"What James Lee Burke does for Louisiana, Kimber Silver does for Kansas." —Karen Holmes
Kimber Silver, a book blogger and Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ enthusiast, beca"What James Lee Burke does for Louisiana, Kimber Silver does for Kansas." —Karen Holmes
Kimber Silver, a book blogger and Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ enthusiast, became poacher-turned-gamekeeper when she released a book of her own, back in 2022. And what a debut! Broken Rhodes was a well-received novel fizzing with wisecracks and a hullabaloo of unbridled energy. And this sequel, a cosy small-town murder mystery, is every bit as engaging. The author writes lovingly about her home state of Kansas, and her cast of earthy characters are wonderfully evoked. Moreover, she has a mastery of colloquial dialogue not often seen in modern literature. I don't want to waste your time rambling on about the plot, but must give a special mention to incoming character Dean McCormick, a Harvard-educated biker who'd give Thor a run for his money. He, ladies and gentlemen, is the kind of guy who could find a woman's G-spot just by winking at her. So be warned!
There is an impishness to Silver's writing; her humour is subtly witty and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny. Without giving too much away, there is one scene (as two of the characters were getting into a hot session of faire l'amour) where an unexpected outburst caused me to erupt with laughter. Loved that! : )
Now, here is something you need to know� As I am clearly an incredibly butch slab of masculinity who shaves with an axe and fights with bears, you might wonder how I got on with the cosy romantic mystery side of things� Well, it wasn't really my bag, but then I remembered that I am secretly partial to a chocolate box Hallmark movie when the mood strikes, so I went with it!
In this book, you will find more ne'er-do-wells than you could shake a stick at: you will boo and hiss at Trenton Crawley, a slimy status seeker; and you will definitely get behind Sheriff Lincoln James as he battles for the good folk of Harlow, Kansas.
Silver has a big-hearted writing style and writes with great affection for the type of people she grew up with. And -as in the first book- her characters are a valuable part of the novel.
Dang! This was an entertaining read, y'all!...more
I have loved Sir Salman Rushdie's work ever since he fired up my imagination with the writing that bejewelled every page of Midnight's Children. And II have loved Sir Salman Rushdie's work ever since he fired up my imagination with the writing that bejewelled every page of Midnight's Children. And I've since hoped that he might one day match, or even eclipse, his crowning achievement. Did Rushdie achieve that with Victory City? Let's just say that he gave Midnight's Children a run for its money.
The opening sentence promised much: "On the last day of her life when she was two hundred and forty-seven years old, the blind poet, miracle worker and prophetess Pampa Kampala completed her immense narrative poem and buried it in a clay pot sealed with wax in the heart of the Royal Enclosure, as a message to the future." "Yes!" I shouted, putting on my MC Hammer pants and gliding sideways across the room. "Sir Salman is back on top form and I am loving it!"
Inspired by a once-flourishing medieval Hindu kingdom in Southern India, the author brings us an allegorical fairy tale in which Pampa Kampala (who ages as slowly as an oak tree) propagates a living, breathing city from little more than seeds and whispers. The scope of Rushdie's imagination and the magnitude of his world-building is still astonishing: it's an Indian Game of Thrones; it's Sinbad and the Arabian Nights; it's The Odyssey and War and Peace with just a hint of Benjamin Button thrown in. It's brilliant! I must admit that I quite enjoyed Rushdie deliberately taking liberties with the dialogue - as magical realism permits - by wryly adopting an Errol Flynn*/Basil Rathbone* manner of speaking. *(those of you fortunate enough to be favoured by youth and peachy complexions may need to Google these two actors).
And the old maestro has lost none of his impishness: "In the evenings at the time of the sunset promenade, it was possible to see couples of all sorts taking the air and holding hands without embarrassment: men and men, women and women, and yes, men and women too."
But his exuberance lights up every page, I adore his writing, and still tip my hat to his virtuosity. So, despite the irresolute storyline, it can only be five radiant stars!...more
Richard Yates was once a speech writer for Senator Robert Kennedy in the 1960s and proclaimed by many of his peers to be the best writer of their geneRichard Yates was once a speech writer for Senator Robert Kennedy in the 1960s and proclaimed by many of his peers to be the best writer of their generation, so I thought it would be remiss of me not to take him for a test drive.
The first page alone was enough to convince me of his writing ability, so I proceeded with a smile on my face, cookie crumbs on my shirt and great joy in my heart.
The story centres on an eye-catching young middle-class couple, Frank and April Wheeler who, to all outward appearances, seem to have it all. But behind closed doors, they present as two extremely complex characters: she, eager to please, yet aloof and ready to self-destruct; him, with a superiority complex but crippled with self-doubt. April is a romantic dreamer trapped in a gilded cage whereas Frank is inherently shallow and dismissive of other people's feelings and opinions. Yates' erudite prose perfectly and creditably captures the zeitgeist of American 1950s middle-class respectability and is firmly set in a time when the white-collar world was heavily reliant on typewriters, filing cabinets and mail rooms.
Together, April and Frank become as high as kites on idealistic notions, privately pouring scorn on their suburban neighbours and railing against the sentimentality of the American dream without seeming to realise that they are the ones with problems.
ARTY FARTY TRIGGER WARNING!
Avert your gaze, dear reader, or be prepared to suffer an occurrence of toe-curling pretentiousness as I try to describe one aspect of Yates' writing methodology. Here it comes� Yates sometimes, very cleverly in my opinion, creates sentences from oblique angles, refracting them as if through a prism (I did warn you!). This allows his readers to evaluate his characters from different perspectives. It's as if the living voice of a person unknown exists in the shadows of these pages.
ARTY-FARTINESS OVER. (Let's all pretend it didn't happen).
In truth, the story is not the star of the show. Yates' keen observations of human quirks are exceptional and his sentences are as neat as fresh laundry. I also liked the explanatory asides that popped up mid-sentence like poppies in a field of straw. Yes, he was overly fond of a semi-colon when the respite of a well-placed full stop would have sufficed, but the fellow's writing was top-notch.
I'm now a fan of his barbed prose. The guy had skill....more
"Like an insecure prayer, or a counterfeit candle lit in The Church."
Shamanic poetess, Wendy E Slater, invokes a common purpose through which we might"Like an insecure prayer, or a counterfeit candle lit in The Church."
Shamanic poetess, Wendy E Slater, invokes a common purpose through which we might all set the tone for a future of harmony aboard this planet; her poetry is a constellation of spiritual musings from deep within her kaleidoscopic soul.
Slater is a force majeure hurtling towards the truth, championing Mother Nature's abundance while drawing upon Rumi's timeless principles of earth, air, water and fire. There is a raw honesty in her penmanship as she passionately rails against betrayal and false narratives, the Yin/Yang of Slater's optimism and cynicism jostling for position within the subtext of her script. Each line is spoken from the heart, each word plucked from the cosmos and then allowed to float on the breeze: aching, caring, provoking, hoping�
This author's stirring poetry takes me to a place that no novel can. Her humanity is venerable, her passion undeniable. It seems that Wendy E Slater's heart is reborn each time she puts pen to paper. And long may that continue!...more
Based on the premise that what doesn't break us makes us stronger, a group of marginalised Canadian wr. "Quae Nocent, Docent" (What Hurts, Teaches)
Based on the premise that what doesn't break us makes us stronger, a group of marginalised Canadian writers have pulled together an insightful collection of poems and compositions. Some are achingly sad, while others are a beautiful blend of humour and pathos. All speak a truth and embody the resilience of the human spirit.
It must be said that some are inevitably better than others, but each has a unique voice and a creative worth. If I had to pick a favourite, it would be Richard Van Holst's bittersweet Icarus on Bloor Street where the author, who suffers from cerebral palsy, introduces us to a typically embarrassing moment in his life in which well-meaning, but unintentionally patronising, bystanders rush to his aid as he clatters to the pavement in a confusion of arms, legs and crutches. In this touching belle lettre, Van Holst maintains his equilibrium by biting back sarcasm and resorting to a stoic sense of humour that made me want to hug and hi-five him all at once (if such an adroit feat were even possible).
Bravo to all of these writers - and also to the Friendly Spike Theatre Band for their meritorious cause....more
"I expected to splinter into shards and tinkle into a pile on the floor. I wondered if anyone would think to sweep me up."
This profoundly moving s"I expected to splinter into shards and tinkle into a pile on the floor. I wondered if anyone would think to sweep me up."
This profoundly moving story is told in the first person by Delia Spencer, a mother who is abjectly unable to move on from the unanticipated deaths of her two teenage daughters.
Sara Steger brings us an intimate portrayal of one woman's hermitic descent into the deepest depths of anguish and personal guilt. The author's pictorial style of writing complements the rawness of the subject matter, focussing on the unravelling relationship between two devoted parents as they each become strangers within the vacuum of their grief. The story reveals its chronology slowly, and we gradually begin to piece together a succession of connected events. Very clever staging by Steger; a story told almost in reverse! The author has an observant eye and conveys human mannerisms with discerning ease, the dependability of her elegant prose putting me in mind of her near-namesake, Wallace Stegner.
In an attempt to exorcise her demons, Delia makes a clean break and goes back to her roots, eschewing city life for a simpler existence. She soon finds that she can't hide from her torment as it has an unbreakable hold on her soul. It is here that Steger draws symbolic parallels as Roscoe, a stray dog, and Carly (something of a stray teenager) tentatively learn to trust Delia in the same way that she must learn to put her trust in the quiddity of love and human kindness.
This is a gratifying and deeply affecting story that had me captivated to the extent that I rarely left my armchair. Steger writes from the heart and constructs telling sentences with effortless ease.
Will Delia find solace in the most serendipitous of ways? And will the guilty secret that haunts her be finally revealed? Read the book to find out.
A moving, yet uplifting, read. Sara Steger is a wonderful writer!...more
"Silence cut him to the quick as it breathed a tale he didn’t want to hear."
I must confess to a feeling of trepidation prior to reading Kimber Silver'"Silence cut him to the quick as it breathed a tale he didn’t want to hear."
I must confess to a feeling of trepidation prior to reading Kimber Silver's debut novel. I don't usually review books written by author friends for fear of being accused of nepotism. And what if I didn't like the book? Would she really appreciate me posting a two-star review, as I am often inclined to do? : ( Well, all of those concerns quickly flew out of the window as I began to lose myself in this captivating story. Yes, Kimber Silver can write. And yes, she is deserving of the glowing reviews that have come pouring in.
Harlow, Kansas, a small town where grudges fester and where everybody is in each other's business, is the perfect setting for a murder mystery. Kinsley Rhodes is a young woman on a mission; she has a past that she would rather forget and a limited store of patience. Her grandpa, the only person she knew how to love, has been murdered and she wants answers. Enter Lincoln James, the local sheriff and Marlboro Man lookalike who is tasked with finding the killer whilst struggling to placate Miss Rhodes who has blown into town like a tornado. As you can imagine, Kinsley and the Sheriff don't get off to a good start and the spirited interplay between them is a joy to behold: him, genial and playful; her, unapproachable and prickly. Kinsley's initial disdain for the lawman is perfectly pitched and fun to observe.
There is a cinematic quality to Silver's writing; like Steinbeck, she can summon a vivid scene with a scarcity of words, and her jocular dialogue fizzes with energy.
The Kansan countryside and its salt-of-the-earth characters are skilfully rendered by the author. I could easily envisage the endless skies and could almost hear the prairie grass rustling in the breeze. Kinsley's fond recollections of her bucolic childhood were drawn from Silver's own experiences growing up on her grandparents' farm in Kansas. And she also does humour so well: it's there in the earthy local dialect; it's there in every wisecrack and riposte; it's also there in a vignette where one of the locals explains to Lincoln that aliens are to blame for recent events. Loved that scene! : ) Oh, and a word of warning. Do NOT donate your copy of Broken Rhodes to a local nunnery, because there is a steamy sex scene in this book that will blow their knickers off!
As for Sheriff Lincoln, what's not to like? Even I, a raving hetero, thought he was a dish. In a moment of exasperation, I shouted at Kinsley, "If you don't ask him out on a date, then I will!"
This is a terrific read from start to finish and there are more miscreants here than you would find in a Wild West saloon. There is an energy to Silver's writing and it's clear to see that she has put her heart and soul into every sentence.
And, unlike a Netflix movie, this story actually has a proper ending.
"With a look of anxiety and suffering, Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find"With a look of anxiety and suffering, Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him?"
This is a very short, yet deeply upsetting, tale in which one man's loneliness and grief is compounded by the insensitivity of others.
Covered in falling snow, Iona Potapov, an impoverished sledge driver in 19th century Saint Petersburg, is aboard his ride, hunched as a heron and white as a ghost. He is beset by a solitary misery that he needs to share but not one of his discourteous passengers is inclined to listen. (view spoiler)[In fact, the only living thing prepared to listen to poor Iona is his bony-legged horse. (hide spoiler)]
One senses that Chekhov, a great humanitarian, must have often witnessed such unforgivable callousness at close quarters. I just wish I could have been there to give poor Iona a big hug before treating him and his horse to a meal.
This is a five-minute short story that is free to read online >>
My thanks to Ilse for drawing my attention to this poignant tale. Her review can be read HERE . ....more
This sweeping saga won the Pulitzer Prize in 1964 for its depiction of a dynastic white family in rural Alabama at a time when prejudice and racism liThis sweeping saga won the Pulitzer Prize in 1964 for its depiction of a dynastic white family in rural Alabama at a time when prejudice and racism lived cheek-by-jowl with oppression and hypocrisy.
No sooner had the curtain lifted on the cryptic opening chapter than I was purring at the innovative descriptiveness of Grau's prose. The tale unfolds slowly, like a lazy summer afternoon, the author using alliteration to great effect: Wobbling waddle; blotched brambles; beetles bumbling; wings whizzing; silvery and shining; leaf-littered; the wind whimpers; the sluggish spring; the gentle grey-eyed girl�
The story itself serves as a social commentary hidden within a fascinating family drama that focuses on the frowned-upon relationship between William Howland and his black housekeeper, Margaret Carmichael.
Though impactful and full of purpose, the story does drag at times (it would be too boring for many) and is only saved by the author's evocative writing and the couple's uplifting love for each other. I also winced at Grau's ill-judged habit of apostrophising era denominations (1800’s, 1900’s, 60’s, etc.,). Yes, I know that a lot of people do this, but I'm crankily pedantic to the point that I'm even annoyed with myself for being so pedantic. Shut up, Kevin. You're an idiot! I know I am. So, shut up then! Okay, okay, I will. : )
Nit-picking aside, I'm a sucker for great love affairs and brave storytelling, and I also loved William and Margaret, so I gave this lyrical masterpiece all of the stars!...more
"I see you across the ocean Scrawling across the sky." —Wendy E. Slater
Wendy Slater's spiritual poetry always takes me to a place that a novel can't. He"I see you across the ocean Scrawling across the sky." —Wendy E. Slater
Wendy Slater's spiritual poetry always takes me to a place that a novel can't. Her metaphysical reflections are a kaleidoscope of conceptions: enigmatic and esoteric, analogous and trenchant, fatalistic yet celebratory. In her own words, she gathers thoughts as a child gathers shells on a beach.
There is a raw hunger and a deep longing to her words, a paradise lost with every hope that it might be regained. Slater alternates between earth and spirit, speaking of love and loss, of destruction and rebuilding � the circle of life. She is at one with nature; her vivid poetry diving to the depths of the deepest oceans and soaring to the furthest stars, reminding me of the superfluity of our modern world.
Like a latter-day Sylvia Plath, the author's truth is beautifully told with meditative cynicism and spiritual love. Slater experienced a spiritual awakening a long time ago, while the rest of us were sitting in front of our TV sets with crumbs falling onto our clothes. She didn't need a rocket ship to the galaxy in which she resides � it was already in her heart.
"Friendship is something in the soul. It is a thing one feels. It is not a return for something." � Graham Greene, The Heart of the Matter
Set in a Brit"Friendship is something in the soul. It is a thing one feels. It is not a return for something." � Graham Greene, The Heart of the Matter
Set in a British colonial outpost in West Africa during WWII, this parabolic novel focuses on the moral predicament facing Henry Scobie, an English police commissioner caught between his duty towards his demanding wife and his unglued love for a young widow.
!Trigger Warning! The story was written in 1948, so you'd be right in thinking that the attitudes and cultural insensitivities in this story hail do hail from a less enlightened era. Speaking of trigger warnings, my wife and I can't be the only couple who, when faced with a TV list of pre-movie trigger warnings, including scenes of nudity, profanity and nasal hair, wryly call out, "If it's going to contain nudity and profanity then we're definitely not going to watch it!!" : )
Now, where was I? Ah, yes ... the book� This isn't a 'tiptoe through the tulips' kind of read. Absolutely not. In truth, it was really rather grim and depressing. And the storyline, such as it is, is arresting rather than immersive.
Scobie's self-delusion, his Catholic guilt and his innate sense of honour lead him to commit several errors of judgment. In doing so, he does come across as an anguished apostle, trying in vain to please his god and everyone else in his orbit.
I cannot fault Greene's writing. Of course I can't. I binge-read so many of his novels as a teenager and learned much from his masterful character development and his well-crafted prose. But there is only so much righteousness, soul searching and introspection that I can take in one sitting. Not one of his best.
So it's five stars for Greene's polished prose and three for the solemnity of his story....more
When Chekhov wrote this novella in the late 1800s, he fully knew that it would be viewed as subversive and inflammatory by the Russian censors. NevertWhen Chekhov wrote this novella in the late 1800s, he fully knew that it would be viewed as subversive and inflammatory by the Russian censors. Nevertheless, he gave the matter a great deal of thought, held his nerve and decided not to pull the plug. And I'm pleased he stood by his convictions. And isn't it wonderful to be able to invite Anton Chekhov into your home? Without once opening his mouth or asking me to turn the heating down, he kept me entertained while I sat back and enjoyed tea and crumpets.
The story: In Tsarist Russia, Stepan becomes the personal valet to a hedonistic nobleman, Georgy (Orlov) Vanychi. It transpires that Stepan is every bit as educated as his master and is secretly on a mission to get close to Orlov's father, a prominent government official whom he intends to assassinate. Aside from talking supercilious nonsense into the early hours with his brattish friends, Orlov has a mistress � one Zanaida Fyodorovna - who put me in mind of Flaubert's Emma Bovary. One day, an extremely awkward situation presents itself on Orlov's doorstep, upsetting his applecart (I'm speaking metaphorically, of course; Orlov doesn't own an applecart, and in any case is far too rich and lazy to sell apples on his doorstep). It turns out that Orlov, an incorrigible bachelor, might not be the knight in shining armour that Fyodorovna had imagined him to be � quelle surprise! As ever with Chekhov, human traits are exquisitely observed; he paints flawed characters as deftly as Degas painted ballerinas and must have taken great pleasure in ridiculing the self-indulgent lifestyles of the idle rich. As events spiral out of control, Stepan's secret mission begins to unravel, and I found the ensuing melodrama to be highly gratifying indeed.
Alas, the ending was as abrupt and as indeterminate as the annoying endings we see on any number of Netflix movies these days. Grrrr! Sort it out, Netflix! So I docked Mr Chekhov one star for that, but he is still welcome into my home at any time!...more
This short story takes us to Yalta, in the Crimean Peninsula. The locals, who have very little to occupy their provincial minds, focus much of their iThis short story takes us to Yalta, in the Crimean Peninsula. The locals, who have very little to occupy their provincial minds, focus much of their interest on a mystery visitor to the town's seafront; a fair-haired young lady and her little Pomeranian dog. She arrests the attention of an older man, who is also holidaying alone; one Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, a snobbish husband with a wandering eye. He treats women as his inferior but (needless to say) this doesn't stop him from wanting to hop into bed with them. So he pursues the young lady. They meet, they exchange polite conversation and they walk together in the moonlight. Gurov, whose brain is evidently tucked in his pants, is beguiled and, despite feeling that the young lady isn't his emotional and intellectual equal, is prepared to overlook his misgivings in pursuance of a night of passion.
Chekhov, with his keen eye for human tendencies and frailties, captures the couples' confused dynamic with great skill and subtlety. And, as you would expect from the great man, there is also some top-tier imagery to purr over�
"The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it."
An engaging ten-minute short story, cleverly crafted. I've dropped one star because of the unfulfilling ending.
The story free to read online:
My thanks to Kimber, for drawing my attention to this mini-masterpiece, and to Laysee for drawing Kimber's attention....more
"What difference is there in the color of the soul?" —Solomon Northrup
3.5 stars
This touching 110-page novella is set in 19th century colonial Indonesia"What difference is there in the color of the soul?" —Solomon Northrup
3.5 stars
This touching 110-page novella is set in 19th century colonial Indonesia when the archipelago was under Dutch rule.
Pretty village girl, Mina, is offered up as 'chattel' to a rich Dutch merchant by her impoverished fisherman father, who expects some kind of gainful return for relinquishing his 'prized' possession. Mina has no say in the matter and is summarily forced to leave home to begin work at the house of her new white master. This theme of betrayal is a common thread throughout and our eponymous Fish Girl has no more control over her destiny than a piece of flotsam clinging onto waves. The tale is rich with foreboding and I keenly wished I could dive into the pages to rescue the poor girl.
Mina is hopelessly adrift in this unjust world and the sea seems to be her only salvation.
Riwoe's writing is uncomplicated but arresting, her scene-setting immersive. I enjoyed this haunting fable; it reminded me very much of Claire Keegan's Foster. The ending was powerful, albeit a little rushed. (view spoiler)[I wish that more was made of the scaly rash between Mina's thighs, a piscine prop that wasn't used. I half-expected scales to suddenly spread across her body as she sank into the sea's salty depths, and for her to be able to swim to a place where no man could ever control her again. (hide spoiler)]
This was a buddy read with admirable possums, Nat and Collin, whose bookish intuition continues to astonish. Also, they enthused over it more than I.
A handsome young student is having what we would nowadays term a 'hissy fit' because there isn't a single red rose in his entire garden; he desperatelA handsome young student is having what we would nowadays term a 'hissy fit' because there isn't a single red rose in his entire garden; he desperately needs some to present to his crush. "For want of a red rose is my life made wretched?" he wails. A nightingale watches from above, heartened that it has at last witnessed a true lover. The bird represents one of the few romantics in this cynical world - unlike the lizard, the butterfly and even the whispering daisies - who all think that the young human is simply getting himself upset over nothing.
Oscar Wilde, channelling his own romantic battles in the face of hostility, brings us a beautiful little fairytale with themes focussing on the extreme sacrifices we make to find true love - but also on the selfishness of those who don't deserve it.
Wonderful use of anthropomorphism too. Well done Oscar!
"Because in the end there's always death, and always broken hearts. Happy stories, at least, get to hold the air of magic." —Billy O'Callaghan
Brill"Because in the end there's always death, and always broken hearts. Happy stories, at least, get to hold the air of magic." —Billy O'Callaghan
Brilly Billy O'Callaghan has an all-seeing eye and a poet's soul. In this poignant collection of short stories, he uses symbolism and metaphor to great effect while exploring themes of love (though never the romantic kind). He writes about the love that invites death; forbidden love; doomed love; lost love; unrequited love, and the raw, heartbreaking desolation of love. There is an immediacy to O'Callaghan's words; he finds grandeur in the prosaic and his evocative descriptions of limitless Irish skies and etched landscapes are a thing of unfading beauty. To further enhance my reading fun, I entered into a three-way buddy read with Australian possums, Nat and Neale, with whom I would heartily and unequivocally advocate a readage à trois.
Back to Brilly Billy, who not only has his finger on the human pulse but is also a master at capturing moments in time and filming them with words. In truth, not all of the stories were feathered with excellence. There were a few stocking fillers (even in the claustrophobic confines of a short story, I would still prefer a narrative arc). But this didn't detract from the high quality of the collection as a whole. My favourite tales were 'The Boatman' (it really floated my boat, man), 'Love is Strange', and the cinematic 'Last Christmas' (such a clever piece; an author fond of feeding the reader with enough prompts for them to be able to write their own endings).
This is a compelling collection of thought-provoking reads made all the more enjoyable by sharing the experience with my wonderful Aussie amigos (my vote for *star reader* goes to Nat for exhibiting a prescience that would have bested Nostradamus). We didn't always concur, but all agreed that this was a meritorious read! Recommended for anyone with a library in their heart and Guinness in their veins 4.5 stars...more
"Mother love stamps the foreheads of boys with a stigma that repels the friendship of buddies." —Milan Kundera, Life is Elsewhere
From the day he wa"Mother love stamps the foreheads of boys with a stigma that repels the friendship of buddies." —Milan Kundera, Life is Elsewhere
From the day he was born, Czechoslovakian baby, Jaromil, is spoon-fed poetry and spoilt rotten by his coddling mother. So it's no surprise that the boy becomes brattish and ostentatious, incurring the enmity of his peers. And each time it rained, his mother would wait for him at the school gates with a big umbrella, while his schoolmates waded barefoot through puddles, their shoes slung over shoulders.
Into adulthood, our vainglorious poet maintains his overblown sense of importance, imagining himself an artist of greater eminence than he actually is. As Wharton would say, he is the reflection of a candle in a mirror, rather than the candle itself. One senses that Milan Kundera was poking fun at some (or just one) of his literary ³¦´Ç²Ô´Ú°ùè°ù±ð²õ. I imagined he was getting something off his chest, annoyed that lesser-talented writers were getting all the praise.
It is said that Kundera has done for his native Czechoslovakia what Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez did for Latin America. Well, that might be so; he does have an allegorical writing style and also shares Márquez's fondness for the absurd but, for me, he lacks the lyrical wordplay of the Colombian maestro. I dimly remember my wife venerating Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being many years ago, so she's definitely a fan.
The book was really good, but not really great. It didn't grab me by the lapels and kiss me full on the lips. I was frustrated by the author's restraint � in all probability instilled in him during a childhood of communist oppression. I did however like Kundera's pithy observations, his scampish irreverence and his understated humour....more
This is a prepossessing short story, the reading of which takes less time than it would to disinfect a sweaty face mask. And it's free! So why not givThis is a prepossessing short story, the reading of which takes less time than it would to disinfect a sweaty face mask. And it's free! So why not give it a try?
The prose is sparse but vivid: "voice thin as paper" "raising a penciled brown eyebrow..." And there's a hush to the piece that lends a sense of reverence and longing; an altogether hollow, gnawing quality that succeeds in making it hauntingly beautiful.
My thanks to Sara for bringing this little literary treasure to my attention - by way of Cheri and Angela. : )
I finished this at the end of last year but lost the entirety of my scribbled notes. I've held off writing a review in the vain hope that the notes woI finished this at the end of last year but lost the entirety of my scribbled notes. I've held off writing a review in the vain hope that the notes would magically materialise. They haven't. I do recall that the writing was picturesque but the story stumbled along aimlessly....more
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