with me to the park. A fresh book that was not part of my collection before the move. A fresh start. I’m in the mood for something light, engaging and quick. In other words: mainstream, bestseller, thriller. Blake Crouch and “Dark Matter” fits the bill perfectly. As with “Pines”, I am intrigued straight off the bat. The plot twists and thickens, the pages turn and the pace quickens. A book that swallows you up and only spits you back out once you turned that last page. It left me a bit dazed but ultimately this book delivered what I hoped it would: pure entertainment. As opposed to “Pines”, the book doesn’t work towards a certain, big reveal or a definite climax, which works greatly in its favor as there is no room for disappointment in this regard. Instead the book is littered with small reveals opening up to bigger questions, leading to bigger answers that roll in the roaring sea of intrigue and mystery that is this book. The ending, also as opposed to “Pines”, did not have me crashing on the rocks but instead laid me down on a sandy white beach of tranquility. I open Goodreads. It’s been a while, but to my relief I still have some friends left. It seems that not too many people have deleted me, despite regular bouts of absence. I see I have some notifications. People are still liking my old reviews, a few have even sent a request to be my friend. While my profile is not exactly Google-Central, it does seem to generate at least a bit of e-activity even when I’m not there. I scan my feed for familiar faces, like some reviews with the intention of reading them later, a quick sign of life here and there to cautiously signal my return. I go to the page for “Dark Matter” and write my review. I hit submit. A random thought occurs to me. “People who are interested in reading the book for themselves should probably stop reading here”. Strange. I shake it off and I go back to the Goodreads homepage to browse the newsfeed while I await the first reactions to my review. As I glance at the notification symbol, I notice a novelty on the Goodreads banner. Right next to the familiar bell there’s a symbol of a black box. Intrigued, I hover over the button, but this doesn’t give me any information on what it does. I decide to click it. My computer powers down and the screen goes black. Several seconds pass. My computer starts up again. I expect the screen to take me to my Windows welcome page but instead it shows me the Goodreads page again and I’m still logged in. Things are different though. The first thing I notice is the overheated notification symbols at the top of the page. 102 notifications, 32 new messages, 47 friend requests. My first thought is that another Goodreads update must have gone wrong somehow, the black box resetting certain variables marking older, already seen updates as new ones. Yet when I go to the friends requests I recognise none of the names. These unfamiliar people are extremely deferential when asking me to be their friend, so naturally I want to accept them all. I’ve accepted five or six, when all of a sudden a message pops up saying that I have reached my maximum amount of friends. Surprised, I check my list of friends to find I’ve got a whopping 5000. Something’s definitely not right. I check again to make sure I didn’t somehow end up on another person’s profile, but no, my name is there, the picture is the same. There are differences though. It appears I have read 2523 books, wrote 1566 reviews and added 213 pictures. I check out the pictures. There are a lot of pictures of me, or at least someone who looks like me, in various poses with books. In the garden, on the street, in a café, with a bunch of cats, in front of cabinets full of books. I don’t recall taking any of those, let alone having read most of these books. I pause at one of my many black-and-white pictures. It’s a selfie of me sitting in a coffee shop, reading “Dark Matter”. The picture comes with the one-liner: “Need some fluid dark matter to take me through this “Dark Matter”. CAN’T STOP READING!”. Under the pictures a horde of comments has been left behind, ranging from swooning teenagers commenting on my good looks and witty aphorism and other readers commending me for my fine choices in consumer behavior. Seeing “Dark Matter” there makes me fully realise what’s going on, of course. It might be perceived as a ludicrous coincidence, but in the infinite multiverse there’s a certainty that there is a world out there where the technology as (coarsely) described in “Dark Matter” has been developed and somehow glitched into the Goodreads environment only to be discovered by me after having just read the book. And that’s exactly what happened. My first trip through the multiverse has landed me in a reality where I’m a hugely successful reviewer. I play with the idea of taking over the life of this wonderful specimen. His “Dark Matter” review is both a pastiche and an analysis, with touches of humor and wisdom. It’s short enough to keep everyone interested, yet fully comprehensive in order to give readers a clear idea of what to expect from the book. It's got 836 likes and 423 comments. Even Blake Crouch is among the commenters, thanking Matthias for his fine review and promising him to give him signed ARCs of his future works. Looking at this Matthias’ reviews, full of psychological and philosophical insights, pictures, references and jokes, I know I can’t keep up with living his life. I can’t churn out two reviews a week like that and reply to all those messages and requests. I’m the version who made other choices and let those choices turn him into someone who simply cannot be apply himself to that extent. Not wanting to disappoint the fans, I click on the “black box” again and my computer reboots. Back on Goodreads. I try to log-in but my username isn’t recognised. I browse the website as a guest and see that there is only one active user. “Manny” seems to have taken over the website a couple of years ago and turned it into one big cage-fight between all sorts of books. I decide to look for “Dark Matter”. It got pitted against a German children's book. “Dark Matter” lost, because its scientific basis was flimsier than that of Schnutzi the cauliflower’s quest to become a functioning human brain. I quickly click on the multiverse icon to get far away from this eerie place with its annoying scientific questions. As usual, the computer goes black, springs back to life, but this time the screen shows a network error “(dns_unresolved_hostname) Your requested host "www.goodreads.com" could not be resolved by DNS. For assistance, contact your network support team.” It appears I landed in a reality where Goodreads doesn’t exist. I want to click the black box again but find that it’s gone. Panic almost gets the better of me, but then I decide to contact the network support team. Luckily I find myself in the unlikely reality where this support team can be identified, reached and proves to be helpful, so a couple of emails later I find the black box again and click it. I go through many realities. One of my favorites has to be the one where I had an author page on Goodreads. I had written two books. My most successful one, “Metaphormosis”, had gotten twenty-two reviews and an average rating of 3.6. My second book, about a broccoli wanting to become a functioning human brain, had received one scathing 1-star-review that claimed this kind of story had been done before, and with a better scientific basis. I tried looking for a reality in which I was an author as successful as Blake Crouch, but the multiverse is a big place. It was time to go home. Home. The place where I am me. Where “me” is the composite of all the choices, big and small, conscious and unconscious, forced by circumstance and by my own volition, I have ever made. The place where there is no regret, because regret is a choice that only serves to break down the composite so meticulously crafted. I click the “black box”, convincing myself that it’s these thoughts that will take me back to where I truly belong. I’m on Goodreads, and everything looks familiar. 3 notifications, #171 top reviewers, 3 books behind schedule. That sounds like me alright. I go back to my “Dark Matter” review to see if any comments have been made, but the review I wrote earlier is gone. Instead, all I find is a message that was apparently posted a week ago: “Review to be found here (and perhaps in other corners of the multiverse) soon.” Funny, I don't remember writing that. Hadn't I written a full review, comparing it to "Pines" and describing its thickening, quickening plot? All these multiverse adventures probably just messed with my memory, the "Dark Matter"-experience possibly loosened my grasp on my own, personal reality. Doubts fill my brain. I want to click on the black box icon again but find that it's gone, the window into the multiverse forever closed. Left with no other options, I abandon my misgivings and edit the review to tell of my experiences and hit submit. After all, I am home here. What could go wrong? ...more |
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May 06, 2017
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May 10, 2017
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Jul 26, 2016
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| 1847086624
| 9781847086624
| 1847086624
| 3.90
| 26,127
| 2002
| Jul 04, 2013
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really liked it
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"He very often wept in church. Living up the Moyea with plenty of small chores to distract him, he forgot he was a sad man. When the hymns began, he r
"He very often wept in church. Living up the Moyea with plenty of small chores to distract him, he forgot he was a sad man. When the hymns began, he remembered." I sometimes wonder if I'm a natural reader. There are moments, like the greater part of last year, where there's nothing I like more, and whichever book that comes my way will be devoured in short notice. Other times, like the last couple of months, I become more picky, books don't manage to grab a hold of me due to other distractions that monopolize my mind, and only the right book at the right time can snap me back to the place I know is wonderful. The place that is books and the stories they tell. But life sometimes has a way of shutting the doors to that magical garden. With Train Dreams I've found a book that opened those doors again. The right book at the right time. I'm still rusty on the reviews, my fingers literaly feel wooden as I type this up, so this will be a short one. Given it's a short book counting a mere 116 pages one might think this is adequate, but don't let the number of pages fool you: this is a gem, of which it's impossible to say everything given the many ways light can shine on it. Basically, it tells the story of Robert Grainer, so it is actually a fictional biography of sorts. We are told of the most important moments in his life, how he met his foster family, his wife, what kind of jobs he worked on, a depiction of his daily routine and his life-defining moments. Robert Grainer is not a special man, with no talents or traits that make him stand out in any way. Aside from the spot-on depiction of the hard life of an early 1900's man working in and living off the forest, making an enemy out of the trees, the book also contains a mysterious aspect of dreams, visions, strange behavior and mystical creatures. Cataclysmic events are told in the same tone as a trip to the fair, making this book the perfect blend of raw, realistic impressions of physical hardships mixed with the more ethereal mental consequences of coating emotions with the ashes of losses lived through. When reading this particular brew it's easy to get in the flow of a dream, of a train ride, allowing the words to take you wherever, whenever. And once in a while that flow is obstructed with a nugget of a pure emotion, a sense of loneliness or sadness whose description stands out like a mountain in the rest of this book, the kind of nugget that makes you wake up from that dream because it's become too real. You give it some thought, lie your head down and before you know it you're back on the train. This book has been a subtle, well-balanced experience of profound thought and the lightness of everyday life. Don't let the title of Train Dreams fool you, for it's the real thing. I heartily recommend it! ...more |
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Jul 10, 2016
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Jul 13, 2016
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Jul 10, 2016
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| 9780575082724
| 0575082720
| 3.86
| 7,125
| Nov 05, 1954
| Apr 03, 2008
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really liked it
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Many ages ago, when majestic forests dominated our lands and little cottages of hay and wood were the only thing protecting the hairy humans from the
Many ages ago, when majestic forests dominated our lands and little cottages of hay and wood were the only thing protecting the hairy humans from the elements, tales were not just tales. The stories passed down from one generation to the next held Truth. The stories read in those days were never forgotten. They were carved in trees and stones, they were carried with the water and the wind, they were illuminated by the stars and the moon. The tales were everywhere as mountains harboured dwarves and trolls, treetops were infested with fairies and the ground one walked upon held within it both the Depths of Darkness and the Source of Life. A wizard sat by the fire, brooding. He had many tales in his head, of love, of war, of passion, of hatred, of honor and of treachery. He had whispered many of his wise accounts to the birds, to the blades of grass and to the clouds, but the ears that he was supposed to reach had stopped listening. The metallic churning of machines and the clinging of dirty coins drowned out all other noise and Man had stopped listening to the wizard’s stories. The wizard stood up and strolled pensively to his desk. He had to get his stories out there without burdening busy Man’s brain, catch them with his wisdom unawares. He glanced at his library and an idea struck him. A book! Of course. But it needed to be a special book. One that did not scare away busy Man with many pages but carried an abundance of stories within it nonetheless. And so he crafted a book as small as a mouse but as heavy as a mountain, a book as forethoughtful as an old man but as fast as an elfish horse. A book black as tar but soft as a feather. And so it is that “The Broken Sword” was crafted. A magical book, both in what it tells and how it tells it. It is a story carved in trees and stones and hearts, whispered in winds and memories. Take heed of its warning. Do not reforge the sword in the face of desperation, for it will show you much uglier things. ...more |
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Dec 30, 2016
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| 3.91
| 20,837
| Mar 20, 1997
| Oct 04, 2012
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liked it
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I had to learn more about the Japanese as a form of consciousness. - Haruki Murakami I've always known Murakami for his mystical, mythical stories. Fol I had to learn more about the Japanese as a form of consciousness. - Haruki Murakami I've always known Murakami for his mystical, mythical stories. Following his characters is usually like taking dancing classes: the first steps seem quite sensible but soon you find yourself in an inextricable knot that you don't know how to get out of. His stories are from another realm, to such an extent that Murakami himself seemed way out there. I always pictured him as a black-clad dreamweaver, spinning his magic machine in a jazzbar attic with only cats for company, on a remote island somewhere on the other side of the world. Not so in Underground. Before leaving his abode to talk to the common people, the magician has taken off his robe and wizard hat and left his wand on his bedside table. To talk with real people and get their real stories. This book is non-fiction, but sometimes I found myself hoping that through this narrative a touch of magic could make it all seem a bit more light and distant. The contrary happened, and the remote island that is Japan might as well be the isles of Great Britain for how close this piece of investigative journalism has brought this special country to the shores of my mind. As you probably gathered from the blurb, this book is about the gas attacks that took place in the Tokyo subway system, on a beautiful day of spring in March 1995. A religious cult, Aum Shinrikyo also known as the "Doomsday cult", released packets of sarin gas, leaving many dead, many more injured and an entire country in shock. Murakami, in an effort to get to know his fellow countrymen better through the lens of this heinous aggression, undertook interviews pertaining to these attacks with survivors, relatives of the deceased, medical personnel and members of the Doomsday cult. This book consists of three main parts, the first being "Underground" the way it was originally published: the testimonies of victims and their relatives. The second part is a short essay by Murakami in which he tries to distill some lessons. The third section wasn't originally part of this book and is titled "The Place that Was Promised", containing interviews with (ex-)members of Aum Shinrikyo. Part 1: The victims The interviews are organised according to which train line the interviewees were on, each "train line" track introduced by the movements of the perpetrators of the gas attack. The interviews conducted with the victims are all structured in the same way. First you get a short, basic profile of the interviewee, usually consisting of his or her job, family situation and sometimes a little detail like whether or not they like sake or have a special character quirk. Despite these short introductions, the people having been interviewed seldom felt like real people to me. This is in part due to the structure and in part due to the interviewees reticence to speak up. After the introduction, the victims first talk about their daily morning routine: what time they get up, what trains they take, what job is expected of them. What this has taught me is that most people in Japan, or at least all of the people in this part of the book, are extremely duty conscious. Work is important. Work is life. 24-hour shifts, where employees sleep over on their job, are nothing out of the ordinary. Commuting for two hours or more to get to work and to only get back home again when the kids are all asleep is part of life. This part of the interview's structure is rather dry and factual, not to mention extremely repetitive. Apart from an endless enumeration of train schedules the only thing I remember is one guy waking up every day at 5 o'clock in the morning to water his huge collection of bonsai trees. Second, the interviewees talk about the gas attack itself. Where were they at the time? When did they notice things went wrong? What symptoms did they have? What did they do? This part of the interview, despite the shocking nature of the gas attack itself, is also quite dull due to all the repetition. The same symptoms of eyes tearing up, narrowed pupils resulting in a darkened vision, breathing problems and coughing fits are mentioned again and again. And again. This repetition does come with the (perhaps intended) effect of making the immediate effects of the gas attack indelible from the mind. Wet newspapers, mops, a PA-system filled with panic are but a few of the images that will stay with me. What was most notable though, was the self-effacing nature of these commuters. They show a lot of modesty when relating their suffering. Even when faced with the quite unusual symptoms of sarin entering the body, most people tried to carry on with their daily routine. They needed to get to work. They couldn't be late. They'd have some explaining to do if that report wasn't finished. One guy, almost blinded and choking, actually went ahead and bought a bottle of milk before going to the hospital. He bought milk every second day and the day of the gas attack was a second day so what else could be expected of him? In the midst of the gas attack most victims seemed more worried about what others would think of their behavior rather than their own health. They doubted their own judgment. And almost nobody would speak up. People would start coughing and collapsing, yet the power of routine prevailed. Until reality finally caught up with them and saved most of these peoples' lives. I haven't lived through an attack like this so I hesitate to call that reaction strange, but the reaction did help matters, since most people stayed remarkably calm during these gas attacks. There were no outbursts of panic, no stampedes of people. The commuters formed orderly lines to get out of the station. A lot of this naturally had to do with people having no clue what was going on, thinking the victims who collapsed were individual cases and their own symptoms being those of a flu or a common cold. The third part of the interview structure is about the after-effects of this attack. How did it affect the victims' health, work, personal relations? The first interviews are very silent on that, due to the disinclination of the interviewees to share too much personal information and due to the respect Murakami shows for that sentiment. This adds to the impression that these people feel less real somehow, less identifiable. One man filed for divorce the day after the attack after having seen the lukewarm temperature of his wife's response. Some people had trouble performing well at work, due to loss of energy and concentration. Most of the time they were treated well by their employers, but a part of me thinks it's only these stories that made it to the book. The modesty in suffering and the respect for employers and work bosses seems too great to allow publication of anything critical in this book. At the end of each interview the people are asked about their stance towards the cult and the perpetrators. These reactions range from anger and hatred, demands for the death penalty (didn't realize they still did that in Japan before this book), to a gentle understanding and acceptance of the facts, with a strong will to move on and get back to routine. Overall, I'd say this entire part could and maybe should have been stronger. Murakami showed a lot of respect for the victims, which is very understandable from a human point of view but leads to less immersive results in a book. He didn't tease them out of their cages and in the end the overall image is the same one gets of people you share a subway train with: anonymous, bland, interchangeable. Two testimonies, the one with the brother of a victim who slipped into a coma and Murakami's telling of meeting this woman after she woke up with severe impediments, were the strongest parts of this book. Maybe the "sensationalist" side is part of that since this is one of the most dramatic testimonies, which would be a shameful argument from my behalf, so I like to think it's because more backstory is offered to the people involved. The same goes for the story told by relatives of a victim who died. These gripping parts made me regret the interviews weren't conducted (or repeated) at a later stage, because none of the testimonies come with a certain sense of resolution or ending. You're left wondering what happened to these people afterwards, like whether or not that one woman got to go to Disneyland. But that comes with non-fiction, obviously, and my wonderment is testimony of Murakami occasionally allowing his readers to truly feel connected with the people he interviewed. Part II: Essay I don't have much to say on this, meaning it was rather underwhelming for me. It does show the human side of Murakami, a stranger in his own land. In the essay he also shows some linkages between this book and his works of fiction, most notably Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. At first I thought HBWatEotW (sorry about that) was based on the Disneyland testimony, that deals with a person forced to live locked inside her own head. But his work of fiction predated these interviews, making the links even more mysterious. The links are there and intriguing to read up on for any Murakami fan. Part III: The Cultists Let me first emphasize that the cultists in the interviews were not actively involved in the gas attacks. Aum Shinrikyo was a huge community and not everyone knew everything. Because this book started with the tale of the victims and the people helping them, the "Good"-part, it's almost natural for a reader to approach this part as the one of the "bad guys". But again, this is non-fiction, not Lord of the Rings, and the distinction between what is good and bad is not easy to make. A distinction that is easier to make is interesting and not interesting. These interviews were vastly more interesting, because Murakami acted more like a critical interviewer here. There was no fixed structure, and he dared to question what his interviewees said, resulting in inspired dialogues on societal values, a struggle for a sense of belonging and purpose, and what the life in a cult looks like. The testimonies were all gripping, the people felt like real people with interesting stories to tell. This gives the reader, especially those that stepped in with the idea that these are the "bad guys", the conflicting feeling of being able to relate better with them rather than with the victims. The people who decided to join the cult are a bit special, but not so special that you couldn't be one of them, that you couldn't relate. I certainly could. You read about people with artistic aspirations, or deeply scientific ones, with philosophical questions that have no place in a business-minded society. Some people, like doubtlessly many here on Goodreads, turn to literature and find answers there. Most of the cultists also started that way, getting their hands on books published by the cult and being inspired. They didn't feel like they belonged in society and thought to have found their home in the doomsday cult. Who doesn't sometimes feel out of place? Who doesn't, on their daily commute to work, sometimes wonder if they're not throwing away a little bit of their life every day? And that's where this book truly got interesting for me, far beyond gassed up subway stations and busy hospitals. The fact that society, in this case represented by the victims in part I, is painted as rather unwelcoming and insensitive made the questions spark more brightly in my mind. I've almost been member of a cult myself. I went to a "cult session" with a friend, thinking we'd just take philosophy lessons in French. We had no idea it was a cult at the time. Classmates were all very vulnerable and isolated people, looking for more philosophy in their lives, guidance, companionship. I got all that from books and was just there to improve my French so when things started getting weird, with common meals and nocturnal walks in the woods that don't seem to be part and parcel of philosophy classes, I got out of there. The philosophy lessons were getting a bit too one-sided for my taste. But it did give me a first-hand experience of how organisations like these operate. They fill a void. A void that society doesn't want to acknowledge? A void that it can't acknowledge? Society, for some people, doesn't hold all the solutions because it doesn't even get to asking all the questions. Where do these people go? Are cults always bad? In Aum Shinrikyo a lot of things seemed to work well, and it exists now under another name, minus the violent intentions. But how can a group of people, declaring themselves outside of society, function within that inescapable framework? How to avoid anger and resentment between belongers and non-belongers? Are non-belongers childish and selfish? Does society only consist of automatons who don't question anything and keep going with the flow? They remain open questions, but questions that merit being asked once in a while. ___ I tried to repress the Urge . That specific, overpowering longing that all Goodreads-reviewers are familiar with. But the desire to slap stars on stuff has prevailed. The story can't be evaluated given it's an objective narrative of what really happened, told by the people who were in the midst of things. How do you give something as personal and real as that any stars? Also Murakami himself, through his essay, observations and choice of questions, shows a very personal side that I don't really feel like evaluating, however rigorous, refined and variegated the five-star-system may be. But that doesn't mean Underground stands above criticism, and I feel this book would have gained a lot if Murakami employed the same interview style with the victims as he did with the cultists, and if he would have returned to them at a later stage. Sarin has long-lasting effects, and one year after the gas attack isn't really long enough to measure what impact it had on the Japanese psyche. In this way, Underground missed an opportunity, but at the same time it delivered on what it set out to do in this review's opening quote, and even more, because I don't think observations made here are restricted to the Japanese. For me this book was central station, with many tracks of questions on what it means to fit into society and what the options are if you don't. A last word on the cover art for this book in order to drop a name I've been a long time fan of. All Murakamis I have bought are from Vintage, with artwork by Noma Bar (also known for cover art for Don DeLillo's books). Noma Bar always manages to very efficiently show two or three things at once, usually in symmetrical fashion. In this particular case the perspective of a subway station and the sense of danger have been perfectly brought together in a powerful image, that is pleasing to the eye to boot. Check out his other works if you like, they're all over the internet. and all over my bookcase too :-) ...more |
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Mar 30, 2016
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Apr 10, 2016
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Mar 30, 2016
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| 4.01
| 255,234
| Mar 2004
| 2014
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really liked it
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1. Counting I don’t remember exactly when I learnt to count. It feels like one of my earliest memories, and one of my most profound. Things started to 1. Counting I don’t remember exactly when I learnt to count. It feels like one of my earliest memories, and one of my most profound. Things started to make sense right there and then. That mountain of peas on my plate felt a lot less menacing when I could count that there were only 36 of them. My collection of Dinky Toys was all the more impressive when I realized I had a whopping 24 miniature cars to play with. My enjoyment of candies increased when I realised 5 became 4 and 4 become 0 real quick. I enjoyed counting. I would count cars, trees, birds, buildings, pens, clouds, ants, marbles, blades of grass and the freckles on my father’s arm. I counted 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and beyond. And I counted on a world of possibilities that are as infinite as they are manageable. 2. Drawing The holidays were over and the grey clouds of September carried the overpowering smell of the school’s soup with them. It’s a smell that was embedded in the classroom’s walls, in my books, in my clothes. A smell that could only be shaken off by a warm summer breeze and rolling around in the grass. Presently I found myself in a school made of concrete, holding down the grass and keeping out the breeze. The first assignment the teacher gave us was to look back on that beautiful summer and draw our best memory. The smell of soup filled my nostrils. Pea soup. It wasn’t always pea soup but it always smelled like pea soup. And the thing with soup is that there’s no telling how many peas were in there. How could I recall anything of summer in this environment of grey walls and brownish green soup? The teacher was hovering over me when I had just started drawing. I had begun like I always began: a smiling sun in the top left corner. “The sun doesn’t have a face.”, the teacher told me flatly. The foundation of every drawing I had made crumbled and so did my childhood. But I had a drawing to finish. A drawing of happier times where the sun was still allowed to smile, a drawing of times that suddenly seemed miles away. 3. Caring Summers in my childhood street were beautiful. The street was a loop, shaped very much like a “b”, with houses on all sides. Only cars who had to be there would pass by, so the street belonged to us, us being me and a friend who was visiting. We had met each other on holidays in Rhodes, and given that we were the only two Flemish kids there, at an age where our differences didn’t matter as much as the games we could play together, we got along really well. His parents dropped him off for a week every summer since then. Christopher was a lot more adventurous than I was and whenever he came around we explored new areas, climbed trees, built camps and stole apples. One summer we were at a little creek, at the tip of the “b”, and heard the sound of frogs. “Did you ever catch a frog?”, Christopher asked. I hadn’t. I didn’t like little living things. They scared me, as I pictured them jumping into my eye or crawling under my skin. I had seen Christopher catch huge bugs in Rhodes that were resting on trees, insects that terrified me and would haunt many of my nightmares. But I never wanted to show him my weakness in this regard. “I’ll show you how to catch a frog.”, he said. And I told him “ok”, with a heart that felt like the size of a pea. 4. Joking Language camps were my parents’ favourite thing to send me off to. It was a great way for me to make new friends, learn another language and get out of the house without them needing to worry. The first language camp I went to was on a farm that was called “The Falcon”. The idea was to have the children speak in English to each other all the time, and thus learn new vocabulary as they were playing. So getting out of the house? Check! Learning another language? Check! Making new friends? Kcehc… I had just started wearing glasses and was still pretty insecure about them, with camp being the first time I’d be wearing them in public. I thought things would be fine because I knew a friend who was going as well, so at least I’d have him to hang around with. Sadly, he abandoned me the first day, even before my parents’ car drove out of sight. He had a really cool cap from the Charlotte Hornets, green and purple, with the visor bent into a “U”. I had a cap too. It was white, aside from the rims that were yellowed by months of perspiration, and had the logo of a cheap beer brand. The visor was as flat as an ironing board. Who could blame him for looking for other friends with cooler caps? I was mocked and ridiculed within the first hour of being at camp, even before rooms were appointed. Eventually I got to share my room with an asthmatic kid, who was my only competitor for being the camp’s social outcast. While I sympathised with his condition, his loud snoring at night made it difficult for me to be genuinely warm to him. And after he pulled down my pants in the middle of a football game, with the entire camp (girls included) watching, difficult became impossible. One of the highlights of the camp was the camp fire. At that time the children were asked to prepare something, like a dance or a sketch, to show in front of the others. Groups were eagerly formed and as the other kids were practicing their singing and their acrobatics, I found myself alone and without ideas. Until I saw an empty bucket with the label of a brand of mayonnaise. 5. Writing High school was pretty good to me. I had a nice group of friends, my grades were okay, and I didn’t have to exert myself too much in order to obtain them. One teacher tried to change all that. Mr. Vekeman, who gave courses for Dutch, didn’t like me. In fact, he hated me. He had noticed that I was lazy and that I didn’t pay attention. While that was true, the problem was that he took all of this personally. As if my lack of devotion for Dutch somehow brought to light his own failure at being an interesting person. One day he gave us an assignment: to write an essay on the topic of “responsibility”. He showed an example of a particular type of essay, the one where a fictional story is interspersed with social commentary, both feeding in to each other. It looked pretty cool. Finally an assignment I liked! I started writing about a guy left home alone, his parents leaving on a holiday. He organised a big party instead of doing his homework. This story ran parallel with some remarks on how responsibility is obtained or bestowed and the ways in which one can wriggle out of them. Of course, the whole thing blew up in that guy’s face, allowing me the conclusion that the vomit of his drunken friends in the pool was what brought home the importance of responsibility. The lesson that it was only when you took your responsibility that the luxury of swimming without finding a stray pea in your course would be yours. I handed in the essay with confidence and discussed it with my friends. They smirked. They told me I hadn’t understood the assignment correctly. We were supposed to write a normal essay, without all the fiction that our teacher deemed ridiculous. He had given us an example in class, not because he liked it, but to show us how it should never be done. An example which I followed. A style that my teacher despised and would find in an essay with my name on it. 6. Reviewing I’m on Goodreads, present day. I’ve just read Cloud Atlas, a wonderful achievement by a gifted author. A book that is difficult to summarize because of its scope. It’s a tale that spans six different times, places and genres . There are many lines that connect these tales, but the first one worth noting is the brilliance of David Mitchell. It takes daring to write a book like this, and skill. He’s got both. First of all, there’s his mastery of English language. Just consider the following quotes: ”A ringing phone flips Luisa’s dreams over and she lands in a moonlit room." I wouln't be surprised if David Mitchell has a similarly shaped birthmark as Charles Dickens had. ”The cold sank its fangs into my exposed neck and frisked me for uninsulated patches.” Not convinced? ” Hot glass office buildings where the blooms of youth harden into aged cacti like my penny-pinching brother.” Okay, just one more: ” The memory cracked on the hard rim of my heart and the yolk dribbled out.” This book uses many different styles. Some stories are presented in the form of a letter, others are a journal, still others are an interview. Given that it spans different centuries, language itself is transformed. The chapters set in the 19th century made me grab my dictionary once in a while, while the stories set into the future are an experiment much in the same vain as “A Clockwork Orange” or “Riddley Walker” are. The language that Mitchell foresees for the future is less pleasing to both the ear and the eye than Burgess’ Nadsat. The stories set in the future registered a bit less in my mind for that reason. Aside from his mastery of language and his propensity of delivering powerful aphorisms, Mitchell can enter the mind of any character one can imagine. He knows the workings of an ageing publisher as well as those of a gifted musical composer, he describes the life of a mass-produced clone as well as that of a 19th century notary traveling on the Pacific. Six stories are contained in Cloud Atlas. The way they are connected is usually very subtle, though the author sometimes can’t help himself and waves a certain birthmark in your face. The blurb at the back says it’s about power, and true enough, many insights from many different perspectives are given on the nature, pitfalls and omnipresence of power and mankind's thirst for it. But I think that the true essence of this book, for me, can better be summarised with the author’s own words: "Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds and contrary tides. I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds. " Aside from this central and ethereal theme, the stories in Cloud Atlas each have their own plot. There’s one about an escape from a retirement home, which is my favourite. It’s got the perfect mix of humour, tension and philosophical musings. The protagonist, Timothy Cavendish, is a bit embittered and looks at the world around him with a very sceptical, but nonetheless thoroughly perceiving eye. His ghastly ordeal is the best thing I’ve read this year and that story alone is worth reading this book. The letters from Zedelghem castle, located in a little Belgian town, were also a highlight with the usage of refined language and a rather direct protagonist. What cost this book a star is the story about the first Luisa Rey mystery. It’s got a good villain and one good line (the one about dreams flipping over), but other than that it brings the book down. First of all: it’s not a mystery. The story, pulled by its hairs as it is, is riddled with plotholes and clichés. (view spoiler)[The fact that locker n0909 at the airport, wherein Sixsmith hides a version of his report moments before his death, is never again mentioned and is replaced by a report on some yacht, literally angered me. (hide spoiler)]. Was this a conscious choice by the author, employing the superficial, no-attention-to-detail “Hollywood”-style to give yet another flavour to Cloud Atlas? Probably, but that doesn’t mean I should like it. But the overall experience of Cloud Atlas: Mesmerizing. Inspiring. Amazing. What really makes this book shine is its structure, the prose of an author who swims in English like an otter in a pond, and, of course, the grand idea of trying to make, draw and write an atlas of clouds, and succeeding. 5. Writing A couple of days had passed and I had almost succeeded in forgetting about that essay. The sword that was dangling above my head had disappeared over the weekend, but come Monday morning that very same sword shot through the stars on a course straight for the top of my head. I could feel its heated presence in the air and was just wishing it would all be over soon when the teacher came into the class with a bundle of papers. THE bundle of papers. My essay, my biggest failure to date, was in there. Mr. Vekeman had a sorrowful look on his face. He was displeased. He started handing out the essays without having spoken a word. Slowly. I looked at my classmates’ reactions and saw despair written on their faces. The only sound in the class was the ruffling of papers and little gasps of disappointment. Of shock. Everyone around me had had their essays handed back to them. Some had gotten zero out of twenty. But where was my essay? The teacher stood in front of the class with one paper in his hand. “Now I will read the essay of the one person who managed to get it right. The one person who got the maximum score.” He started to read. I beamed with pride. My classmates looked at me and smiled. They liked it too. 4. Joking The preparations for the camp fire were well under way. The firewood had been stacked, the music installation was set up, the tables where the hotdogs would be prepared were in place. Most kids were already returning to their rooms to get dressed for the big night. The shadows were getting longer, the breeze was getting cooler as I set to work on the bucket. I had made the children laugh already once during that football game, and I resolved to do it again, only this time not at anyone’s expense. I felt ready. I giggled at the scenario that played out in my head. I felt ready. I pictured Lea’s blush and playful look as I was gracefully accepting the laughter and applause. I felt ready. The show was already well underway when I started to get nervous. Kids had been dancing and singing, sure, but there were also some that had been funny. Funny was my plan! And suddenly, after some kids were done impersonating Andrea Bocelli, it was my turn. Me and my bucket of mayonnaise. There I stood, in front of the very same audience who had seen my p-p, an audience that might as well have been a mouth to hell. I began. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present to you this new brand of paint!” I showed them the side of the bucket that I had covered with a piece of paper, with the word PAINT scribbled on it. “It is the thing to get in your homes, ladies and gentlemen. It can be used in your living rooms, garages, kitchens, for your garden shacks, for walls and ceilings alike! Get this paint now! It’s water resistant! It’s whiter with a delicate touch of yellow! It’s wonderful!” Timing was everything. I turned around the bucket, showing people the label of mayonnaise. “AND IT TASTES SO GOOD!!” And then, there was silence. A silence I will never forget. 3. Caring We went into the creek in search for the frogs. A part of me was hoping the little amphibians would be too quick for us, too clever, but after what seemed like only a couple of seconds Christopher had already caught one. “Look, it’s a big one!”, he said. I looked and expressed my high esteem for his frog-catching talents, hoping he would free the animal soon. He did. But he wasn’t done yet. He would teach me to catch one for myself. I was taught to combine luring with patience and swiftness. The trick is not to grab them, but to just make them jump into your hands. I went about it rather half-heartedly, but that day I learnt never to underestimate a frog’s eagerness to be caught. Without really trying I had caught a frog. Not entirely according to procedure, as it was dangling from my hands with one of its legs stuck between my fingers, but got it I did! I showed it to Christopher and quickly threw it away. “What are you doing? We’re taking them home! To show to your mother! We can build them a little park in a Tupperware box, they’ll have the time of their lives!” Back to square one. I was dreading the return journey with a frog in my hands, so I expertly managed to not catch one. To no avail. Christopher quickly caught two and gave me one to carry. “Be careful so that it doesn’t jump away.” he said. The frog was placed gently on the palm of my hand. I put my other hand over it and thus we walked back home, talking about the things we’d build and the fun the frogs would have. Having a frog in my hand wasn’t all that bad. After a while it stopped feeling so cold and it didn’t move around as much as I expected. I started to feel connected with the little creature. My little friend would be a hero among frogs, with plenty of stories to tell about Tupperwarepark. By the time we got home I felt like a Crocodile Dundee in the making. Excitedly I shouted to my mom to get us a box. She hurried out and asked us what we were up to. Proudly we showed our catch. A beautiful frog in Christopher’s hand. A squished pancake of peas in mine. 2. Drawing I erased the sun’s smile. I drew some faceless clouds and faceless trees, a little house and a breeze. How did I draw a breeze? I just drew some flowers that tilted to the left. I drew children playing with a ball. Not because I played with a ball that summer, but because drawing a kid playing with miniature cars was too difficult. The cars would come out too big or the stance of the kid too awkward, so I decided to just keep it out of the drawing. Looking at those happy kids playing with that ball, I kind of got angry. Stupid kids. Stupid ball. What could ruin their dull everyday day? I pondered. And then I drew a bee. A big, fat bee that was caught in the middle of their ball throwing shenanigans. A big, angry bee that would enact its vengeance on those big blue eyes. A fat, crazy bee that would turn those hapless smiles upside down. The vengeance didn’t take place in the drawing. But it took place in my mind. And on the classroom window. You see, the teacher had the idea of having every kid copy something from their own drawing and paint it on the window. The teacher saw many drawings with children playing with balls, with houses and trees and even flowers in the breeze, but he only saw one with a bee. And so it was me who got to draw a big, fat bee in the summer scenery of the classroom window. A bee that would stay there for the rest of the year. “Who needs a smiling sun, high up in the sky?”, I thought, “When there’s so many reasons to smile right inside my head.” 1. Counting I don’t remember when I started to tire of counting. The numbers seemed to lose their magic as they got bigger. Three houses seemed so much more interesting than hundreds of buildings. The five apple trees in our garden paled in comparison with the forests I saw on TV. My little world of twenty-sixes, seventeens and fours divided by twos seemed so insignificant. What’s the good of counting if it never stops before it gets boring, or if it never stops at all? What’s the sense of having a number like 76983? There’s just too much to handle. I’ve only got two hands and one head, so how can I be expected to count all those stars above? So I stopped looking up, and I looked down. Down at my hands. I put my hands on the table and looked at the back of my left hand. My pinkie was one. My thumb was five. 1-2-3-4-5. My right hand became 5-4-3-2-1. I made my thumbs overlap. 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Who needs infinity? Now this was counting that I could handle. Symmetrical. Harmonious. Leaving for a trip and coming back home. Counting that I enjoyed. Counting that I could never tire of. Counting up towards a crescendo and counting down to a blissful conclusion of peace. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 23, 2016
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Apr 2016
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Mar 23, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1471149285
| 9781471149283
| 1471149285
| 3.72
| 433
| May 03, 2016
| 2016
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it was amazing
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A t-shirt. Another t-shirt. A turtleneck. A button-down shirt. A pullover. Sometimes a hoodie. A coat. My mother always emphasized the importance of l A t-shirt. Another t-shirt. A turtleneck. A button-down shirt. A pullover. Sometimes a hoodie. A coat. My mother always emphasized the importance of layers before I was allowed to venture outside. Layers to keep me warm. Layers to make me look a bit more heavyset. Layers that, once my hormones kicked in, made me sweat like a pig but kept the smell contained within the big ball of fabric encircling my body. Or so I liked to think. I'm an adult now*, and after a particularly difficult goodbye of all my turtleneck sweaters I left the layers behind me. It's only when I go skiing that I am reminded of their value, or, as was recently the case, when I'm going to Moscow, of which I had heard the winters are long and harsh. * (view spoiler)[What did you think you'd find here? Some downplaying of my adulthood? What were you thinking? Yes, I am in fact an adult! Get over it! Nothing to see here but adult seriousness. (hide spoiler)] When going Back to Moscow, in Guillermo Erades' debut novel, the layering was already done for me with heartwarming results: Layer 1: The City. First of all there is the setting. Moscow comes alive through these pages, with the narrator sometimes sounding like a tourist guide, with tidbits of information (only the entertaining kind) of some of the city's buildings, statues and crowds. Sometimes having been to the city helps increase enjoyment and gives extra weight to the "Back" in the title, but it's definitely not required. The surroundings are described in rich detail, sometimes using Russian terminology to give it more flavor, but it's never overbearing in any way. Layer 2: The Literature. The author clearly knows his stuff when it comes to Russian literature and gives some insights into the works and lives of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Pushkin and Chekhov. Some chapters could easily have been reviews on Goodreads actually. This layer gives Moscow and its inhabitants a rich historical setting within the book. The characters Russians have read about and often grew up with, not only as individuals but as a nation, become characters for "Back to Moscow" and are often a reference point for the narrator's own experiences. The result is a very harmonious melody of past and present, of tradition and everyday life. Layer 3: The Girls. What feels a little less harmonious is the narrator's life. His name is Martin, by the way. And he's a bit of a womanizer. He meets a lot of Russian girls, dyevs, in clubs, in coffee houses and on the street. If you think you saw them all, pop, there's another one, just like with those matrushka dolls, only this time lined up and making Martin's life, who's supposed to be working on his PhD, more complicated. Luckily, the author has managed to give each and every one of these girls a richness of character that makes them indelible from your mind. Each one of these girls has a story worth telling and brings out a different side of Martin, allowing the reader to get to know their narrator a lot better. Layer 4: The Personal. The narrator seems based on the author, making this a very personal book at times. The author's bio does refer to his stay in Moscow, making the theory that this book is based on real-life experiences and encounters more likely. Sometimes there are humorous hints at this being the case, like when the narrator quotes his own little notebooks with lines you read earlier in the book. At one or two instances, it felt a bit too personal though, this being my only small criticism against this book. These were times where it kind of felt like I was reading something that I wasn't supposed to read, not meant for my eyes but for a person on which one of the characters was based. But aside from that ever so slight criticism, it's this personal layer that makes the book especially strong. Obviously not everything that happened in this book happened for real, but it is virtually impossible to say where reality stops and fiction begins. And that's one of the powers of this book: the intense realism and the showcasing of thought processes that often feel familiar. Layer X. All of the above come together in something that I can only call the philosophy of this book, inspired by and infused with the Russian spirit, evoking ruminations on the soul with all of its aches and contradictions. This philosophical element gives tremendous weight to an otherwise light read, resulting in a perfectly balanced book. Don't forget your hat. And then there's the ending. Now, this isn't a plot-driven book so the ending is less important than the whole experience of walking the Moscow streets, going to the clubs, inviting girls for a cup of tea or anything else one does besides writing a PhD thesis. Despite that, and despite a rough run-up with a slightly too-Hollywoody-to-be-Russian finale, the last page of this book was simply magical. I have to resist not copying it here, but that wouldn't be fair to the author I think, nor to you. It's something to be discovered and experienced within this book. After having been Back to Moscow. ____ You may have noted that this is one of the first reviews for this book. And we all know how it is with first reviews. The chances are they're by some guy who's so ecstatic to find a book that nobody else has read that he will convince everyone it's great no matter what's in it and try to bask in the finder's glory. But truly, I don't care about finder's glory. When I found the way to make cold fusion work or when I discovered Atlantis I didn't tell anyone about it either, so I'm not in it for that. I care for your enjoyment as a reader and I want you to be happy. Truly! And I kind of want this author to make it, too. He's got a talent that should not go unnoticed. So go on, find out for yourself and never mind about thanking me for it later, though I know you probably will. As a matter of transparency, I do wish to add I have met the author, once, around a year ago at a dinner party, without knowing he was a writer. I did follow progress on his novel during the months following that dinner on Facebook, but that is the extent of our acquaintance. I hope and trust this didn't stand in the way of me writing an objective review. ...more |
Notes are private!
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not set
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Mar 23, 2016
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Mar 20, 2016
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Paperback
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| 0241951445
| 9780241951446
| 0241951445
| 4.00
| 732,011
| 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 |
Notes are private!
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1
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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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Paperback
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| 8415308310
| 9788415308317
| 8415308310
| 4.25
| 4
| Nov 01, 2012
| Dec 14, 2012
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Office romance: A stationery tale
The office floor of Dunder-Mifflin was like many of our age, but not many know for which unlikely tale it set the Office romance: A stationery tale The office floor of Dunder-Mifflin was like many of our age, but not many know for which unlikely tale it set the stage. It was a common floor: of desks, of lamps, of chairs, Old files, yellow folders, and many other office wares. A little stack of papers had a note pasted on her head. It said: “Warning: Confidential”, in letters big and red. Conny, as she was called, quite liked her sticky tag, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t become a drag. The others didn’t like the note and gave her hurtful looks. No place for her in drawers, nor on that shelf for books. Conny started to wonder: “Should I get rid of my colourful mark?”, "Cause of isolation, of nights spent alone in the dark." As she was sadly musing, quite some time had passed before another bundle landed next to her at last. She ruffled all her papers, and was quite pleased until the new arrival settled down and said: “I'm just a bill.” Despite Bill’s cruel warnings, love was in the air. Did you see their width and length? They’d make a perfect pair! Then there was Hope, assistant clerk, who forgot to pay. Bill got stamped: “Overdue”, and was allowed to stay. Now both marked in red, with a jolly label, Bill became an animal, and turned tale into fable. Soon he was on top of her, by grace of the archive's colour code, and right then no thought was spared for the money that Hope's boss still owed. After that night, Bill and Conny had grown. They had matured beyond the childish cadence that had accompanied their every move so far. After that night, they stuck together by virtue of some residual paste. They now had plenty of time to get to know each other. Bill started to fully realize how secretive Conny was, and Conny learned to live with Bill’s calculating character. Ash tree to ashes, paper to dustbin, they knew their love would surpass that endless, senseless cycle. They spoke about their future and tried to figure out how to stay together after the glue of their passion had dried up. Bill proposed the “Paperclip”, explaining how he had seen Paperclip-couples happy and content. Conny wasn’t convinced and knew in her fearful heart that the Paperclip didn’t mean a real commitment. She’d seen couples fall out, each going their own way, the Paperclip degraded to something only McGyver could use. She instead proposed the “Staple”. A common painful experience that would bind them more firmly. She was flexible as to how many staples to use and noticing Bill's hesitation she didn’t insist on the whole shebang, settling for a little one in the corner, but Bill was adamant and said he needed more wiggle room. He also told of the ugly scars he had seen, torn corners of a broken bond, in case things wouldn't work out. When it looked as if they wouldn’t find a compromise, a solution presented itself. Hole Puncher happened to overhear their conversation and gladly offered his services. He had binders on offer, spacious and private, in which they could retire. The only thing they’d need to do, at first seemed worse than fire. It wouldn’t hurt, it wouldn’t burn, their new friend did declare. Thus the old rhythm found them, still childish but they didn't care. Reverent H. Puncher gave them four holes, two.. for.. each, Symbols of their promise, that neither of them could breach. She went ahead, to prepare, and found a cosy binder, Bill would surely follow, as soon as he could find her. She waited in the darkness, two rings in her side. But Bill was running late again. Or did he float and hide? Conny spent a long time thinking, waiting for an answer. Was Bill scared, or simply hurt, or was it paper cancer? In her sullen sadness, Conny couldn't keep it together, And it wasn’t long until she yearned for the blissful shredder. The truth was found when Conny heard that Bill was paid, then burned, And thus another page of love was forever turned. Though forever saddened and hurt to her very soul, Conny will still declare that it's the holes that make her whole. ____ ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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not set
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not set
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Mar 10, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1780335571
| 9781780335575
| 1780335571
| 4.06
| 40,990
| 1993
| May 03, 2012
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it was ok
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Time has always fascinated me. Well, I say always, but that's not true. In fact, I'm almost never fascinated by time. Only very occasionally, in short
Time has always fascinated me. Well, I say always, but that's not true. In fact, I'm almost never fascinated by time. Only very occasionally, in short bouts, whenever I happen to think about it. If I'd have to add up all the time during which I was fascinated by time, I don't think it would add up to much more than a week, if that. And yet, during my fascination with time, it feels like an endless, enduring fascination that I always carry around with me, and that I've been subconsciously pondering on ever since I was capable of doing such a grave thing as pondering. Given this wonderment with time, I was ready to love this book, a book that would make me think about time and forget about time all at once. Sadly, it was not to be. With every page I turned, time, much like the words I was wading through, became a sticky jello. Everything started moving slowly. My thoughts, the story, the people under yet another arcade in yet another Graschengasse or some other German sounding street that looks like any other German street that apparently always needs to have arcades. And I'm not talking about the cool arcades with games and pool tables and candy, but the old architectural thing with which there's only one thing to do: stand under it and do absolutely nothing of interest. The only thing that happens in this book is time. It happens in different ways, as it happens, but while time is a great host for happenings, it doesn't make for a very great entertainer itself. As my slow thoughts slowly built up to slow frustration I finished another three page chapter, which should actually be called a vignette, because stuff actually happens in chapters. These vignettes are intellectual and poetic masterpieces that are boring beyond the imagination, which is the least boring way to be boring, so I'll give them that. No, time did not disappear. It did not become a concept that in turn became a gateway to leaps and bounds of the imagination. Time became the annoying tick-tack-tocking of the clock while you're trying to sleep. Every tick signifying another segment of time irrevocably wasted on lying awake without good reason, trying to read this book. I'm being harsh. I'm maybe even being a bit evil. Definitely rude. So let me have a little pause right here and calm down. So I just took a little pause, not that you noticed because you just kept reading, but I assure you I did. You can't begin to imagine how much time passed between that dot and that "So.". The stuff I did. The laundry. The dishes. A walk in the drizzle. Thinking about Fionnuala's sublime review that shows what a greater mind than mine can give in terms of interpretation of this book. Her review also comes with a great soundtrack. So yes, it was a good pause, I even had a cookie. The American kind, with little bits of chocolate, that fall apart in big crumbles that you can find on your clothes later on for a little treat after the treat. And you? What did you do with that pause? Absolutely nothing! You just rushed to the end of this paragraph, perhaps just to end up feeling hungry for a cookie, perhaps even willing to settle for a crumble. Maybe I should point out that those German sounding streets aren't German, but Swiss. Imagine that, a book about time set in Switzerland! It's also about Einstein. What's his nationality, I ask? Who knows, I sure don't, that's why I asked? The guy lived absolutely everywhere, relatively speaking. Time for another pause. Wikipedia just told me he's a Württemberger, whatever the hell that means. Guy is so old he was born in a country that doesn't even exist anymore. Makes you wonder if he's even real, right? But he was! And I guess that means that he is. And he dreamed dreams. And who decided to commit these dreams to paper? Alan Lightman. His name? Not a coincidence, I would think. Unless everything is a coincidence, because every incident links with another incident somehow, every effect knows a cause that's also an effect and you get these long strings of effects and causes and they get all entangled like your headphones do and one of these strings, perhaps through some inextricable knots, must connect Lightman's name to Einstein's dreams. The result, namely this book, is as frustrating as the spaghettis coming out of your pocket whenever you want to listen to some tunes during a walk in the drizzle. Should you read this book? Only if you want to make up your own mind. Read Fionnuala's review to get another side of the story, a more beautiful one, before making up that cluttered mind of yours. Unless you're Fionnuala. Scratch that, even if you're Fionnuala, because you deserve a little treat of your own making after all this rambling. My two cents? Maybe just read the first line and the last line of every vignette. They usually get the point across and it will save you the trouble of reading about how a couple is standing under an arcade or how a butcher is passing an arcade or how that Aarhe (aargh indeed) is twinkling under the sun or the moon or, wait for it, twinkling in time. You didn't wait for it, did you? Okay, that's the end of this review for you, young reader! What I'm trying to say is that some ideas on how time could work are interesting enough, which are described in the beginning of each vignette. Then flick two pages while thinking for yourself what it could mean, and then read the last couple of sentences to (sometimes) get a nice paradox on the way we deal with our past, or how time can make us alone, or how an absolute lack of freedom provides its own form of freedom. I think a lot more could have been done with both time, this author's time and my time. Nothing can be done without time, ergo everything should be done WITH it. Lightman didn't do enough and failed to live up to his promising name. Of course, that's just my opinion. As you very well know by now, it's all relative. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 03, 2016
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Nov 07, 2016
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Feb 19, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1472228421
| 9781472228420
| 1472228421
| 4.02
| 638,766
| Jun 18, 2013
| Jan 01, 2001
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really liked it
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Nostalgia is widely frowned upon. In these hectic times of living fast and forward, those who look back, fall back. Those who contemplate their past a
Nostalgia is widely frowned upon. In these hectic times of living fast and forward, those who look back, fall back. Those who contemplate their past and do so with a smile and a tear are said to live in museums of memories, stagnant, each teardrop further calcifying their energy into immovable stalactites. What good is there in replaying old movies? Why settle for a small library of old childhood adventures when each day offers a new one? Why cling to a past and forsake a future? As an incorrigible nostalgic it’s not easy to explain what draws me to my frequent ruminations on the years when I was young, protected and innocent, what compels me to relive those moments. I do uphold that I don’t consider my nostalgic bouts as a way to forsake the future, nor a means to escape the present. My parents and their accomplices have gifted me with the most precious of things they could offer: a happy childhood, that serves as a source of joy, a well of inspiration, a blanket of comfort, now and tomorrow. It doesn’t hold me back as much as it keeps me going. When I think of my childhood, a warm glow pervades the sceneries in my head. It’s a glow both dreamy and real, both soft and intense. Neil Gaiman has captured this glow in “The Ocean at the End of the Lane”. The dreams, fears and memories are his, but the glow mesmerises all of us in Nostalgia Avenue, taking us back to the days of bewilderment in its purest form. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Jan 30, 2017
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Feb 04, 2017
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Feb 19, 2016
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Paperback
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my rating |
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| 4.14
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really liked it
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Oct 13, 2016
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Sep 26, 2016
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| 4.13
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really liked it
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Jan 10, 2017
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Sep 23, 2016
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| 4.23
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really liked it
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Sep 19, 2016
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Sep 13, 2016
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| 3.84
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liked it
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Nov 03, 2016
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Sep 09, 2016
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| 4.30
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really liked it
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Jun 23, 2017
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Aug 22, 2016
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| 3.58
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liked it
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Aug 24, 2016
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Aug 19, 2016
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| 4.03
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it was amazing
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Jun 08, 2017
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Aug 03, 2016
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| 3.94
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liked it
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Sep 08, 2016
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Jul 31, 2016
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| 4.45
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it was amazing
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Aug 07, 2016
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Jul 29, 2016
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| 4.31
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liked it
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Aug 02, 2016
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Jul 27, 2016
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| 4.14
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really liked it
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May 10, 2017
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Jul 26, 2016
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| 3.90
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really liked it
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Jul 13, 2016
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Jul 10, 2016
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| 3.86
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really liked it
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Dec 30, 2016
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Apr 14, 2016
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| 3.91
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liked it
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Apr 10, 2016
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Mar 30, 2016
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| 4.01
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really liked it
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Apr 2016
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Mar 23, 2016
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| 3.72
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it was amazing
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Mar 23, 2016
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Mar 20, 2016
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| 4.00
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it was amazing
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Mar 20, 2016
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Mar 14, 2016
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| 4.25
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not set
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Mar 10, 2016
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| 4.06
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it was ok
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Nov 07, 2016
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Feb 19, 2016
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| 4.02
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really liked it
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Feb 04, 2017
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Feb 19, 2016
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