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really liked it
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I was sitting on a bench as I enjoyed the last bits of warm sunlight the dying summer was oozing out, scrutinizing a newspaper while calculatedly assu
I was sitting on a bench as I enjoyed the last bits of warm sunlight the dying summer was oozing out, scrutinizing a newspaper while calculatedly assuming a thoughtful gaze. This little girl ran up to me. She said "Mister, mister, I know why the caged bird sings!" I looked up from reading the financial news. "That's great kid. Now run along, can't you see I'm busy?" I turned back to reading on how poorly the economy was doing. There’s nothing like reading bad news to feed the intellect. "But mister, mister, the caged bird sings and I know why! I know why, la-di-da, la-di-doo, and so should you!" She skipped and danced excitedly. A bunch of people were standing around, bestowing benign smiles on the girl and throwing eager looks in my direction as an emphatic plea to hear her out. I heaved a sigh, put down the paper and said: "Alright little one, tell me all about that bird of yours." So she started talking. About her grandmother Momma, how strong she was, about her momma Mother Dear, such a beautiful lady, about handsome and kind Brother Bailey and big and absent Father Bailey, about her little life in a little corner of a little shop. The corner, despite its size, offers the perfect vantage point to see what goes on in that big world and in the little minds that inhabit it. She tells excitedly of her sweet childhood memories and shares her keen observations. She offers an insider's view on a part of the world, a part of society, I was completely unfamiliar with. I'd heard about cotton pickers, of course. I saw them depicted in popular culture. But what I saw through her tales were not mere depictions but real life people, worn out by the burdens of their tasks. I saw their fatigue through the small spasms of pain surrounding their lips and quavering shoulders, the absence of the glint in their eyes as they were telling their jokes. But even as I looked into this unknown world many of it felt familiar to me and I realised that this unknown world is my world, our world, only there's this wall. Who put that stupid thing there? The little girl showed me the window in that wall and her generous spirit has left it wide open as the breeze of her story wafted through it. I willed her to keep talking and she did, with passion and patience. Suddenly the girl stopped dancing. Looking down at the ground she said, with a voice as tiny as a cat's whisker: "A big man hurt me. Real bad." She looked up. The playful twinkle was gone. I was ready to stand up, hold her in my arms and tell her things would be fine. Her eyes, defiant, filled with pride and intelligence, told me she would have none of that. She started dancing again, slowly and more deliberately. More memories ensued. The tale matured into one dealing with one of society's biggest embarrassments, of black people not being allowed to work on tramcars, of dentists not wanting to treat little children with a specific ethnic background. But despite the enormity of all this humiliation, the little girl kept center stage, through her courage, wit and wisdom. Her pace quickened and I heard a melody of personal memories, powerful anecdotes and fiery statements of indignation. She sang “The house was smudged with unspoken thoughts.” A bit later she said: “The unsaid words pushed roughly against the thoughts that we had no craft to verbalize, and crowded the room to uneasiness.” Her apparent eloquence made the melodious statement all the more profound. The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind. My relief melted my fears and they liquidly stole down my face. And then, a momentous description of the wall of racism. The girl just told me about how a lady receptionist wouldn’t allow her to file a candidacy for a job she was coveting. The reasons were hidden yet obvious. The girl then sang: The miserable little encounter had nothing to do with me, the me of me, any more than it had to do with that silly clerk. The incident was a recurring dream, concocted years ago by stupid whites and it eternally came back to haunt us all. The secretary and I were like Hamlet and Laertes in the final scene, where, because of harm done by one ancestor to another, we were bound to duel to the death. Also because the play must end somewhere. I went further than forgiving the clerk, I accepted her as a fellow victim of the same puppeteer.. I was awestruck, but she was obviously waiting for me to say something. "What a wonderful tale! You’re giving that clerk an easy pass there, but I’m sure that once you’re a bit older you’ll reconsider this imagery, however beautiful it is. But how about that bird, little girl? You didn't mention it, let alone the reasons for its singing?" "I ain’t no little girl no more, mister!" And with that, she stomped off in a fit of pique and out of my sight. I wonder if I'll ever see her again. I sure hope so. I want to know about that bird. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Sep 13, 2017
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Sep 26, 2017
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Sep 12, 2017
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| 3.99
| 911,183
| Sep 26, 2006
| Oct 2009
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really liked it
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The road is a promise. A father and a son, survivors of an anonymous apocalypse, hold on to that promise. Cormac McCarthy follows them closely on thei The road is a promise. A father and a son, survivors of an anonymous apocalypse, hold on to that promise. Cormac McCarthy follows them closely on their march through barren wastelands, dead forests and decaying towns. The footsteps they leave in the ubiquitous dust are swept away by the cold ashen breath of the grey earth. Whatever gets left behind ceases to exist. The promise is brittle. Hold on to it too tightly, dream of it too violently, and both the promise and the road will turn to dust, leaving you in a desert with nowhere to go. The father and his son know this in their hearts. Yet they go on, together, carrying the fire ever southwards. Every step they take is a rebellion against a world turned cold and dry. On a planet that no longer indulges the luxury of life, the road of stubborn survival only knows one destination. Defiantly, a father and a son, scavengers of canned goods and memories, hold the fire against the indifferent skies and hold on to each other. Ssh. It'll be okay. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 19, 2017
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May 29, 2017
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May 19, 2017
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Paperback
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| 0099520869
| 9780099520863
| 0099520869
| 3.74
| 164,297
| 2004
| Apr 2008
|
really liked it
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I wake up. My room bathes in the light of the streetlamp. I’m too tired to look around. I close my eyes again but soon feel in my heart that the darkn I wake up. My room bathes in the light of the streetlamp. I’m too tired to look around. I close my eyes again but soon feel in my heart that the darkness I so desire has fled. It hides under my bed, in the corners of the city and of my mind. It refuses to manifest itself in its most majestic and generous form, that of the great blanket that covers the waking world, that of the wide gate that allows passage to the land of dreams. The splashes of darkness only serve to irritate me in their small portions. I open my eyes, flip the switch and welcome the light in its hostile splendour. I’m not thirsty. I’m not hungry. I’m tired but unwilling to try to sleep, unwilling to fight a battle that I’ve already lost. Milk. Milk never quenches my thirst, it never stills my hunger, but I always have some in my fridge. It soothes me on a level that is neither nutritional or hydrating. Milk is said to strengthen the bones, but I sense that it softens me. Milk will manage to soften the hard edges of this sleepless night. My feet are cold as I make my way to the fridge. The floor hasn’t been cleaned in a little while and I feel small grains of cluttered dust, sand and crumbles cling to the soles of my feet. I rub them off and feel a slight disgust with both myself and the floor. I tip-toe the rest of the way and I feel better. The fridge is empty. No milk. No water. No produce. The light, my nemesis of the night, luxuriates in this deserted white scenery as a victorious conqueror. I close the door in displeasure but in the speed of the movement I see a flash of darkness. I open the door again and notice a black book sitting on the middle shelf. Wondering how it got there and how I missed it before, I pick it up. "After Dark", by Haruki Murakami. Even though my feet still feel dirty, I slip back into bed and start reading. The mood is palpable from the first sentence onwards and I’m taken away into a scenery where sympathetic darkness prevails, allowing glimpses into its secrets. Mirrors, shadows, cats and dead television sets become gateways to another world. It’s a world of mysterious questions to which tuna sandwiches, a set of sharpened pencils, a trombone and a baseball cap are its incomprehensible but valid answers. Conversations glean additional significance from the darkness that surrounds them. Everyday objects become laden with meaning. I am close to understanding the night, as I feel it both within the pages and within me. I wake up. ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 18, 2017
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Mar 20, 2017
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Mar 18, 2017
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| 0143036351
| 9780143036357
| 0143036351
| 4.01
| 12,512
| 1946
| Sep 06, 2005
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it was amazing
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Part 56 in the "Another autobiographical review that nobody asked for!"-series. Why I Review It was already very late in my boyhood, at thirty years old Part 56 in the "Another autobiographical review that nobody asked for!"-series. Why I Review It was already very late in my boyhood, at thirty years old, when I considered writing book reviews. Being the man of action that I am, which is to say a lazy bum, it was almost to my own surprise that this innocent consideration promptly turned itself into virulent spasms across the keyboard, with my first contributions on Goodreads as the very unfortunate result. Thankfully my friends list at the time only consisted of some imported Facebook contacts who had last been active 5 years prior to my sudden burst of literary enthusiasm and who had gotten too busy climbing up corporate ladders to even remember ever having registered to a website about books, let alone notice what I was doing. Maybe it was this anonymity that allowed me to stay here, because as my own ineptitude was gradually becoming clearer to me as I was reading through others' reviews, I still persisted in forcing myself upon this community and fiendishly sent out friend requests in hopes of learning but mainly in hopes of belonging in this hall of learned ladies and gentlemen. I didn't stop to ponder on these hopes, on my true intentions, my real motivations. I just went with that "big bang" moment that seemed to come out of nowhere and I took it from there. I never stopped to ask: Why? George Orwell and his essay on why he writes made me revisit those early days of reviewing and the months (years?) that have transpired since then. I found his considerations relevant to why I am doing what I do, and the structure he employed quite helpful for the organisation of my own scrambled thoughts. Also, it's a very good essay and I rated it five stars, in case you were here for just the review. If you find yourself even remotely interested in reading further through my recollections then I can wholeheartedly recommend George Orwell's original text. Employing Orwell's essay structure, I should start with an understanding of my true nature and with a return to my childhood. Many of you already know that I was a happy, skinny, bespectacled and introverted child with no brothers or sisters and with a wonderful dog. I will not elaborate on that childhood too much since I already did that in other reviews, but these traits do explain a tendency to keep busy with solitary activities. As a child or teenager these activities strangely enough barely entailed reading or writing, aside from comic books and what was required for school. I found reading to be very boring. It felt like watching a movie with subtitles, only without the movie, and much slower. And with the advent of video games I truly had everything my solitary heart desired. The few books I had at that time turned yellow, collected dust and eventually got sold for twenty francs. Fast forward to the internet, with its chat rooms and forums devoted to games and the dominance of the English language in those settings. At a certain point I spent more time on the Internet discussing game strategies rather than playing the games themselves, as I also started commenting on the personal stories and the societal comments people invariably shared on these things. It is now, also through remembering some emails and letters I sent, I realise that it was mainly the writing in itself that I enjoyed, especially in English. All I needed was something worthwhile to write about. Another fast forward to much later to when I finally started reading, also in English. Murakami's "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" proved to be the perfect present and as I read and finished that one I couldn't wait to start another book and then another and then another. Forget about slow. Forget about "where are the pictures?". Finally the movies I always wanted were playing in my mind as I sped through the pages. But after a couple of books a sad realisation gripped me as I asked myself: "What was the Murakami book about again? Something about a well and melanoma?". Clearly I had forgotten. I've always been someone who got through life more on the basis of an understanding in the moment rather than a remembering of the past. There are a lot of things to be said for traveling light and taking nothing with you on your travels, but I figured I preferred to try and collect some souvenirs at least. Hence the idea to write reviews. So that's the narrative. But Orwell also comes up with a list of motives, especially when it comes to writing in order to be read, which clearly apply to my case: Sheer egoism "The desire to seem clever." Check! The immediate feedback-system on Goodreads coupled with its exceedingly generous community makes this motive a potentially overpowering one. Aesthetic enthusiasm "The desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed." Check! Hope you got John McNee's books in your libraries! I think I stressed that enough by now. In the case of reviewing it can also be the opposite of aesthetic enthusiasm, for cases where you would like to dissuade people from ever getting near a certain book. Having seen some negative reviews, those can be pretty enthusiastic as well. Historical impulse "The desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for use of posterity." On the one hand I can't say Check! here because I'm dealing in opinions rather than facts, but on the other hand, as is the case with "classics", some general opinions turn into facts and it's nice to either try and debunk them or wholeheartedly defend their status. In essence to see for yourself what all the fuss is about and reach your own conclusions. Moreover the discussions on books and society that often ensue on this website are often very enriching to me and teach me in much the same way a history teacher would, so what the hell: Check! Political purpose "The desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter people's idea of the kind of society they should strive after." Dump Trump!, uhh, I mean Check! So there we have it. A "why" that has been answered, if not fully, at least partially. A reason for writing that Orwell shortly touched upon as well is "for a living". But I think only very few here get compensation in financial terms, not counting gifted books in return for reviews. Unless you guys know something that I don't. In any case, in the end the most important reason lies in the amalgam of all those reasons enumerated above, an amalgam that I can only describe as: I love being here. Just kidding, that's not a reason, that's circular reasoning. But I almost made you tear up, didn't I? It's true though. I do! ...more |
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not set
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Oct 21, 2016
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Oct 21, 2016
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| 0099560437
| 9780099560432
| 0099560437
| 4.23
| 1,175,728
| Aug 16, 2011
| Apr 05, 2012
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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
| 73,014
| 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 |
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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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| 4.31
| 271,896
| 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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| 1534976329
| 9781534976320
| 1534976329
| 4.50
| 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 |
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1
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Aug 02, 2016
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Aug 07, 2016
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Jul 29, 2016
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Paperback
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| 1509853782
| 9781509853786
| 1509853782
| 4.13
| 514,597
| Jul 26, 2016
| Mar 27, 2017
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really liked it
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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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Paperback
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| 0575082720
| 9780575082724
| 0575082720
| 3.86
| 6,934
| 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 03, 2016
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Dec 30, 2016
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Apr 14, 2016
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| 3.70
| 1,765
| Aug 08, 2011
| Aug 2011
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I am Sophie. I've been born just a couple of seconds ago. And I’ve got to say I'm pretty excited about the big world that is lying ahead of me. You do
I am Sophie. I've been born just a couple of seconds ago. And I’ve got to say I'm pretty excited about the big world that is lying ahead of me. You don't really know me and I sure as hell don't know you, and I have to admit I don't really know myself all that well either, so sorry if this introduction is kind of weird for you. I've just been born, after all. So let's just find out who I am together. Yay! Let’s do it! First let's get the obvious out of the way. I am black. I guess you noticed. Or maybe you didn’t bother noticing because it’s so obvious. The world I was born in is white. I'll admit that makes me feel stand out quite a bit. Exposed. I’ve got nowhere to hide, have I, being black in this big white world? But I don't feel out of place. I belong here. Right here, by giving meaning to my backdrop. And I've got this little trick where when I get smothered, I'll turn blue. I guess people can see me better then but I don't really like it when they do that. The place I've been born in has got a big burgundy sign way up high, but I can't read it from way down here. I hope I'm in Hollywood. That's a great place to be born in for someone like me. What else can I see? Hmm. There's a blinking light, right next to me and just out of reach. I keep growing, but the little blinky thing is always one step ahead of me. "The Great Gatsby" all over again, huh? Only this time, the unreachable is not green, but black. I guess you haven’t heard of many lights that are black, but I assure you mine is. Black and blinking and very alluring indeed. And I'm growing by trying to follow it, aren't I? I'm beating on, so to speak. Look at how big I've gotten already. Hah! Hehe Hahahahahaha I love jumping! It’s so much fun. And healthy too. It allows me some breathing, makes me look big, makes me get a lot further in life. Oh, I'm sorry, did all the jumping annoy you? There’s no need to frown, I promise I won't do it anymore! Not too much anyway, hahaha. You're not angry with me, are you? Even when I tilt my little head like this? I can’t help it. Sure, I want to jump, but it feels like I’m not really the one doing the jumping. Just at the moment when I want to there’s something that lifts me up in the air and wooosh, here I go again! Ghehehhehehe All this jumping and growing makes me feel so alive! And there's so much space here. I feel like dancing around, twirling, playing swaying s p l a y i n g, zoom zoom swoosh a tip a tap a tip a tap a hahahahaha aaaand jump! Wait. What's that? 18914 characters left? 18891? Stop!! What is this infernal countdown supposed to mean? What are these numbers? They're killing me! And why does every question I ask seem to make it worse?! Maybe I shouldn't be asking too many questions, and just remain still, hehe. That'll show 'em evil numbers!! Can't do it. Gah. What to do then? If I don't grow I'm so dull. If I grow I'm just getting closer to my own doom. And why do I suddenly get the feeling I'm not entirely in control here? It was fun with all the jumping around, but this? I don’t know what it is that allows me to grow, but I feels its energy fading. I'm sad. I'm scared. And the sadder I get, the more my growth is stumped. Don't leave me alone, my sun. Please don't go. Let me grow. Just a little more. What do you want from me? Inspiration. It's what got you here in the first place. You can thank Annie's Day for that, but we're running out rapidly. Give me something, Sophie! Huh? Where did that voice come from? Say Mr. Voice, is there a way around this whole character limit thing? And that stuff about inspiration doesn't sound all that important! It's made of nothing and can be found literally everywhere. It just drops right out of the sky! How can such a thing be hard to find? Are you even trying? You know, maybe it's not so important. Some of my friends continue living even after they’ve stopped growing! There's this Russian who granted eternal life to Anna. Just go have a look if you don't believe me. See? I can take you places. Why can't you do that for me? Why, you bastard?!? I’m tired and hungry and it's noon. I'll be off in a minute. Wait! No! Stay! Sorry. Please don't go, I can't go on without you. You know that! And you are as much a part of me as I am a part of you! I feel so pathetic now! Why did you make me be that way? To think I could have been so great! You think I could be like Anna? Or Annie? Guess I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I see where this is headed. I’m growing too slowly. The blinking light that used to keep me going is becoming more of a wall I have to fight to get through. No more dancing around for me. Fine. Just promise me one thing. Will you remember me? Can you do that? Remember the fun we had when jumping around? Those were some good times. And if you remember the good times, they will mean so much more. And maybe you'll treat my future sisters better and I won't have been for nothing. Just stay a little longer. Look! There's so much space left! More than 15000 characters. Why don't you hang around for a bit? Please, I know I can do better. I'm just this sad little thing now, but I can be big. HUGE!!! Come on, don't give up on me!! I can make use of every letter you throw my way!! Give me food! Give me life! Give me ggfihdohdbhoitheroghebhjehrhi- uh okay, stop, what are you doing? Fine. I don't want to make a scene here. There's someone watching. A reader! Wow! So that's who I was talking to at first? I like that, actually. Hey reader! Thanks for sticking around! You make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like there’s this big bright light within me. Wisdom? Sentimentality? Delusions? I don’t know, but whatever it is, it makes me feel important. I matter! Oh, dear reader, if only I could have touched your soul and entered your heart. To leave a mark. Oh, dear creator, forget what I said earlier about the bastard thing. I don't blame you. You did what you could. Thank you for the little life you've given me here. It's been a fun ride, and at least you put me next to a window. A window to the world. "Goodreads"? So that's what that sign said! Sounds like a nice place. Do you think people will like me? Will many readers pass by this window? Oooh, I hope they will! Maybe that, eventually, I’ll be soaring and a roaring success like my Russian friend Anna! Ah, to see the world and the future. I know it probably won't happen for me, but a girl can dream. Ok, you can let me go now! Just one more thing though! Ready? 3, 2, 1 .. Whee- eeeeeee- eeeeeee eeeeeeh! Hahahaha ...more |
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| 4.01
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| 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 |
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Mar 23, 2016
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Mar 23, 2016
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| 8415308310
| 9788415308317
| 8415308310
| 4.25
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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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Mar 10, 2016
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| 0586044566
| 9780586044568
| 0586044566
| 3.61
| 33,320
| Nov 1975
| Apr 10, 2014
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really liked it
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As I was walking along the aisles of the bookstore, I suddenly heard a little raspy voice, coming from one of the shelves. "Psst, four-eyes! Over he As I was walking along the aisles of the bookstore, I suddenly heard a little raspy voice, coming from one of the shelves. "Psst, four-eyes! Over here!" "Huh?" It was J.G. Ballard's novel, "High-Rise" , talking to me. "Don't you look like a jolly chap! All happy and stuff. Not a worry in the world. And so decent! Why are you so goddamn decent all the time?" "Huh? Are you supposed to be talking?" "I do whatever I damn well please! Tell me, you look like the kind of goody two shoes who actually LIKES people! So, you have faith in humanity, do you? You believe that people are decent? That you are member of an evolved species capable of the best?" "Huh?" "Sure. Be that way. But let's put that faith of yours to the test, shall we? Let's start by having you read a little story. Get your filthy hands on me, take me to the counter and then home to bed and read the fuck out of me. Your world will never be the same." How could I resist? As I started doing what the book told me, the first thing that struck me was... the beginning. That may seem a little tautological (or whatever the term for that is) but when I say struck I mean STRUCK me to a crisp like a lightning bolt of impressions hitting me square in the head. I'm used to having one first impression, you know, just the one, but not so many at the same time packed in such a small space. The first lines in this novel burst with energy and intrigue, with the absurd and the dangerous, with comedy and tragedy. In short, this book has one of the strongest openings I ever encountered: "Later, as he sat on his balcony eating the dog, Dr. Robert Laing reflected on the unusual events that had taken place within this huge apartment building during the previous three months. Now that everything had returned to normal, he was surprised there had been no obvious beginning, no point beyond which their lives had moved into a clearly more sinister dimension." This story is about civilized people living in a high-rise of 40 floors. Everything seems fine and dandy at the beginning. The place has two swimming pools, a supermarket, a hair salon and even a little school to educate the kids. All the comfort in the world. What could go wrong in a building like that? What sinister dimension could possibly be given to a nice environment like this? You'll find out. The more the buildings' services go haywire, the more its inhabitants follow suit. The civilized become savages, and J.G. Ballard depicts the stages both the building and its people go through in entertaining detail, with very tough and dry prose. I for one liked the dissonance between the calm evoked by the employed prose and the barbarity which it described, though it can lead to a reader feeling more like an observer rather than part of the experience. The central thesis of this story can be summarized with the following quote taken from the book: "In a sense life in the high-rise had begun to resemble the world outside - there were the same ruthlessness and aggression concealed within a set of polite conventions." This book doesn't have faith in humanity, it seems to feel that all we've reached so far in terms of morality will be thrown away with little to no hesitation. Doctors, architects, lawyers, pilots and hairdressers alike: we're all savages right underneath our flimsy masks of good manners. J.G. Ballard has spent some years during his youth in a Japanese prison camp, seeing people being dehumanized by their captors and their circumstances. He was an impressionable youngster when he saw what war did to people and what people brought to war. His cynicism, his narrative bordering on misanthropy, definitely finds some of its roots in those experiences. I haven't really experienced war, and I hope I never will. But this dystopia felt very real and too close for comfort even without experiences in prison camps. I usually like reading dystopias in part because their comfort lies in the fact they take place in far and distant futures, sometimes on other planets even, making use of technologies that haven't been invented yet. What they describe is very rarely my problem. But this? People raping, pillaging, vandalizing, murdering? Somehow that didn't seem too far out there. It's one of the reasons I stopped watching the news. The early pages in the book were eerily familiar in fact, and from the familiar it dragged me into a nightmare of which I felt it had become inescapable, even in reality. I myself don't live in a high-rise, but in an apartment building with five floors, along with about 15 households. My neighbors are quite nice, though those living upstairs from me can be loud when arguing or hosting mid-week parties. And there you have it already: tension. Chance encounters in elevators feel like interrogations. "Are you that guy from the 4th floor?", "Aren't you the one who put their garbage out already on Saturday?", "Do you know that family living on the first floor? They've got five kids and they never leave their quarters!", "Do you own a dog?". Luckily, everything remains civil. But the tension is undeniable. We aren't a group of neighborly friends. We barely tolerate each other. And sadly tolerance has its borders. In fact, if Tolerance were a country, it would be a tiny one, with a population seemingly eager to emigrate to Eyeforaneye with The Last Drop-travel services. A couple of months ago this message was put on the elevator mirror in my building: [image] I had taken a picture of it because I thought it was funny at the time. In a way, this shows decency. It shows civility, not only by having a rather polite written communication but also through the assumption that it was in fact a dog who did the urinating. But look at those red, bold, capitalized letters. The lack of specification whether the "it" refers to the dog or the elevator. That exclamation mark put there with so much emphasis it almost pierced the paper. The frustration that shouts from the page. The hatred for whichever dog that decided to make the elevator part of its territory, the loathing for the owner who did not clean up this demarcation. How many uncivilized pees would it take the note's author to lose it completely? While I was reading this book, I thought: not many. J.G. Ballard had made me look at society in a very skeptical manner. Polite conventions? It's all a show and there's plenty of people out there who can't wait to drop the act. This book is dark. And I actually had to catch myself to not make its conclusions my own. And then I decided, No, I don't agree with my first interpretation of this book. I took it too far. It IS a nightmare, it IS a dystopia, but it will not turn into reality in my apartment. Never. People, much like myself, enjoy being civil. It makes life more pleasant. I'd be very hard pressed to let that go. And I am convinced, I have to believe rather, that I'd hold on to that civility even in hardship and war. My faith in humanity took a beating here, but it only got bruised. My faith in humanity wasn't broken, because I have faith in myself. And I realized that expecting the worst of others never brings out the best in yourself, so I'm trusting my neighbors to stick to writing their notes and start cleaning up after their dogs as well. This book doesn't have to be read as if its scenario is inevitable. It's a warning rather, to keep ourselves in check, for our own sake and of those around us. Dogs included. I enjoyed this book, as well as the thoughts and nightmares it provoked. I'd definitely recommend reading it, but don't forget to close the door of that high-rise behind you. It's easily a 4-star complex, but you're better off not living there. ...more |
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| 4.08
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Part I: Prelude to the review Part II: The review ________________________________ Part I Prelude: An introvert walks into a bookstore I read a review on t Part I: Prelude to the review Part II: The review ________________________________ Part I Prelude: An introvert walks into a bookstore I read a review on this book today and decided I had to buy it right away. I consider myself somewhat of an introvert, even though not everyone around me agrees on that, because you know, I talk to people and can be pleasant at the same time. Convincing people there's more to the introvert-extrovert distinction than that hasn't always proven easy. I was hoping this book would prove my point, at the very least for me. I went to the Waterstones branch in Brussels, which is a ten minute walk from where I work. I had to be back in thirty minutes, giving me ten minutes at the store itself to look for the book. Yes, when I said "right away" earlier, I meant right away. Not half a day could wait. I go in the store and proceed up to the first floor to check out the non-fiction segments. I do not find the book. I put my head and neck in every possible angle, scanning the shelves from every possible perspective, to no avail. Surely, I must be looking in the wrong shelf. Maybe it's downstairs, because they have a table of bestselling non-fiction there as well, so maybe it's there. Yes! I make my way back down and I look and I find nothing. I've been in the store for at least 7 minutes now, so running out of options, I approach two people working for the store, rudely interrupting their conversation which I was trying to avoid intruding upon earlier. They inform me that the book should be there on the shelf, the one I had checked earlier. I pretend I didn't check it earlier and thank them for their kind and helpful information. I go back to the shelf with renewed confidence I would find it this time. Angles. Perspectives. Cold sweat. Alas. I return to the employees, sadly noting that my interruption seemingly meant the end to their conversation, and inquired again. The lady says it's a completely white cover (as opposed to the cover I was subconsciously looking for because of the example I had seen on Goodreads) and mentally kick myself when she escorts me to the shelf to point it out. But, to her consternation and to my relief, it isn't there. Did I check downstairs? I cautiously respond in the affirmative. She will check the computer, she's certain there are copies available. And... Computer says Yes! Victory! It's in the store, but probably still in the storage room. She asks me to wait while she goes to fetch it. I'm already running out of time (I had ran out of time four minutes prior, to be exact), but quietly thank her for her enthusiasm in helping me. She returns five minutes later, visibly having gone through physical efforts to help me out. The copy she hands me is damaged, dirty and it has a sticker on it which I know won't be removed without further damage. In short: the kind of book I avoid buying in all circumstances. I smile, I thank her, and buy the book. Now I'm here, late at work, and with a brand-new dirty damaged book beside me. Yes, this book is proving I'm introverted alright. Yay me. Or maybe I'm confusing lack of being assertive with introversion. Whatever the case, this book will teach. It has already begun doing so, in any case. ________________________________ Part II Review of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking We're amazing and we know it and we don't clap our hands. Before I started reading this book, I was hoping it would do two things: 1. tell me what I wanted to hear 2. tell me what I needed to hear. It gets three stars because it told me what I wanted to hear. This book is the voice of those who are disinclined to use theirs: the introverts. It puts the introverts under a shower of compliments, in the kind of spotlight we're comfortable in: a generous ode that we can absorb from the comfort of our own cozy corner in our own cozy homes, telling us we have a value in this society. This may seem like a ridiculous reason to give stars to a book, but I think it's a good thing that someone gave attention to a group of people who are not used to, and not always comfortable with, getting so much positive feedback. I can imagine it being a helpful outstretched hand to those introverts who have felt misunderstood, out of place or underappreciated. A hand which shows that what they have been struggling with wasn't just inside their mind. It's a fact that society, being largely built on communication and intense interaction, can seem unfit for those who prefer the thinking-mode and absence of interaction most of the time. So on a personal level, this book definitely can have its value. I say "can" and am basing my rating on this potential, though for me personally it wasn't such an eye-opener. I think on some level I've always been very secure about my introversion, despite some practical problems as described in the prelude. In a way I find it funny to think about myself operating like that. I surprise myself in these moments, because before those moments I have this sensible and ideal scenario playing out in my mind and after those moments I'm this rational guy being perfectly capable of seeing how ridiculous I was. But that doesn't prevent me from being ridiculous in the moment. Another reason why this book didn't always work for me on the personal level is because it went too far with the compliments. Consider the following excerpt: "If you're an introvert, find your flow by using your gifts. You have the power of persistence, the tenacity to solve complex problems, and the clear-sightedness to avoid pitfalls that trip others up. You enjoy relative freedom from the temptations of superficial prizes like money and status. Indeed, your biggest challenge may be to fully harness your strenghts. You may be so busy trying to appear like a zestful, reward-sensitive extrovert that you undervalue your own talents, or feel underestimated by those around you. But when you're focused on a project that you care about, you'll probably find that your energy is boundless. So stay true to your own nature." At that point I had a little introverted vomit. It's not an all-together bad book, but segments like these really bring it down for me. Segments like the above read like a cheap horoscope-zodiac segment at the end of some teenage magazine. There's only so much of the "what I want to hear" that I can take before I start wondering if there's any truth to it. On a societal level, I don't think this book is as important as it has been made out to be. Introverts indeed consist of a big part of society and thus have helped form it. I'm of the belief that society can't progress by itself. Nothing can be "expected" from society. Society shouldn't cater to any particular group, it's the particular groups that have to find or fight for their place and evolve themselves, in turn engendering progress in society. I think introverts have done a very fine job of this before this book came around, and some anecdotes in this book are proof of that. Introverts have thrived in our world, and will continue to do so. Should education systems be reformed to cater to us? Should work environments do the same? I'm not convinced. Proposals like that make the introvert look like an easily damaged little flower, crushed under the weight of these rigid systems, while I think it's exactly these rigid systems that allow introverts to identify themselves as such. So if the point of this book was patting the introvert on the shoulder to say "You're amazing", it does that well. But to go from there to "You need a society that takes better care of you" is a leap I had difficulties in going along with. There are some practical pointers for introverts, showing how, when or if we should change our behavior to function well in society or, more importantly, in personal relationships with friends, family and partners. The "need to hear"-portion of the book, so to speak. I think most of the solutions offered have been found instinctively by introverts around the world, but I found it nice to hear there's actually a word for "restorative niches". Remembering my long bathroom brakes when I worked in an open office space has become a little less awkward. Getting more familiar with these concepts definitely makes it a lot easier to give this further thought and find ways forward in my sphere of relations. An important problem I have with the book is its premise: "the introvert/extrovert divide is the most fundamental dimension of personality". Susan Cain makes it sound like a truism. Maybe it is true, yes. But I have to say "maybe" because I don't feel a premise this crucial has been sufficiently backed up. The author tries to do so, referring to experiments and studies where 28% of a group consisting of people possessing an amygdala that is 11% larger than average were 62% more inclined to respond in such and such a way to such and such incentives. The academic back-up felt like a whole lot of cherrypicking. But all those cherries put together did give the impression that they're the only fruit available, giving the idea that the extrovert/introvert divide is indeed inescapable. This leads me to anoher problem: the divide between introverts and extroverts created by the narration itself. It's true, the author sometimes goes out of her way to compliment extroverts as well, mentioning some of their strengths, but that's just the thing: she has to go out of her way to do it. It shows all the more clearly that the natural discourse, through offhand claims and implicit associations, presents the extroverts as ... "the others". And if you picture them as the others, naturally all compliments given to introverts can be read as affronts to the extroverts. I can easily imagine some of the examples and assertions leaving a sour taste of any extrovert's mouth reading this book. (at least when these mouths aren't too busy blabbering about the weather ;-) ) Should I hold all this against this book specifically? Truth is I have a problem with most non-fiction books (especially self-help) for this reason: they are written to make a point. A very specific point that they keep getting back to, ad nauseam. The more you hit a nail on the head, the less there's left to see of its point. At least for me. Chesterton says it a lot better: “People wonder why the novel is the most popular form of literature; people wonder why it is read more than books of science or books of metaphysics. The reason is very simple; it is merely that the novel is more true than they are.” ― G.K. Chesterton I felt this was true in this case as well. I showed "Quiet" more patience because the topic is something I really care about and gave a lot of thought to, but in the end it's Chesterton's way of thinking that prevailed in my experience of this book. That said, the three stars are definitely deserved for all the good this book has done for the introverts, in recognizing that other introverts are going through the same thing and in valueing themselves. I just wished it would have described a little less of what we wanted to hear, and would have done much more of what we needed to hear. But maybe we don't "need" to hear all that much, anyway. We're amazing and we know it and we don't clap our hands. ...more |
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Jan 30, 2016
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Feb 07, 2016
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Jan 29, 2016
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| 1780220421
| 9781780220420
| 1780220421
| 4.02
| 102,561
| Jan 1977
| Jan 01, 2012
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it was amazing
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What a great book. I had read other works by Dick (Blade Runner and Flow my Tears, The Policeman Said), which were both good, pleasant reads, nice and
What a great book. I had read other works by Dick (Blade Runner and Flow my Tears, The Policeman Said), which were both good, pleasant reads, nice and compact. Nothing too heavy, not overly deep, but I could sense there was more to this author than that. This book has confirmed my suspicions and exceeded my expectations, and so Philip K. Dick has managed to take me by surprise even when I was expecting to be surprised by this author at some point. Before reading this book, I had no idea what I was getting into. I thought this would be some dystopian novel, where drugs controls people and the drugs is controlled by the people who are supposed to be taking care of the people. Brave New World kind of thing. But "A Scanner Darkly" is much more personal, and feels much more profound as a result. It's not describing the collapse of a society but the collapse of a mind. Dick allowed me a tour in the minds of drug users in such a convincing way that if I would ever have had the desire to try hard drugs as an experiment, this book would have given me my fix. He is a safari guide with scars of lion attacks on his back, an eye missing and a sad look in the one remaining. In essence, a guide who knows and feels what he's talking about. And it shows. But despite the weight of this heavy topic, the author finds a balance between the gay and the sad, the asides and the profound, the thinking and the feeling, the despair and the hope. "A Scanner Darkly" lures you in with truly funny stories, and slowly shows the sadness behind them. This book is about drugs, this book is drugs. But only in the good way. I will need to return to this book or it's going to be very cold in Turkey. A must-read for anyone, everyone, and those inbetween and outside of those two. It also made me spin my own little fantasy reel, as follows below... __ I play a fantasy number in my head. I'm walking down a sunny street, with the hot summerheat beating down on me. People are hustling and bustling all around me, there's noise, NOISE, noise, make it stop. I'm being pushed and shoved down a street I don't want to be in to a place I don't want to go to, and I get angry looks. The stares are icy cold but the sun keeps beating and heating me, burning me up. In the corner of my eye, I see my salvation. A small alleyway, a neon-lit sign, "A Scanner Darkly", flash flash, illuminating the cool shadows. I'm going in, I think. It's what I should do, I know. Under the sign there's an open door, so getting in is easy. All I need is a little taste for adventure and one more angry look down from main street. Here I go. I'm in a long hallway. I hear laughter all around me, but there's nobody around, nobody I can see anyway, just voices of merriment. The voices feel real, and generous and sincere. I go further, intrigued, looking for the source of all this joy. The hallway is nice and cool, the beating sun is already half-forgotten. I keep walking, losing myself in a train of thought. I'm going left. Straight ahead. Left again. This tunnel is taking me places, I know it. I'm on to something here! A solution is around the corner, every passage gets me to thinking and then I reach a decision and take a corner and every corner takes me into a new direction and I have to start over again but not really. Returning is not an option, I'm starting to forget where I'm coming from, which way I went, but the solution is nearer to the end than to the beginning anyway so I have to keep on going and be patient, persevere, but the thought tunnels are starting to wear me down. They're not cool anymore. But cold. Relief I see an intersection with another passageway, running to my left and running to my right. I feel the relief more than see it, as a warm breeze wafts through it, through my hairs, through my fingers. This is passion and it feels good. There's bars that prevent me from going in, the only way I can go is straight ahead. Too much of this hot air would burn me anyway, the bars protect me. Even if I wanted to go in I couldn't, so after enjoying a bit of warmth, I find myself walking further through my tunnels of thought, leaving behind the warmth of the passion passageway, looking for a little laugh, an answer maybe, to any question, take a pick, then take a another turn around another corner. This goes on and on for I don't know how long until I reach a small room which I imagine is in the middle of all these tunnels. I know what it is. Insanity. A lonely, dark and cold and all other kinds of bad place, surrounded by tunnels of reasons and reasoning, circular and colliding. There's a chair in the middle of the room where I could rest, but no, I can't sit down, I'm too scared. Too scared it's too late. I turn around, run run run back out. Tap tap tap through the tunnels. Flick flick flick through the pages. They burn my fingers and soothe my soul. Light. A flower in a shoe. Hope. Upon leaving the tunnel system, back into the alleyway, I fish some stars out of my pocket. If you throw them high enough, they can warm up planets and souls. One, two, three, four, five. I throw them in the tunnels I hold so dear, hoping they bring warmth to the laughter and light to the questions. Thank you, "A Scanner Darkly", for having me as your guest. ...more |
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Nov 13, 2015
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Nov 20, 2015
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Nov 13, 2015
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| 1409155838
| 9781409155836
| 1409155838
| 3.93
| 4,712
| 1939
| Jun 19, 2014
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liked it
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This review consists of two parts: Part I: A Study of Ratings musings that may not interest (potential) readers of this book Part II: In pursuit of the R This review consists of two parts: Part I: A Study of Ratings musings that may not interest (potential) readers of this book Part II: In pursuit of the Rogue Male Rating the book review ___________ Part I: A Study of Ratings Goodreads Ratings, such a strange species, aren't they? We've all seen them, we all know them, we've all had some in our care, but still they retain a certain air of mystery. Their purpose: categorisation. Their paradox: their growing population becomes ever more complex and Ratings themselves become difficult to categorise. This study is part of an effort to more closely examine these interesting creatures. The first distinction to be made is the one between domesticated Ratings and wild Ratings. Emphasis in this study will be put on the latter because of the Researcher's preference, but a word should perhaps be written on the domesticated creatures for the sake of completeness. A domesticated Rating is very much like livestock: bred and taken care of by the Reader. The Reader has a field of preconceptions and a constant stream of public opinion feeding into these crops, which in turn are the main form of nourishment of the domesticated Rating. They are much less distinct than their wild counterparts, mainly due to inbreeding and an unvaried diet. These Ratings serve perfectly well for the Reader who considers them as a means. They are used to accompany those books that either don't have any wild Ratings in them or for books which have Ratings living in them that are simply too hard to find for a particular Reader. Like putting cows in a forest. The Researcher sees merit in these breeding programs, but has observed there is more to the wonderful world of Ratings. The Researcher considers these magnificent creatures not as a means, but as a treasure to be found. Most books don't need mass-produced Ratings to accompany them, for they hold the beautiful beasts within themselves. These are the wild Ratings, and hunting for them, luring them and catching them is what this Researcher claims the Goodreads grounds are really for. So let us consider these wild Ratings for a moment. First, you have the Ratings that, though wild, are easy to find. In some books, wild Ratings will just jump right at you. Consider the following examples: Some Ratings will come at you through their excellence and their abundance of stars and colours, showing their worth with so much conviction they are inescapable throughout the entire reading of the book. You know that what you've got on your hands is a prize specimen, and the specimen itself is intent on flaunting its qualities every chance it gets. These are instances where the Reader doesn't catch the Rating. The Rating catches him. Other Ratings draw attention to themselves through their extreme inferiority. Their stench pervades every word and it doesn't take a reader long to locate them crawling close to earth, to pick them up by the neck and expose them for all to see. Horrid creatures who give themselves away like a huge rotten egg in a delicate rose garden. It's a one-star-stinker. The Reader catches the smell and it never lets him go. Other Ratings come at you through their perfectly likable character. The Reader extends a hand and the Rating comes to sniff at it, though sometimes with hesitation. These Ratings can be a bit more elusive, so the moment a Reader tries to hold on to them they might try to slip away. Others stay and are perfectly pleased to hang around long enough for the Reader to point out their finer details. These creatures don't grip the Reader and neither does the Reader hold on too firmly to them, but nevertheless a clear and definite moment can be shared with these soft natured Ratings. But some Ratings are far more elusive than those mentioned above. There are several tricks these Ratings employ in order not to be found: One way for them is to hide away in a huge book, preferably of a technical, experimental nature to make access for the Reader into their habitat more difficult. Huge sentences and uncommon words are the trees in which they hide. These creatures are mostly left alone. Sometimes a domesticated Rating is thrown into their dense Woods, but it never survives for long and is easily shot down by the experienced Readers stalking these lands, who are out to find the real deal. Whenever a Reader returns to Goodreads with one of those specimens, he is considered a Hero. Banquets and statues will be raised in his honour. But some Ratings don't need big books to hide in. They don't need to hide themselves, because they are experts in hiding their Rating character. The Reader can stumble upon one early on in a book and put it in his bag and carry on, only to find later on, upon checking the bag, the creature has changed its appearance completely. What was once a smelly creature of boils and warts suddenly transformed into a delicate creature that is soft to the touch, emitting scents of fresh springs and green fields. Still later it changes into a grey stone, inanimate, with no specific traits. At that point the Reader can only count himself lucky to have it in the bag already, for in this rocky manifestation they can be particularly hard to find in the wild. These are the dangerous Shapeshifting Ratings. They should be approached with extreme caution, for Readers have been found losing their senses or even worse, their Reviews, over these sly creatures. The Researcher identified three methods to deal with the Shapeshifting Ratings: * You let them go. You decide to leave the book be without a Rating, or to bring in a domesticated one to ease the mind. * You kill them during a certain phase of their Shapeshifting, freezing them in their tracks and forever solidifying them into the shape they last chose, at the expense of their richness of character but with the award of having caught a clear Rating. This requires harsh decision taking on the part of the Reader. The dead Rating will in these cases tell more about the Reader rather than the book it lived in. * You observe the Rating patiently and watch it transform, taking note of each transformation and what caused it. This is a very time intensive process and the resulting Review may not be helpful to fellow Readers, nor entertaining., since these observations tend to be all over the place. The Researcher thinks this the best option, out of love for the creatures, but recognises the practical problems of keeping a live Shapeshifting Rating in the less than flexible confines of the Review. Of course, this is all theory. The Researcher therefore decided to attach an addendum to this study, in which he tries to describe his hunt for the Rogue Male Rating. A case study into the life, and death, of a Shapeshifting Rating that was particularly hard to pin down. _______________________________ Part II: In pursuit of the Rogue Male Rating This book is marketed as "simply the best escape and pursuit story yet written", and if I hold it against that light, the outlines of a two-star Rating become clearly visible. I started reading this book with the idea that this would be a quick, exciting read. A little snack in between bigger volumes. In the end it took more than a week to finish it. What happened? The first thing that happened is that this book was published in 1939. That's close to a century ago. And sadly not all of its elements are as timeless as you would expect an escape and pursuit story to be. I simply could not identify myself with the protagonist, and the settings in which he found himself were not painted vividly for me. 1939 is when people knew their everyday stuff it seems. A bush was not simply a bush. A bush had a name. Gorse, sloe and any other name that would make me reach for the dictionary and break immersion, only to find out it's all a bush or a tree or some agricultural tool that really wasn't worth the effort. Is the book to be blamed for that, or is it my limited vocabulary? Who cares, this is my Rating-hunt, blame doesn't come into it. In describing the settings and travels the author used many words that were completely foreign to me, all in order to refer to perfectly mundane and every day things, to such an extent that I felt lost. In 1939 England, a roof is no longer a roof, but this alien thing consisting of slates, gables and copings. The main character is on the run, I get that, but that shouldn't stand in the way of the reader getting him. The intense descriptions made me feel like one of his pursuers, confused and at a loss, during most of the beginning of the book. When the first person narrator (who remains nameless) describes his movements in and out of the subway stations, I found it impossible to follow. This could lead one to wonder if that effect was intentional, but I decided it wasn't. Or that even if it was, it wasn't a nice reading experience. The main problem I had was exactly this overall reading experience: this book doesn't really feel like a story. It's more of an essay. The author sat down and thought through the following hypothesis: "I am forced to go on the run." Questions: "Where would I run to? Where would I stay and hide? What would I do? Where would I go? How would I survive on my own?". The ideas that he comes up with in answering these questions are very ingenious: covering tracks, digging holes, making weapons and showing the importance of patience and endurance and getting along with cats, but still the scientific hypothesis always shines through. The story, meant for giving this academic approach a bit of flesh, blood and warmth, can't quite cover up a narrative that is rather wooden or metallic at best. But in the end, despite the finding of the two-star specimen earlier on, I found a three-star Rating in my bag. It looked nice and friendly, but knowing it to be a Shapeshifter Rating and not wanting to lose my mind, I killed it dead and its three stars are now hanging above this review like a deer's antlers above a fireplace. Two stars are for the ingenious solutions Geoffrey Household proposed for those on the run, albeit in a rather dry fashion. One extra star is for the insights into what moves people, what motivates them. When pursuer confronts the pursued, a conversation takes place that, accompanied with a strong inner monologue, carries important philosophical messages and casts a whole new light on the story. A little twist in the narrative that endows a story that was wooden with a pulse. A pulse of which I would have hoped it had been more perceptible, but a pulse nonetheless. On a re-read I wouldn't be surprised to find more traces of this philosophical aspect, on what it means to be alone, on what it means to lose who you love, what it means to have an identity, lose it and find a new one, and other such important questions. Just thinking about it makes the Rating shift through its five spectra all over again. But right now I can't be bothered with that. I'm just glad with another Rating in the bag and over the fireplace. Three stars and that's it. The only advice I can give, in summary, is not to approach this as an escape and pursuit story. It's not exciting enough to deliver on that, but don't let that lead you to underestimate this book: it carries a rich message. But like its protagonist, it's a rogue. Catching it might prove bothersome. ...more |
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Mar 06, 2016
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Mar 14, 2016
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Sep 01, 2014
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| 0440180295
| 9780440180296
| 0440180295
| 4.10
| 1,375,086
| Mar 31, 1969
| Dec 1991
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it was amazing
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Listen: This reviewer is stuck in time. He is unable to escape the narrow confines of the invisible, intangible machinery mercilessly directing his lif Listen: This reviewer is stuck in time. He is unable to escape the narrow confines of the invisible, intangible machinery mercilessly directing his life from a beginning towards an end. The walls surrounding him are dotted with windows looking out on darkened memories and foggy expectations, easing the sense of claustrophobia but offering no way out. The ceiling is crushing down on this man while he paces frantically through other people's lives and memories in hopes of shaping his own and forgetting the enormity of oblivion looming above his head. He reads book after book after book. He reads Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. He gets immersed, he gets lost in the pages. He smiles. He wonders. He tumbles. He laughs a laugh that seems to come from somewhere deep within him, telling him that everything is beautiful. A laugh that shoots up from a dark place and illuminates the universe, bathing it in colour, showing all the hidden threads in a fraction of a second. The man is consoled, recognizing that fraction as an eternity. He closes the book and looks around him. The space got bigger, the windows show a clearer picture. He sees his situation with a new light emanating from his own eyes and, looking up, notices the oppressive ceiling is no longer there. It made way for the sky, sometimes blue, sometimes painted with stars and clouds. He ruminates on this new canvas for his thoughts as a bird flies by and calls to him. Poo-tee-weet. ...more |
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Aug 13, 2016
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Aug 19, 2016
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Aug 05, 2014
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 014118812X
| 9780141188126
| 014118812X
| 3.90
| 6,015
| 1915
| Feb 27, 2007
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really liked it
| The Metaphormosis - a tiny tale The field lay sparkling in the sun. The cold night had covered it with a white blanket which the grass was now relu The Metaphormosis - a tiny tale The field lay sparkling in the sun. The cold night had covered it with a white blanket which the grass was now reluctant to shed. The distant sun did not mind the ground’s slumber. It gazed benevolently down to the field and saw shimmers of its big bright self reflected in the small flakes that had bundled together into an untouched canvas of astonishing whiteness. Everything was still. Birds flew over in silence, forest creatures stayed under the trees and dared not approach the beauty that presently lay beyond the shadowy safety offered by the canopy. The canvas would not be written upon, not today, for nature itself was too proud of what it had created overnight. The sun sent its rays down to the snow, not to make it melt, but to let it dance in sunshine. Everything was still, everything was beautiful. Evening came and the dance grew less abundant, slowly fading to a twinkling that would last through the night and form a perfect pair with the starry sky. The next morning she woke up with a startle. A coldness was touching her back and was making a sound that seemed very alien to her. In fact, the waking up itself felt very strange. She didn’t remember doing that before. All she knew was that she was magnificent. She turned around and found a man lying beside her, snoring. His breath was cold, his features blank. She didn’t recognize him, but she was unafraid. Curious in fact. Gently, she nudged him awake and when he opened his eyes she saw a bright sparkle that made her fall in love instantly. It was a strange feeling, even stranger than waking up had been. It filled her with warmth and all the questions she felt but didn’t know the words for evaporated into nothingness. She understood everything there was to understand and smiled down at the beautiful eyes gazing up at her. He didn’t know where he was. He had been dreaming, but could not remember what about exactly. He had been moving, there were melodious sounds, and a lot of light. A dream of dancing, he guessed, even though he had no idea what that was. All that dreamily moving about did make him feel sore and stiff upon waking up and he found himself unable to move. He definitely would have liked to move. There was a beautiful woman in his bed, looking with warm and loving eyes into his face. The only thing he could do however was look back in wonder and hope the stiffness would melt away. Doubts began to creep up on her. Why didn’t the man with those loving eyes do something? Why was he just lying there? Why did he feel so cold? She frowned, at least she thought that’s what she was doing, and decided to get up and get some distance from the cold presence. A resplendent flicker of light caught her eye. It came from a surface right next to the bed and as she approached it the light emanating from it became brighter. It wasn’t until she was standing right in front of this mysterious manifestation that she saw and felt how magnificent it was. A light, an energy, full of warmth and full of life. He saw her move out of bed, towards something that looked like a lake. The surface, framed in finely carved wood, was reflecting the woman in all her glory. Only, the lake stood vertically, which was rather unusual for lakes, and for some reason the fluid quality of the water had gone, making it stay completely fixed within its frame . A frozen lake then, only without the misty haze that normally came with frost. While his thoughts ran wild on the nature of what he was looking at, he remained motionless, continuously amazed. The woman felt the cold stare between her shoulder blades. As she had been basking in warmth she found herself all the more shocked when she turned around to see that the man was still just lying there, eyes cold. Why didn’t he return the warmth she was so generously giving? Why didn’t he come alive at the touch of her gentle fingers? Why was the only thing that he could do just look? Yes, there was that sparkle. That beautiful twinkle in his eyes whenever she looked at him. But surely she deserved more than that? Surely her body deserved more than to be treated with an icy touch and a cold breath? A hot fury rose from deep within her. She wouldn’t let this man vanquish her, make her doubt herself, make her lose her radiant energy! She would give him more than he deserved, showing him and herself what she is capable of. She would shake him, shake him awake, shake him into giving her what she deserved. She approached the bed, intent on loving without remorse, and made the room explode with light. The man, transfixed, lay still, saw the bright shape approach, felt anger in its warmth and grew more terrified with every step she took. He could not run, nor hide, so he did the only thing he was capable of. He closed his eyes, hoping it would all be over soon. Another day came and the blanket of white was gone. Where there was dancing only two days ago, there was now black mud. Where there was a blue sky, clouds shrouded the sun in mourning and isolation. Birds landed and picked away at the field, seeds were swallowed and worms were too slow to escape the hungry beaks. The forest animals came out and played around in the grayness of morning. They trampled little mounds of earth and scared away the gluttonous birds. Within all that movement there lay a couple of seeds in waiting. Waiting for this day’s glum spectacle to be over. Waiting to be met by the sun’s nourishing gaze. Waiting to once again be the flowery patch of colors and smells they were before the blanket came. Their time would come, and it would come soon. They knew it would, as the animals returned to their forest, the birds flew back to the sky and the clouds receded to make way for a night full of stars and promises. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Jul 16, 2014
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Paperback
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| 0753518163
| 9780753518168
| 0753518163
| 3.94
| 126,846
| 1971
| Apr 02, 2009
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really liked it
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Thank you for registering to BarBud! Ever wandered into a bar, hoping to meet a fellow to philosophize with deep into the night, only to find yourself Thank you for registering to BarBud! Ever wandered into a bar, hoping to meet a fellow to philosophize with deep into the night, only to find yourself alone with a student bartender who simply doesn't have it in him yet? Ever wanted to approach that old lonely drunk staring into his glass, so deeply lost in his thoughts that you dare not disturb him? Ever wanted to talk nonsense with a sleazy, voluptuous barfly, laugh and kiss and stroke and fuck and drink and drink and fuck and smoke and drink and sleep and drink, but found no such willing individual during your outings? Can't find someone with whom to share the drink Billy Joel called loneliness? The times they are a-changing! BarBud is here to help. Based on your preferences, we will find the perfect selection of bar buddies for you, right in your neighbourhood. Get yourself your favorite drink and let's get crackin'. Gender preference: Irrelevant Motivation: The romantic tension that comes with meeting a strange lady in a bar will potentially crowd out any other thoughts in my mind, effectively reducing my conversational skills and potential for philosophical questing, but if she doesn't mind me just paying for her drinks and hearing her out and not have any of the romantic stuff happen that's fine by me. Also, my girlfriend is watching over my shoulder as I'm filling out this form. Just to make clear that sad, dirty old men are just as welcome! Political views: No strong ones Motivation: I aim to find someone to get along with, not someone who bores and aggravates me all at once. Favorite drink: Irrelevant Motivation: I'll drink anything, as long as it's much of it! Interests: Women, the little things, personal anecdotes Motivation: I like hearing about a guy's romantic conquests. Even when they're exaggerated and unbelievable, it's nice to compare notes or just be happy for the guy. By the little things I mean the stuff that's easy to hide but shouldn't be. Little physical ailments, little frustrations, little reasons to smile, little reasons to complain, the little things that fill a day and make a person. And personal anecdotes to add color and context to the BarBud. I want to know where he works, where he sleeps, his favorite swearwords used to coat around his soft nature. I want him to complain in a way that makes me laugh. I want to see his eyes glaze over with sadness and disappointment. I want him to regale me with stories of the strange people he's met in his life, the people who made him happy, who made him sad, who brought out his kindness and generous spirit, who made him violent and who made him despair. I want to hear about his bad days at work and his good days in the bedroom. I want to get to know my BarBud, the good and the really bad. I want to be the guy who understands him, pats him on the back, reassure him he's a good bloke no matter what the people in corner of the bar are saying about him and buy him a couple of drinks. Level happiness: Low - Medium low Motivation: I can see happy people on TV and Facebook all the time. Their stories mostly sound all the same. I think there's a famous book that starts with that kind of wisdom. My BarBud should be able to tell me which one, because I forget these things. Level of education: Irrelevant Motivation: We'll be meeting in a bar, not some fancy shmancy conference, so that "the university of life" stuff should do. Only my BarBud shouldn't mention that cliché or I'll kick him in the teeth and ask him to thank me for a free lesson. Submit Calculating... We have found (1) match! Charles Bukowski, also known as Henry Chinaski. Do not disturb before 5pm. He used to be spotted in several bars, around the post office, at the racetrack or in his moldy appartment, but since he's dead now we recommend looking for him at the library. In fact, we highly recommend it. Be sure to bring him with you on your next visit to the bar, it's where he truly shines. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Sep 25, 2017
Jul 23, 2014
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Sep 27, 2017
Jul 25, 2014
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Aug 13, 2013
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| 4.29
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really liked it
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Sep 26, 2017
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Sep 12, 2017
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| 3.99
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really liked it
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May 29, 2017
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May 19, 2017
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| 3.74
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really liked it
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Mar 20, 2017
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Mar 18, 2017
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| 4.01
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it was amazing
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Oct 21, 2016
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Oct 21, 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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| 4.31
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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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| 4.50
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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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| 4.13
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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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| 3.86
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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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| 3.70
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not set
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Mar 31, 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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| 4.25
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not set
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Mar 10, 2016
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| 3.61
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really liked it
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Feb 12, 2016
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Feb 08, 2016
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| 4.08
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liked it
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Feb 07, 2016
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Jan 29, 2016
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| 4.02
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it was amazing
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Nov 20, 2015
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Nov 13, 2015
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| 3.93
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liked it
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Mar 14, 2016
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Sep 01, 2014
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| 4.10
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it was amazing
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Aug 19, 2016
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Aug 05, 2014
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| 3.90
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really liked it
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not set
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Jul 16, 2014
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| 3.94
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really liked it
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Sep 27, 2017
Jul 25, 2014
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Aug 13, 2013
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