"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
I was alerted to this allegorical short story after reading a recent review penned by Swaroop.
Narrated in the first person, an unnamed man (Steinbeck I was alerted to this allegorical short story after reading a recent review penned by Swaroop.
Narrated in the first person, an unnamed man (Steinbeck himself?) encounters a group of migrant cotton pickers in a bucolic valley setting. The impoverished workers, though they have little, are nevertheless happy with their lot and even offer the stranger a breakfast plate of food. The humility and the charity that these people display is heartwarming, perhaps even biblical.
As ever, Steinbeck's writing is authentic and unadorned. There is a bonniness in this simple-yet-idyllic scene; a moral beauty that so often exists in the hearts and minds of those forced to lead a modest life � an overriding feeling of gratitude that is sadly lost in those of us who have attained a comfortable existence.
The piece is more scene than story and can be leafed through in the blink of a chameleon's eye...
"I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose." —Sir Arthur Co"I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose." —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Conan Doyle's famous quote came to mind as I was reading this boisterous book: it was as if Vonnegut had decided to empty his cluttered attic of kooky ideas in order to share them with the rest of the world. In many ways, it reminded me of the underground magazines I helped to publish as a student; all printed on stiff sheets of A4 paper and haphazardly stapled together. I didn't enjoy this as freely as I did ³Ò²¹±ôá±è²¹²µ´Ç²õ, mostly because much of the book is defiantly and deliberately infantile (he did caper through life with a self-confessed immaturity), but what is abundantly clear is that Kurt Vonnegut Jr was a creative genius several years ahead of his time.
This is a quick read, partly due to the author's own marker pen doodles popping up between blocks of narrative. In essence, the book is a veritable salad bar of supposition, a depository of doctrines and an info dump of great ingenuity.
What I most love about Mr Vonnegut, apart from his satirical humour, is the man's rebellious nature and his devil-may-care keenness to offend; but this went hand-in-glove with his resentment of social injustice and his wonderful humanity (though there is much anecdotal evidence to the fact that he was a cantankerous sourpuss when the mood struck).
Suffice to say, personal failings notwithstanding, our modern world needs more Kurt Vonneguts!...more
"But if Irina was quiet, she was quiet the way a heated skillet is quiet � in the moments before you drop in the fat."
Pushkin, a gentle-spirited R"But if Irina was quiet, she was quiet the way a heated skillet is quiet � in the moments before you drop in the fat."
Pushkin, a gentle-spirited Russian peasant with poetry in his soul and cabbage soup in his stomach is happy with his simple life, working the land whilst marvelling at nature's glory. From the safety of his rural idyll, he bears witness to both the collapse of the monarchy and the rise of Bolshevism with quiet consideration; such seismic shifts were hardly likely to affect his bucolic existence, were they? However, his ambitious wife, Irina, has other ideas. In this brave new world of equality, she is inexorably drawn to the bright lights and bustling crowds of Moscow and won't be dissuaded. So Pushkin dutifully ups sticks and loads his wagon in readiness to make the 100-mile trip � a precursor to a much longer journey.
I'm a huge fan of Amor Towles' silky smooth, animated prose; he is, after all, one of my favourite living authors. So I was already in Moscow, queueing patiently outside a bakery, waiting for comrade Pushkin to arrive. And he is adorable; an equanimous gentleman who sees the positives in every situation, his naïve optimism completely infectious.
So do yourselves a favour and get to know the admirable hero of this story. It's free to read online and takes less than an hour to do so.
My express thanks to Cheri for shining a light on this little gem. Cheri's review...more
Ahoy there, me hearties! All hands on deck! Cap'n Kevin here, and I've been reading John Boyne's Mutiny on the Bounty, so I have! Arrrrh!
Now then, althoAhoy there, me hearties! All hands on deck! Cap'n Kevin here, and I've been reading John Boyne's Mutiny on the Bounty, so I have! Arrrrh!
Now then, although I revere Boyne's flamboyant writing, this was not one of his best, in my humble opinion.
Our story begins with a scene straight out of a Dickens novel: Artful Dodger-esque street urchin, John Jacob Turnstile, knows that money doesn't grow on trees and therefore needs to pick a pocket or two. Yess! This is bloomin' luvverly, thought I, breaking into a rousing chorus of ♬Consider Yourself� from Oliver! Needless to say, Turnstile (truly a lovable rogue) is caught red-handed and ends up in the long arms of the law. To avoid a harsh jail sentence he is offered a working position on HMS Bounty and finds himself valet to none other than Captain William Bligh. Naturally, and without delay, I spliced my mainbrace with a tot of rum and hoisted my mainsail. "Come on, John Boyne, you lovable landlubber!" I bellowed into the salty wind. "Enthral me with a dazzling escapade on the very highest of seas!"
Sadly, it wasn't to be. What ensued was a boys'-own adventure that remained far too frisky for my liking (and I like frisky). Boyne plays fast and loose with the language of the day, slipping into modern-day vernacular with alacrity and depicting Tahitian natives as having such a perfect command of the English language that I wondered if they'd enrolled on one of those Rosetta Stone language courses. Example (native girl to Turnstile): "You employ a man to live with horses?" : )
Anyone familiar with my reviews will know that I'm a huge fan of John Boyne's work. Consequently, I fully expected this book to rattle my crow's nest and shiver my timbers. Although extremely excited by its Dickensian beginning, the story didn't move through the gears and I wasn't at any point imbued with a sense of trepidation. In summary, it was a rollicking good read that needed a bit of a rethink.
"Sloppy people should not be allowed to have pets, and certainly not birds who would never choose to live in such conditions. Have you ever seen a "Sloppy people should not be allowed to have pets, and certainly not birds who would never choose to live in such conditions. Have you ever seen a sloppy forest?" —Zelda McFigg
This winsome-yet-poignant story, a testament to one woman’s truth, traverses recent decades and had me rooting for our eponymous heroine from the get-go. The lady in question is binge-eating, animal-loving New York English professor, Zelda McFigg. She stands four-feet-eleven, weighs in at two hundred and thirty-seven pounds and is (reluctantly) a middle-aged virgin. Because of her corpulence, male suitors are not exactly queueing up at Zelda’s door and she feels that the likelihood of sexual congress is but a fanciful pipe dream. Therefore, the written word becomes her burning passion; punctuation superseding penetration.
In McFigg, author Betsy Robinson has created a champion for our time. The archetypal underdog whose haphazard nobility would usually go unnoticed and unappreciated. Zelda is as self-deprecating as she is determined; as caring as she is resourceful and as fatalistic as she is idealistic. This is a story about compassion and understanding; a tale of unrequited love and one woman’s struggle to remain optimistic in a cynical world. Robinson writes with aplomb and possesses a literary intelligence that is sadly missing in any number of much-vaunted modern bestsellers (if only ‘Eleanor Oliphant� had been written this well). The book is packed with metaphor and symbolism, which pleased me no end, and Zelda’s sabotaged school production of Grimm’s The Frog Prince was comedy gold.
I enjoyed being in McFigg's company almost as much as she enjoys a private evening of binge-eating and flatulence. So here’s to you, Zelda! Clink! In the words of Don McLean, this world was never meant for someone as beautiful as you....more
I was convinced to read this gentle coming-of-age story by an inundation of five-star reviews posted by wonderful Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ friends. I would like the aI was convinced to read this gentle coming-of-age story by an inundation of five-star reviews posted by wonderful Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ friends. I would like the aforementioned friends to remain as such, so I'll get my main gripe out of the way and then move onto the good bits. : )
THE BAD BITS Repetition of the word 'and': >Thin and angry and blind and lost and shut up behind< >trustworthy and loyal and thrifty and brave and clean and reverent< >Forster's terns and black terns and great blue herons and egrets and bald eagles and warblers and other birds so ordinary and profuse<
Then there’s this little beauty: >And I turned back and entered the shadow of the sanctuary still smiling and suffered the glaring condemnation of the congregation and sat through the long service in which Albert Griswold held forth in his impromptu and interminable sermon about the need to impress godly values on the youth of the day and when it was over I walked back to the house and found Jake upstairs in our room and I apologized.<
Holy bad editing, Batman! Eight 'ands' and not a comma in sight! Is the use of commas expressly forbidden in Minnesota?
These are just a few examples. I had to stop highlighting any others (there were several), as it was spoiling my enjoyment of the story.
THE GOOD NEWS Clumsy writing/editing and run-on sentences notwithstanding, the story is a pleasant, inoffensive read and much of Krueger's prose is beautifully poetic. There is a strong narrative perspective and the author has a clear voice. I felt that there was a Sunday afternoon, black and white movie atmosphere to the read; a 'To Kill a Mockingbird'-meets-'Stand by Me' vibe. It flows slowly and gently, like a lazy river, wonderfully depicting how children can often see things that adults miss because they have inquiring minds. My favourite character was Jake, the younger brother who has a stutter. Because he is often uncommunicative, he listens keenly and possesses intuition beyond his years. I also warmed to Gus, who's an honourable, stand-up guy.
OVERVIEW I prefer my books to come bounding in with some grit and pizzazz. There were no 'Omigod!' moments in this read and it was far too wholesome for my liking.
Please note that my inconsequential opinion is very much the minority one. This book has charmed almost everyone who has read it, so you can treat my review with a great deal of scepticism.
"If I hadn't seen such riches I could live with being poor." —From the song Sit Down, by James.
Set in rural Ireland, this very short story is spoken"If I hadn't seen such riches I could live with being poor." —From the song Sit Down, by James.
Set in rural Ireland, this very short story is spoken in the first-person narrative by a dirt-poor tinker’s daughter whose anonymity throughout serves to emphasise her incidental existence. The girl's struggling mother, who gives birth as frequently as a hen lays eggs, has another on the way, so leaves the child in the care of the Kinsellas - farming relatives whom the kid has never met. It swiftly becomes clear that our young narrator is unused to home comforts; even a hot bath is alien to her. The Kinsellas (themselves bereft of a child) are only too happy to lavish their unsentimental brand of love upon their menial charge.
Much is intimated but left unsaid by the author. Keegan expects her readers to fill in the gaps and draw their own conclusions. The girl is damaged but her wretched life has at least taught her to observe and adapt. Cautiously, she begins to blossom in her bright new world of hot baths and unbidden kindness. Slowly but surely our child-in-limbo dares to become the flower that grows through a crack in a pavement. The prose is deliberately sparse, which I didn't mind as it perfectly suited the gritty subject matter. In an almost surreal fashion, the characters ghost around each other, amping up the overall sense of detachment and fear of commitment (put me in mind of Bruce Willis's solitary interaction with humans in The Sixth Sense).
Although I'm not usually a fan of a bare-bones narrative, there is clear evidence here of the author's confident penmanship. It's an intelligent piece, mostly because of the details that are kept from us, and which loom large in our imagination.
I won't be giving anything away by saying that the girl's conflicting loyalties are vividly captured in a poignant, almost cinematic, final scene.
Not the best book I'll read this year, but an achingly sad and evocative capturing of a moment in time that requires the reader to work in tandem with the author....more
5/5 for the faultless prose. Wroblewski writes with aplomb and could become a latter-day Steinbeck if he were to produce a gutsy, seminal story. Alas, 5/5 for the faultless prose. Wroblewski writes with aplomb and could become a latter-day Steinbeck if he were to produce a gutsy, seminal story. Alas, 2/5 for this story, which plodded along and might only suit dog trainers and breeders. An amazing writer though!...more
A must-read allegorical Christmas classic with more clanking chains than you'd find in a dominatrix's sex dungeon.A must-read allegorical Christmas classic with more clanking chains than you'd find in a dominatrix's sex dungeon....more
. . I say! Has some sneaky blighter slipped something horrid into Louis de Bernières' cocoa?
I am a huge fan of the great man's work, but this, my erudite. . I say! Has some sneaky blighter slipped something horrid into Louis de Bernières' cocoa?
I am a huge fan of the great man's work, but this, my erudite friends, is de Bernières on autopilot. This is de Bernières writing while the TV is still on in the background.
Make no mistake, there is a truly remarkable story here. The problem is it's buried under several reams of self-satisfied tedium. It's 200 pages too long and should have been edited down. It's as if his starstruck publishing team, on receipt of his first draft, have phoned him straight back with the sole intention of keeping him on board: "Yeah, oh yeah. Love it, love it, LOVE IT, Louie babes! No need to change a thing! Mwah! Mwah! And a big sloppy Mwah! Ciao, bello. Catch you later, Loozy Woozy!"
And, nnnngggg, I was really looking forward to reading this as well. I revere Captain Corelli's Mandolin, as I do his South American trilogy, which is as close to the majesty of Márquez as any writer could hope to get. But this novel never once grabbed me by the cojones and its grasshopper narrative jumped all over the place. Is it well-written? Of course, it's well-written! This is blimmin' Louis De La Soul de Bernières we're talking about here -not some keyboard basher who writes about various shades of something or other.
But we've been here before, haven't we? A well-to-do British family caught up in the horror of war (see Birdsong). The battle scenes are extremely well observed, as are the touching moments of beauty forged in the horror of war. A willkommen detail is that German soldiers are humanised. Hurrah! Something the author neglected to do in Capt. Corelli.
Even the vernacular misfires at times. Some of the dialogue is pure Downton Abbey-meets-Mary Poppins, and I began to speed read the boring bits, which is never a good sign.
Sorry, Louie babes, it's been a good run; but you remain one of my faves, nonetheless!...more
"A gentleman can live through anything." —Oscar Wilde
Reawakening my childhood memories of The Count of Monte Cristo, Amor Towles delivers a sprawli"A gentleman can live through anything." —Oscar Wilde
Reawakening my childhood memories of The Count of Monte Cristo, Amor Towles delivers a sprawling, chucklesome novel of aristocratic derring-do. The Bolsheviks have seized power in Mother Russia and Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov is placed under house arrest at Moscow's Hotel Metropol. A nobleman of impeccable manners, Rostov is billeted in an austere attic room with barely enough space to swing a Cossack, but nevertheless never allows his highborn standards to slip. His Excellency is charm personified: he is altogether a bon vivant, a gourmet, a polymath and a gentleman of unrestrained integrity. Men love him, women adore him; even cats and dogs purr and pant in his glittering presence. In short, this is a chap who might make even Cary Grant seem inelegant. Despite being born into privilege, and therefore used to being fawned over by all and sundry, our aristocrat never condescends his attendants and sees great nobility in the honest toil of the proletariat. The novel is beautifully written and each inconsequential detail exquisitely observed (devotees of efficient, decisive prose need to stay well clear, lest they bring a temper tantrum upon themselves). Apart from the ghost of Tolstoy guiding his hand, I detect an evocation of Oscar Wilde's writing in Towles' flamboyant figurative imagery, and the story cleverly avoids the trapdoor of tedium, despite its opulent-yet-claustrophobic setting (think of The Grand Budapest Hotel and you'll summon a kindred vibe). The Count is a fanciful, charismatic, genial companion; his waggish interplay with precocious kids, spiteful waiters and willowy movie starlets had me up on my toes and dancing the Kalinka with mille-feuille in hand!
Almost every man, woman and babushka on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ have already favoured this book, so I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about. Was this another example of mass hysteria I wondered?
And I'm so pleased that I did take it on. "Da!" I say. "Da!" (I said it twice). This is a novel of such whimsical delight that it left me smiling from ear to ear for much of the read. And I defy anyone, or anything (man, woman, cat or dog), not to fall in love with Count Alexander Ilych Rostov!...more
"Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away." —Doctor Iannis.
Απαπα! Why, oh why did I wait twenty years to read this encha"Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away." —Doctor Iannis.
Απαπα! Why, oh why did I wait twenty years to read this enchanting novel?
Being something of a contrarian, I didn't succumb to the rampant Corellimania that existed after this novel's release in 1994, but I'm especially pleased that I have now righted this wrong. Bernières serves up a Greek wartime love story that is as multi-layered as a Sunday moussaka. Set on the Ionian island of Cephalonia during Italian and German WWII occupation, the book hits the ground running. Before you’ve even sniffed the mezze, Louis conjures up a delightful opening scene in Dr Iannis's surgery that should have you chuckling out loud before you can shout taramasalata!
Admittedly, Bernières does go off the rails for a bit, retreating into a one-man word orgy, all too pleased with his own authorial genius. This results in some superfluity in the early chapters. But don't worry, stick with it, fellow bibliophiles; once this frippery subsides, the main players are introduced and the story gathers momentum. Doctor Iannis, and daughter Pelagia, are the beating heart of a modern fable that even Aesop would have been proud to put his name to. Girl-power-Pelagia, whose presence is intrinsic to the story, is brought up to be fiercely independent, as her father knows only too well that wartime Greece is resolutely patriarchal. We also learn about in-the-closet, Italian man-mountain, Carlo Piero Guercio, who was previously sent on a suicide mission to wintry Albania (where beards became stalactites and soldiers purposely shit themselves in order to savour some momentary warmth). Happily, Carlo's repressed homosexuality, and his unassailable bravery, is written with the nobility it deserves. "I am exploding with the fire of love and there is none to accept it or nourish it," he laments.
Apparently, Bernières has done a huge disservice to the memory of the real-life Greek freedom fighters, who fought valiantly against their oppressors; but, from a purely artistic standpoint, the timeless futility of war is exemplified within these pages to such a degree that it makes Catch-22 seem a mere Catch-11 in comparison.
Enter reluctant warrior, Captain Antonio Corelli, heading a ragtag troop of Italian soldiers who march into Cephalonia pulling funny faces and blowing kisses at signorinas. You might be pleased to know that despite a copious infusion of delightful humour, the author ensures that the stark horrors of war are not expunged. And there is a passage, approaching the last part of the book, that is so lion-hearted, so profoundly sad, and so utterly moving that I had to put the book down to allow my emotion to subside.
The populace, and the soldiers themselves, are starving, but between the rocks of such hardship, fragile love affairs begin to blossom. And, as in all good love stories, there is a great deal of sacrifice and heartache to be found. One such example is that heroic Carlo secretly harbours a profound amore for Captain Corelli which, crushingly, has to remain secret.
By the end of this sweeping, tragicomic epic, I have a feeling that most of you will have grown to love Carlo, Antonio, Iannis and Pelagia as much as I did. Such was my excitement in the reading of this book I, of course, began smashing plates on the kitchen floor, shouting “O±è²¹!â€�
God, it was truly a great read, fully deserving of all five stars!...more
"Think of me whenever you wear this ring, and I will love you forever."
This heartfelt narrative is the author's lov ~ A story of undying love ~
"Think of me whenever you wear this ring, and I will love you forever."
This heartfelt narrative is the author's lovingly honest representation of her mother's slide into the suffocating fog of Alzheimer's. Having lost my own mum to dementia, only two years ago, this was a rolling scene that resonated deeply within me.
Martha, the matriarch in question, was born on July 14th, 1925, and was spiritually imbued with an innate humour and a kindness that sadly deserts her for much of her life. In addition, she suffers from low self-esteem and depression, which in turn leads to a drink problem.
Each human relationship is carefully observed; Corn writes with a refreshing honesty, highlighting how her mother's stoicism shields the true affection that she feels for her three loyal daughters. Paradoxically, this spiteful disease also offers provident absolution, allowing her offspring to finally see her true unfettered soul.
The book is cleverly-written, chronicling each family member's perspective, spanning different decades. It truly captures an elderly woman's odyssey from a young girl, giddy with love and dreams, to an old lady clutching a shattered mirror of memories.
Heartfelt, poignant, and at times crushingly sad, the overriding message is one of enduring love and HOPE....more
"Gollys, Mrs Durrells,"he said, his face red with wrath. "Why don'ts yous lets Masters Leslies shoot the son of a bitch?"
In life, Gerald Durr"Gollys, Mrs Durrells,"he said, his face red with wrath. "Why don'ts yous lets Masters Leslies shoot the son of a bitch?"
In life, Gerald Durrell would light up a room and his books elicit that same warm feeling. His affection for the natural world lives on in the minds of those, who for decades, have enjoyed his magical stories. This is the second part of his Corfiot trilogy, continuing from where My Family and Other Animals left off.
The bohemian Durrells have eschewed middle-class English suburbia for an unconventional life in idyllic Corfu. As in the first book, a procession of oddballs, fruit cakes and misfits turn up at their villa. Best supporting character award goes to leathery-faced Spiro, whose pidgin English sounds exactly like Stavros, the kebab seller from a 1980s UK comedy sketch show. "Honest to Gods, Mrs Durells, makes me scarce what that boy finds."
Fans of Durrell already know of his transcendent skill for observational detail. For example, there's Mrs Haddock, the spiritualist, who is incapable of breathing while speaking, andwhosewordslatchtogether like a daisy chain. And here he describes the beginning of his memorable meal at the Venetian-style villa of eccentric Countess Mavrodiki: The first course that Demetrios-Mustapha set before us was a fine, clear soup, sequinned with tiny golden bubbles of fat, with fingernail-sized croutons floating like crisp little rafts on an amber sea. How overlooked is Durrell as a writer? Seriously, how many writers today can compete with that? This bacchanalian feast continued until his pants were fit to burst, and was washed down with red wine which was 'as dark as the heart of a dragon'.
Other characters include Captain Creech, the salty sea dog whose incautious, uncivil bonhomie (even in the politest company) revolves around tales of Montevidean strumpets and rampant gonorrhoea.
This trilogy was a standard school read for British kids of my generation and there is absolutely no reason why his books cannot be read by adults. His writing is evidently better than most of the dross that is out there now.
If you haven't yet familiarised yourself with Gerald Durrell, and are wasting your time reading books that have men on the cover who, for some reason, have misplaced their shirts, then please find the time to do so. Not only a truly gifted writer, he was also a wonderful, wonderful human being!...more
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