Ok let me just say that I went into this with such high expectation, that no matter how good it could have have I would still be disappointing! And what exactly went wrong I don't know.
Not a slow start they are making their fist con within the first 30 pages, so exciting, right.
The writing? right on. Completely teleported to that separate time and space.
Plot, can't ask for more.
So what exactly did go wrong, first things first this is "The Lies Of Locke Lamora" and what was it about? yes, the lies of locke lamora, the entire story was about him, his lies and his excellent conning skills, everyone and everything else was so secondary that I just skimmed at parts looking for another human, he is so great and clever that a 540 pages telling his "ADVENTURES" was too much, we know already he is a master mind we get it.
And another thing is with the setting, half of those 540 pages adventures at least were describing the city, its bridges and lights and shark fights? tsk.
"You've already had your two brandies for the night, darling; your mother will murder me if I let you have another. Ask one of the men to get you a beer."
SHE'S SEVEN YEARS OLD. SEVEN.
In 1994, A beautiful girl named Natasha, sat on the floor, reading the definition of life through her sister's Russian medical textbook, Life: a constellation of vital phenomena-organization, irritability, movement, growth, reproduction, adaptation.
I picked this up without reading any synopsis or anything, simply seduced by that title. I didn't know it was a historical fiction or that i was a historical fiction in Chechnya. Had I known I would have expected another story by Khaled Elhusseny and it wasn't, it was much more elegant than anything he would have written, missing that sad dull damp depression that was his main theme, but with the same desperation in it, and plenty of humor. And it's a debut novel I'll definitely be looking out for Marra in the future.
Taken place within 5 days from the abduction of Dokka, and his friend's effort to keep Havaa, Dokka's 8 year old girl safe. Those 5 days told the story of the last 10 years in the life of a small Chechen village and one number 6 hospital. It told history and future predictions, memories and hopes, secret desires and sacrifices of every single characters as well as some objects, not leaving even a single individual without adding a slice of depth and reality to their characters. In the most romantic reflective way possible with everyone's cross path in each other's tales. With great writing and throwing in some gorgeous prose every now and then just to remind you of the powerful voice, telling the story.
"We are allowed to do that, are we not Mabel? To invent our own endings and choose joy over sorrow?”
If you're looking for plot twists, strong magical realism theme, then The Snow Child is definitely not what to go for, the ending was even underwhelming and messy and sadly even a little anticipated. Now all of this out of the way lets take a moment to appreciate the great, rich, slowly brewing and absolutely gorgeous writing. Eowyn Ivey has taken those two stereotypical characters, even put them in the solitude in a cabin, In Alaska, and still managed to make Jack and Mabel surprise us and then some. Their pain, the unanswered wishes, their loneliness and separation. The way you feel the snow falling and see the colors of the sky, all the nature (and oh the husky and the furs and foxes *cuddles*) and beauty and hardships of being away from civilization and the 1920s. They are old but some two tough cookies though (but I would have really liked it if I wasn't reminded of their age or how old they are every other page, a little subtlety my lovely!!).
“It was beautiful, Mabel knew, but it was a beauty that ripped you open and scored you clean so that you were left helpless and exposed, if you lived at all.”
And then the fairy tail takes place, the snow child materializes and becomes the change that takes their hands and their old fingers interlace and all the space starts to vanish. The girl comes and goes, but the regrets and the mourning and the sadness never really goes away. The girl comes and goes, and sometimes we are left with the impression that she never really existed in the first place. Her tracks were never more the delicate prints in the snow, a simple mirage, a hallucination that emerged from their deepest desires (but I still think mass hallucinations are a bit impractical since there is no way they'd all have the same ones).
“In my old age, I see that life is often more fantastic and terrible than stories we believed as children, and that perhaps there is no harm in finding magic among the trees.”
A COUPLE of weeks ago, I saw a stranger crying in public. I was in Brooklyn’s Fort Greene neighborhood, waiting to meet a friend for breakfast. I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early and was sitting on the bench outside, scrolling through my contact list. A girl, maybe 15 years old, was sitting on the bench opposite me, crying into her phone. I heard her say, “I know, I know, I know” over and over.
What did she know? Had she done something wrong? Was she being comforted? And then she said, “Mama, I know,” and the tears came harder.
What was her mother telling her? Never to stay out all night again? That everybody fails? Is it possible that no one was on the other end of the call, and that the girl was merely rehearsing a difficult conversation?
“Mama, I know,” she said, and hung up, placing her phone on her lap.
I was faced with a choice: I could interject myself into her life, or I could respect the boundaries between us. Intervening might make her feel worse, or be inappropriate. But then, it might ease her pain, or be helpful in some straightforward logistical way. An affluent neighborhood at the beginning of the day is not the same as a dangerous one as night is falling. And I was me, and not someone else. There was a lot of human computing to be done.
It is harder to intervene than not to, but it is vastly harder to choose to do either than to retreat into the scrolling names of one’s contact list, or whatever one’s favorite iDistraction happens to be. Technology celebrates connectedness, but encourages retreat. The phone didn’t make me avoid the human connection, but it did make ignoring her easier in that moment, and more likely, by comfortably encouraging me to forget my choice to do so. My daily use of technological communication has been shaping me into someone more likely to forget others. The flow of water carves rock, a little bit at a time. And our personhood is carved, too, by the flow of our habits.
Psychologists who study empathy and compassion are finding that unlike our almost instantaneous responses to physical pain, it takes time for the brain to comprehend the psychological and moral dimensions of a situation. The more distracted we become, and the more emphasis we place on speed at the expense of depth, the less likely and able we are to care.<
Something about the film`s darkness made me wonder if I would- as If in witnessing such things I was irrevocably breaking myself in (or just breaking myself), arriving at an understanding about humanity so dark, so deep down inside my own soul, I could never go back the way I was before.... This was, in Cordovite speak,to slaughter the lamb, get rid of you meek, fearful self, thereby freeing yourself from the restrictions imposed on you by friends , family and society at large.
When you working, you stayed at The Peak. You ate your meals there, you were allowed no contact with the outside world. You turned your life over to him, handing him the keys to your kingdom. That meant your mind as much as your body. Tou showed up on that first day of production, ignorant and blind. You knew nothing about the film, or who your character was, or really anything at all except your life as you'd know it was over... When you finally returned to our life after working with Corodova, it was as if all colors had been turned up in your eyes. The reds were redder. Blacks blacker. You felt thing profoundly, as if your heart had grown giant and tender and swollen.
I had to make up a word to describe the raw epicness of this.
Consider me a new fan of high fantasy from here on to the end of times!!
The Final Empire, a place where ash fall from the sky. Everything is covered in soot and dirt but the nobility, who enslave the skaa. Life beneath the rule of a sadistic god. Life beneath the sun gone red. A thieving crew, in an idiotic plan hopes to change things and topple the empire with wits and Allomancy.
Packed with internal contemplations and lengthy moralistic ramblings.
A deep, dark lake. And ... blackness. The Deepness. A chaotic thing of destruction.
What is money? A physical representation of the abstract concept of effort.
Warning, This book has a wrenching effects,will cause shudders and goosebumps.
It is safe to say that I've read this book multiple times, not that I read it over and over, but more because I found myself stopping at almost every passage and rereading it from the start and rereading it and so on. Every sentence was heaven and every line a rich quote.
I'm a sucker for:
1) Eloquent, simple but deep writing.
2) Coming of age stories.
3) Innovative point of views.
4) Various stories that cross path, make deep impacts without too much overlapping.
And yes of course all there.
Consists of various stories, around the center 'masterpiece' of the two boys kissing. A 32 hours and 10 secs kiss to break a world record. Every story is something we've heard before. The bullied, the lost soul, the new relationship, the one year old relationship and one that ended a while back. But man, oh man David puts it in such a unique way that astonished and impressed. Smooth transitions without any chapters or barriers between the stories.
All that aside, the narrating is what made it so well put together and polished the stories. That voice of experience and suffering from dead boys, dead gay boys, dead gay boys with HIV. The way they cheered and advised and held their breath at moments that mattered and their attempts to help, as much as ghosts can help the living.
We were once the ones who were living, and then we were the ones who were dying. We sewed ourselves, a thread`s width, into your history.... This is how we understand. We wore your flaws. We wore your fears. We made your mistakes.
First thing that comes to my mind about HIV is a new movie I always wanted to see about a poor woman with the disease suffering because she has to go another operation and no doctor is agreeing to performing it so she goes on a TV show to try and raise money so she could travel to have it abroad. And of course I didn't watch the movie but I only always catch the last scene where she looks straight into the camera and says: "When I die of this disease, I will be dying from your disease not mine". Your of course is society, me and you and your mother and my brother and the shame and all the arbitrary shit that we live by, all the judgement that we learn to do well before we learn how to speak.
In terms of relatability I was surprised because before anything it was about acceptance and coping and friends and family and deep conversations you`ll always remember even after the words blur you WILL remember the sensations you were left with?! The drowning metaphor for depression is probably one of the most commonly overused ones. But it`s terribly descriptive AND TRUE. The sadness pushing down on your shoulders, the barrier between the one and the rest of the world and the infuriated unjustified rage of the world not seeing or acknowledging the existence of that barrier.
On social media:
" It`s a highly deceptive world, one that constantly asks you to comment but doesn't really care what you have to say. The illusion of participating can sometimes lead to participation. But more often that not, it only leads to more illusion, dressed in the guise of reality... If you let the world in, you open yourself up to the world. Even if the world doesn`t know you`re there.
Such places open secret entries into darkness in the interval between midnight and the time the sky grows light. None of our principles have any effect there. No one can predict when or where such abysses will swallow people, or when or where they will spit them out.
What she is trying to do now is to transform what her eyes grasp and her senses perceive into the simplest and most appropriate words she can find. And so the words themselves emerge directed half at us half at herself.