It is a story about an Israeli who visits his parents� and grandparents' home in Poland.
Although the writing is atrocious, the author seems genuine anIt is a story about an Israeli who visits his parents� and grandparents' home in Poland.
Although the writing is atrocious, the author seems genuine and decent.
One point throughout, and the rest of the narrative and dialogue is superfluous.
The immanent loathing and disgust the Poles had and still have for the Jews.
Prima facie, this was to be a multigenerational novel of the Jewish refugee experience during the 1900s.
This family saga started in Constantinople andPrima facie, this was to be a multigenerational novel of the Jewish refugee experience during the 1900s.
This family saga started in Constantinople and moved through Spain and Cuba. And like many immigrant stories, it would end in the once glorified United States.
Rather, it was a female bildungsroman.
It is a story about a strong woman who perseveres through a very rough century for both Jews and women.
Written for a mostly female readership, it seldom references events of the times outside of family.
Rather, it is a tribute to the unrecognized female population of that era. An extended bubbameister from the author’s bubba or kith, I perceive.
A tale that speaks of the importance of female hood in times of tumult. And it offers many perspectives of it. As a sister, a daughter, a granddaughter, a mother, a wife, a teacher, a businesswoman.
An enjoyable and informative book, especially for an uninformed man, me, from a bygone era....more
Germany, Suriname, Holland. During WW two. An interesting starting point to a story. And yet, I did not enjoy it. Memoirs are suspect to me, biographies eGermany, Suriname, Holland. During WW two. An interesting starting point to a story. And yet, I did not enjoy it. Memoirs are suspect to me, biographies even more so. This author describes detailed interactions between true characters with the precision of a video camera, but accessed through third and fourth parties' recollections. And since we sense; how she holds the butter, how the lovers embraced, the thoughts of a black male in the Netherlands; I find her, this author’s account, suspect. And that bleeds into every component of the story. She is a Dutch bestseller and I believe she has two books currently flying off the shelves. But not for me. ...more
“I’m writing all this down so I can forget about her (Tidbit, a girl confined at Roaring Orchards, too), so I can stop thinking about the school. All “I’m writing all this down so I can forget about her (Tidbit, a girl confined at Roaring Orchards, too), so I can stop thinking about the school. All I want is to lay something down between myself and the things that happened there, even if it’s nothing but a screen of words. There’s an insect I read about called the Western Spittlebug. Clastoptera juniperina, whose nymphs protect themselves by chewing up juniper stems and spitting out little bubbles until they’ve covered themselves in foam. The foam keeps the bugs from being dried up and burned by the sun. That’s really all I’m doing by writing this.�
And so begins another random book.
Press ‘refresh� and let's continue...
This is the writer’s first book. He switches between an omniscient observer and first-person character throughout. Tougher than it appears.
It is a story that defies categorization as you may exact from the above quote.
The outline goes something like this:
After two failed suicide attempts (you can only have one successful crack at it) Benjamin is sent to a home for troubled kids in upstate New York.
And then it gets a little ‘Clockwork Orangey.�
The school/institution is different than the ones we have read about earlier. These support both boys and girls at various stages of discontent or malaise. And it serves as an academic theatre also. There are fabricated names like “New Boys and Alternative Boys and New Girls and Alternative Girls� denoting a mental state or loss of development/progress a child makes, emotionally or scholastically.
In other words, an unconvincing program created for troubled children by an older and magnanimous man named Aubrey who owned and once lived in these structures before he turned it into a school/institution. Another man with an idea...
The kids here receive instruction in certain courses, and they also receive their meds daily. They live on campus. The staff administrators behave as puerile and naive as their patients/students. The ancillary staff is equally inept and uncertified.
This parable, allegory, is told simply and deftly. The cadence and manufactured simplicity of the writing reminds me of that Coloradan, Frederick Backman's style.
All told, this is the kind of book you will either like or not.
Why then three stars? It does seem to contradict your prior statement, david?
He wore blue velvet Bluer than velvet were his eyes Warmer than May his tender sighs -Bobby Vinton or the Moonglows, altered slightly to fit the screen sHe wore blue velvet Bluer than velvet were his eyes Warmer than May his tender sighs -Bobby Vinton or the Moonglows, altered slightly to fit the screen size
If we were to meet on the internet, which does not seem unlikely, you may think this reader is gay. And, if I were to learn little scraps about me from this site, I would think so, also. And why not? If I were to generalize, we share some generalities, as I dress up in my General’s outfit, on my way to a generic musical on Broadway, with others of a subsequent generation.
I also have fashion sense, or lack of it, fashion nonsense. Anyway, I relate more to the madras, ungapatchka clothing style of Dianne Keaton than to any other figure we would both know. I like to dress unevenly, baggy, shlumpy, layered, yet presentable and somehow distinct from the ubiquitous homeless community.
And speaking of Dianne K, I enjoy Liza Minelli, Carrie Fisher, Bette Midler, Lilly Tomlin, Ellen DeGeneres, for starters, all gay heroines. And I will admit to watching several episodes of ‘The View� on youtube.
I have my toilette; creams, pomades, lightly scented Eau de something and various other unsophisticated ablutions that most men never think of.
I have read Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, Alice in Wonderland, Anne of Green Gables, and others. And I enjoyed them.
I do not do professional sports tickets or television. Nope. I will not have it. Watching, joltingly affluent, hormonal boys swing at a ball, whether it is golf, or baseball, or cricket, does not interest me. I would rather stare at sizzling bacon than watching a player spit out his tobacco every 3 seconds.
Ach, and I watch and speak about calories and carbs and nutrition and workouts as easily as a teenage girl dives into a pool of drama. In fact, we get along well, in conversation only, of course.
And I don’t drink beer.
Okay, I am finished with the jeremiad. I needed to get those ya-ya’s out. I'm setting it up for you, Andrew, patience.
Unfortunately, for me, I still like women. Which limits my pickings to fifty percent of the population. And in this day and age, with electric eyes, new societal rules created hourly and movements weekly, std’s and iPhones, aging and our baggage, my chances feel reduced to about .05 percent of the population, which may still be too high.
I’m thinking…Plastics.
'Computer cloud' relationships for everyone. Please pass the virtual headgear, something with lace.
And so it goes.
Let me start, or get closer to the finish, by thanking a gr friend who lent me her book.
This is the first book I have read, in a long time, made out of paper and not electrodes. I think I like the Kindle better. (Amazon, that was a free plug)
A very well told story (Quixote in fuchsia) about a gay man turning fifty in this modern day world anticipating his personal devolvement. He travels around the globe, from Fez to Milan to Kyoto, Paris, attempting to escape and to make sense of his worth or lack of it. Human think.
It was both funny and unsettling, as good art aspires to be.
And, we are all the same, equivalently flawed. Arthus Less, the protagonist, shares the same human vexations that resonates with all of us.
And we throw, daily, equal-sized coins into the well of human absurdity, regardless if they are pink or blue or rainbow colored; euro or dollar, crypto or the British pound (soon to be extinct).
And this is a love story. A well-written love story.
I dislike this time of the year. It always takes all my internal strength to get through it. Perhaps, it is no different from the rest of the year, exI dislike this time of the year. It always takes all my internal strength to get through it. Perhaps, it is no different from the rest of the year, except, it seems that the stage lights are always on and it is very bright, from November to January. There is no darkness to escape to.
It reminds me of a Woody Allen joke. “When you go to have a colonoscopy, right before the procedure, they inject you with Propofol, a drug that allows you to experience the most delightful and restful sleep, while the procedure is being performed. Therefore, death must be like a colonoscopy� Problem is, life is like the prep day for it.�
This is the story of a freshly minted homeless man of sixty years and his foray into the community of the disinherited. Before this, he was like you and me. He had a roof over his head, for now, and he did not worry about this month’s food bills, for now. And he had his false friends, for now.
This necessitous group of people, (men, women and children) have always seemed nearby. I pass them every day. But that is not exactly what I am trying to impart. I have always felt that I (we) are inches away from a comparable destitution. A kiss away from being unloved. An ache away from becoming hideous. An accident away from being stranded and still. A medical condition away that drops one on an island without help or hope. And boom...we now share a crate at night under the bridge.
This population also confuses me. I have never understood what is my part in their existence. Should they be ignored? Should I contribute what I have in my pocket to them? Should I engage them in conversation or should I keep walking? To this day, I remain unreconciled. I do not have any answers. It has always caused internal turmoil. Whatever actions I may have taken have never satisfied me. I have never surfaced this sea feeling good about myself and my deeds or lack of them in regards to this segment of humanity.
It was not an easy story to read. But I needed to read it.
I just closed the book now and started writing this non-essential commentary, unaware until this moment of how it dovetailed startlingly with Thanksgiving and Christmas and the New Year.
The book has not made me an authority on the subject, but it did provide some insight into it.
I guess it is important for us all to be grateful for whatever we have, whether it is a couple of dollars in the bank, a loved one, sufficient health, the ability to read our books, and lapses of peace.
As far as I can tell, though, we are all part of the same community. We all suffer, in different degrees, throughout life.
Homeless or not.
****
On and on the rain will fall Like tears from a star Like tears from a star On and on the rain will say How fragile we are How fragile we are --Sting...more
A true story about an Australian artist. So atrociously told, that the guy who bought this book (me) suffered "Acute Misfortune."A true story about an Australian artist. So atrociously told, that the guy who bought this book (me) suffered "Acute Misfortune."...more
Son, ya� need some culture. You’se ain’t got none.
Ya wouldn’t know a Tintoretto from a Pinocchio, or a Dali from a Deli, a Monet from Money, Van Gogh Son, ya� need some culture. You’se ain’t got none.
Ya wouldn’t know a Tintoretto from a Pinocchio, or a Dali from a Deli, a Monet from Money, Van Gogh from a Go-Go, a Motherwell from a Mother lode.
Paintings.
It takes a goomba, from New Jersey, to write a book about the art of art, to enlighten the reader to the creative process of past Masters.
He was an artist himself, a wise guy, a forger.
And he was good at it. A friggin� rainmaker.
This guy made a career out of selling fake paintings that he drew. Through Sotheby’s, Christie’s.
True story.
He now lives, or lived, in a mansion in FLorida. Many of you are well schooled in art.
And you may enjoy this incredible memoir.
I liked the book. Yo, yo, yo. And me know nuttin� bout no pitchas.
There are just too many stories available to any reader, in this day of instant access, of atrocities/horrors that have befallen a child, a person, anThere are just too many stories available to any reader, in this day of instant access, of atrocities/horrors that have befallen a child, a person, an animal, a country of people.
And this is just another one of them.
The woman who authors this memoir is a politician and an attorney, both jobs of questionable personal veracity if one were to develop a ‘truth matrix.�
In a similar Didion-esque way, this story leaves a bad taste in the mouth.
I do not dabble in widely read books and I thank this book for reminding me of the error of my choice here.
For the unsophisticated, Enquirer minds, who do not invest in heavier reads, and who reside in a place called ‘Schadenfreude,� this is more popcorn for them. A movie with plenty of CGI will satiate the reader of this sort as well.
Under the false guise of feminism, activism, professionalism, underlies a misandry that I cannot accept. Her world does not admit gentlemen into it, they simply do not matter, although she admittingly is constantly victimized by women. Yes, she uses enough sleight of hand that could shield her against this claim. But an abused person, who has read too many pleadings in a lifetime, can determine this quickly. What about your brother Norman? Maybe a word or two?
And Daddy. Now, using your narrative, your mother may have slept with one, five or fifteen different men the nine months prior to when you were born. That is not a father, that is a one-night stand of your mother's choosing. But as a DA in NY who insists on seeing her procreator, you can make that man squirm to heel, courtroom (yours), even though he is old and sick and may not even know he has had a child. Bully.
Annoyingly, she perceives herself as a Mother Theresa, no curse words and only interested in helping the helpless. Four hundred pages of self-aggrandizement can only be penned by a practicing JD and/or a politician, who are, mostly, one and the same.
The author is kind enough to throw in the first chapter of her upcoming book which appears to be a rehash of the same story, albeit, this time through her sister’s eyes. A sort of cottage industry, 'monetizing abuse.' Feh.
Waning tolerance is the result of inexact and specious words. Also, rocky narrative and omissions by intent are illegal in the land of autobiographical prose, more so when serious social defects are at issue.
'A million little pieces.'
It is unlawful to waste the serious reader's time; a silent accord, no affiant or affidavit required.
And please, stop the bullying, Ms. Calcaterra, Esq. This constant commination by your legal community is not only inappropriate but it offers the same strong-armed effect that seems de rigueur throughout this country nowadays by your underground profession, and is resented by your typical American. I have had to eliminate or report too many comments from your buddies. And you are all from the same area.
I will reprint this review everytime I am blindsided by one of your professional famiglia. Capiche?
Your audacity never ceases to amaze. You are a bully.
Reading in this country is not a contact sport....more
Another enjoyable Bryson read. The author lived in England for a while and humorously discusses the country intimately. It goes on a bit long, neverthAnother enjoyable Bryson read. The author lived in England for a while and humorously discusses the country intimately. It goes on a bit long, nevertheless occasionally funny. Everything you ever wanted to know about England but were afraid to ask....more
To know now that I knew so little about Zimbabwe is nothing short of shameful. To know now that Mugabe still rules there, a decade after thiStunning.
To know now that I knew so little about Zimbabwe is nothing short of shameful. To know now that Mugabe still rules there, a decade after this true tale was written, is alarming. Westerners hear what they are sold, and we can go on about Syria, Venezuela, N. Korea, Yemen, and other hotspots that make the news.
But that Zimbabwe still exists as it did, and is still subjugated to Mugabe as it has been for so long, is further proof that good and evil coexist, and it will always be this way. We are only impotent and temporary audience members watching the world as it will always be until it becomes our time to leave.
As for you, old man Mugabe, with your billions of dollars in ready assets, and at ninety-two years old, share a million or two here and there with your dehydrated, famished, and impoverished nation. What are you saving it for? Central air conditioning in Hell?
And how do you sleep at night? You piece of___....more
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