"The greatest disgrace of humankind is the failure of the strong to protect the weak. We don't need monsters. We are the monsters." —Jess Kidd, The"The greatest disgrace of humankind is the failure of the strong to protect the weak. We don't need monsters. We are the monsters." —Jess Kidd, The Night Ship
Ahoy there, me hearties! Arrr! Any landlubber who knows me knows that this swashbuckler is a huge fan of Jess Kidd's figurative writing and that I have lovingly devoured each of her previous delights. So, with my mainsail hoisted, I set off for the Dutch East Indies with a sextant in one hand and Cap'n Kidd's book in the other.
Inspired by real events (the sinking of a Dutch merchant ship, The Batavia off the coast of Australia in 1628), the story unfolded slowly … knowingly … teasingly … deliciously. "Someone polish my barnacles!" I shouted. "This has five stars written all over it!" The story is told across two timelines: In 1628, Mayken, a nonconformist girl, finds herself on a ship where dark folklore and omens gather like clouds. In 1989, Gil, a nonconformist youngster, finds himself on a haunted fishermen's island off the coast of Australia.
To begin with, this was a "shiver me timbers and bite your fingers off" kind of book. It was foreshadowed and back shadowed up to its briny armpits and I was loving every bit of it! With echoes of Moby Dick, Mutiny on the Bounty and The Creature from the Black Lagoon thrown in for good measure, I was all hands on deck, keen to see which unutterable curiosities lay beyond the horizon.
Alas, despite its resplendent start, the book ran aground towards the end. The promise of unimaginable wonders and a nightmarish sea monster never materialised and the story just fizzled out like a damp squid squib. I envisaged a gargantuan sea monster darkening the entire horizon and spreading across the sky; I imagined the carved figureheads on the ship's bow coming to life. I wanted Kidd to go large on my helping of magical realism, but it never materialised
Because I loved where it was going before everything capsized into dullness, and because I'm a fan of Jess Kidd's poetic prose, I'm still going to award it four stars. But her debut novel, Himself, is far, far better, in my humble opinion.
My nautical star-rating system. ***** "Ship-shape and Bristol fashion." **** "Land ahoy!" *** "Aye, aye, Cap'n!" ** "Walk the plank, you scurvy dog!" * "Abandon ship!"...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
"Russia reminds me of the pomegranate before it went rotten." —Zoya Jachmenev
Eighty-year-old Georgy Jachmenev, an obstinate man not given to frivol"Russia reminds me of the pomegranate before it went rotten." —Zoya Jachmenev
Eighty-year-old Georgy Jachmenev, an obstinate man not given to frivolity or casual pleasantries, is troubled by his past. Having escaped the horrors of the Bolshevik rebellion in his Russian homeland, he finds employment and sanctuary within the indexed walls of The British Museum Library. Decades later, no one could possibly imagine that this secretive killjoy did something so selflessly heroic back in 1916 that it earned him a placement of trust within the gilded confines of the Tsar's palace.
Without even allowing me the chance to belt out a thunderous chorus of a ...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.
Oh, come on, Goodreads! : ) Inviting an author to review his own book is like asking a fox to look after your hens! It beggars belief, it really does, aOh, come on, Goodreads! : ) Inviting an author to review his own book is like asking a fox to look after your hens! It beggars belief, it really does, and I don't approve of it one bit. No, siree! My inner voice beseeched me to do the ethical thing and award this dreary offering just one humble star, that I may be a beacon for all that is good and virtuous in this conceited world. Then I told myself to stop being such a crybaby and fill it up to the top! So I did! : )...more
"It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight." —Tristan Sadler’s father.
God, I appreciate you, John Boyne; with your head"It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight." —Tristan Sadler’s father.
God, I appreciate you, John Boyne; with your head as smooth as a baby's bottom, your sparkling pixie eyes and your creative bloody genius. You were my go-to author when I hit a run of lamentable reads and you didn't let me down, you wonderful man.
The story begins in 1919, post-WWI England, in my own city of Norwich (I don't actually own it, I just live here). Tristan Sadler is the custodian of letters that were sent to his wartime buddy, Will Bancroft, by Bancroft's sister, Marian.
Told in alternating time periods, we learn of the men's kinship, forged in the tyranny of army training. Truths are implied, rather than divulged, allowing the reader to anticipate what is to follow. In fact, Boyne uses the 'show and not tell' technique to great effect for much of the story. Revelations are drip-fed as slowly as coffee through a Gaggia machine; themes of repressed homosexuality, unrequited love, betrayal, and an army's pack mentality are tossed into the bear pit of war. Boyne's signature dish is a serving of flawed main character. Tristan is one such character: as stubborn as a mule; doesn't think outside the box; is ruled by his heart; is petulant and jealous; is sometimes brave, yet sometimes cowardly. Oh, it's all here, folks: the foul, sludgy, shitty, rat-infested, murderous horror of the trenches and the complexities of human relationships in an era when anything more than a handshake between men would have elicited feelings of revulsion. This mini-epic held my interest throughout. It was thought-provoking, anger-inducing and at times searingly heart-breaking. And prepare yourselves for one devastating moment… Gasp. So cataclysmically moving ... please, please... NO-OOO!!!
John Boyne doesn't do tedium. He writes gutsy, emotive books that you miss when you're away from them. And the ending was befitting, revelatory and clever.
Three cheers for John Boyne and his absorbing storytelling! Hip, hip......more
"My son, here may indeed be torment, but not death." —Dante (Purgatorio)
There really, really must be something wrong with me. Many of my esteemed Go"My son, here may indeed be torment, but not death." —Dante (Purgatorio)
There really, really must be something wrong with me. Many of my esteemed Goodreads friends, whose rave reviews I have a lot of faith in, are smitten with George Saunders' book. It's even won the blimmin' Booker Prize for crying out loud!
Um, where to begin? he grimaces, wringing his hands in the manner of a doctor delivering bad news.
I tried my hardest to like it, I really did - in the same way I once tried to like green smoothies first thing in the morning, until I came to the realisation that a nice cup of Earl Grey was still a better option! Booker Prize, or no Booker Prize, I would be lying if I said that I enjoyed this irksome offering. A patchwork quilt of musings, transcripts, obituaries and purgatorial grumblings does not (in my humble opinion) form a novel. Sandwiched somewhere between Saunders' rectangles of anecdotal nonsense is a soulful, heart-rending human interest tale that deserves to be told. I rather hoped that he would give up on this clunky gimmick and get on with writing something resembling an actual story but, alas, he continued in the same vein until the bitter end. This, to me, was the literary equivalent of scrolling through someone else's text messages (except I would have derived more pleasure from reading someone else's text messages). And why do some ghosts even bother to self-censor their swear words with dashes? Whose delicate sensibilities are they worried about upsetting? Everybody's dead anyway! It's so f--king annoying! I apologise to everyone who has swooned over this body of work. There is a very good chance that my antipathy might betray a complete lack of good taste and understanding on my part.
In fairness, I do see this working better as an audiobook, or as a stage play. But as a novel? Nope, not for me. Not in this lifetime anyway. Sorry. : (...more
"Ivashov and his men were sleeping in their sleds when, at a prearranged sign, the Midnooskies crushed each of the men's skulls with axes."
At firs"Ivashov and his men were sleeping in their sleds when, at a prearranged sign, the Midnooskies crushed each of the men's skulls with axes."
At first glance this is a story that I shouldn't like: it's essentially an account of an expedition into the frozen wilds of Alaska, expressed in the form of diaries and historical documents. Sounds boring, right? Wronggg!!! This is, in fact, an epic tale of love, nature, historical adventure and North American mythology that had me absorbed from start to finish.
It's 1885: Dutiful and capable Lieutenant-Colonel Allen Forrester leads a reconnaissance mission into Alaska, up the Wolverine River, to gauge whether the natives of the territory would be hostile or not. At the same time, his pregnant wife, Sophie Forrester, is confined to Vancouver Barracks. Optimistic, ladylike and resolute (think Charlotte Brontë), she keeps a journal of her daily life, as does her hubby. Sophie's snug life of self-discovery and afternoon teas forms the perfect contrast to her husband's grim and perilous odyssey.
With the words of his blood & guts father, General James Forrester, ringing in his ears (that his preference for topographical engineering is for sissies) Allen has nevertheless previously shown his mettle in the heat of battle.
Ivey's prose is precise and evocative, rather than poetic and descriptive. It is this verisimilitude that gives the story some grit and amplifies the magic that is braided into the narrative. The novel is extremely well written, which is a benediction these days. Particularly groovy was a description of bats as being "mice who swim with the stars." Love that!
Those accompanying him on the trip include boisterous hell-raiser, Sergeant Tillman, and Tillman's polar opposite, brooding Lieutenant Pruitt, who prefers a sextant to sex. Also in the party is an old Eyak Indian, known as "The Man Who Flies on Black Wings." This chap sleeps at the top of trees in the dead of night and is said to possess unearthly powers.
And this is where the story gets really interesting... As a fan of magical realism, I love Ivey's sorcerous incantation of anthropomorphism and zoomorphism. Native folklore and perceived reality become blurred; it is believed that humans have been seen shape-shifting into animals and that trees can double up as wombs! As a result, Forrester's white man scepticism is sorely tested on the assignment. The wilderness of wintry Alaska, with its frozen rivers and deep-set snow, is best suited to mineral prospectors and fur trappers and if anyone can survive that, Spring awaits with its squadrons of ceaseless mosquitoes.
Comic relief comes in the form of Sergeant Tillman who has a bash at writing the daily log while his scholarly superior is indisposed. Unforchinitly his speling and grammer isnt as gud as wot forristers is. : )
Side by side throughout the book, yet a hinterland apart, Allen's indomitable spirit is mirrored by his wife's determination to challenge chauvinistic attitudes back at the barracks. The dichotomy of their parallel existence is a constant theme throughout, as is the symbolism of the colour black: black wolf; black raven; black hat; black bear, etcetera.
This has all the ingredients of a first-rate novel and serves as a sad reminder that the Native American's soulful connection with nature is now only the stuff of legend.
Homeric and allegorical, To the Bright Edge of the World is a cracking read that cannot be ignored. Huge thanks to Cheri for her judicious recommendation....more
I read this yonks ago as a teenager, while wishing to appear more intelligent than I actually was. I even seem to remember contemplating the wearing oI read this yonks ago as a teenager, while wishing to appear more intelligent than I actually was. I even seem to remember contemplating the wearing of lensless spectacles at one point! Set against a backdrop of Napolean's invasion of Mother Russia, Tolstoy delves deep into the collective human soul of Russian high society to bring us a sweeping soap opera that alternates between the dissimilarity of costumed balls and muddy battlefields. What is unforgivably true is that I periodically skipped entire chapters, such was my hurry to finish the blessed thing! It is hard work; don't believe anyone who says it isn't. Most probably also trying to pretend that they're cleverer than they actually are! : ) But I can't blame Leo Tolstoy for my teenage incapacity. I knew it to be a magnificent novel then and I certainly know it to be true now....more
. . I say! Has some sneaky blighter slipped something horrid into Louis de Bernières' cocoa?
I am a huge, huge fan of the great man's work, but this, my e. . I say! Has some sneaky blighter slipped something horrid into Louis de Bernières' cocoa?
I am a huge, 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 on in the background.
Make no mistake, there is a truly remarkable story here. Problem is it's buried under 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 intention of keeping him on board: "Yeah, love it, love it, LOVE IT, Louie babes! No need to change a thing! Mwah! Mwah! And Mwah! Ciao, catch you later, Loozy Woozy!"
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 the 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 different shades of something or other.
But we've been here several times 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, hey, you're still one of my faves!...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 Goodreads 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 “Opa!”
God, it was truly a great read, fully deserving of all five stars!...more
With judicious historical authenticity, Annelisa Christensen presents us with a remarkable tale of mistrust, fal
Elizabeth Cellier, the Caped Crusader.
With judicious historical authenticity, Annelisa Christensen presents us with a remarkable tale of mistrust, falsehoods and betrayal, based on real-life events that occurred in 17th century England.
Cape-wearing Elizabeth Cellier, erstwhile exponent of Catholic girl power and righter of wrongs, is fraudulently implicated in a Popish plot to kill King Charles II, of England. This is a deeply humane book, and I suspect that if you were to ask the author, it was also a labour of love. Christensen perfectly depicts an era in which Catholics were zealously persecuted, and birthing mothers were gynaecologically butchered by untrained midwives who would have been better-employed in an abattoir.
In this epoch of English history, if you were a Popist (Catholic), treading the filth-ridden streets of London, you were most definitely in the wrong neighbourhood. Back then, you ran the risk of a severe beating, or being murdered, just for following a different religion. Sadly, in certain parts of our world, such extreme intolerance is still pervasive.
Cellier’s story is beautifully-written; her indefatigable heroism and the dialogue of the period are perfectly realised by the author. And there are sparkling moments of humour too: Elizabeth is granted an audience with the King and warns him of the assassination plot. His Majesty, who doesn’t go a day without hearing of some plot or another, finds the whole thing hilarious. “I am verily the most murdered King of England!” He jests.
Overall, despite some grammatical inconsistencies, and a frugality of character imagery (I have no idea what Elizabeth Cellier looks like), this was a splendid read that had me rooting for the Popish Midwife from start to finish.
A praiseworthy début by English author, Annelisa Christensen. ...more
"Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, what Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; and there she lies, a pearl." -William Shakesp
"Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, what Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; and there she lies, a pearl." -William Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida
This book is a sweeping work of fiction, based on true events that occurred in India and Bhutan in the early 1930s. Suffragist, half-Irish expat, Christina Devenish, sets up a birth control clinic in Bombay, which is seen by the indigenous locals as a provocative insult to both Islam and Hinduism. (view spoiler)[A baying mob of rioters storms her clinic, setting fire to it, causing the horrific burning to death of her Indian co-worker. (hide spoiler)]
Our heroine is invited to recuperate in Bhutan by her father, who is an advisor at the court of Shabdrung, Bhutan's deified version of the Dalai Lama. Thereupon ensues a British expedition to the Himalayas, which sees our emancipated heroine embarking on a love affair with Major Owen Davies, who might possibly have a hidden agenda.
The story is extremely well-written, although many of the scenes are short of visual abstraction and some of the human relationships are only half-realised....more
"They said that I stole the breath from men, and now they must steal mine."
An impressive first novel from young Australian writer, Hannah Kent. Thi"They said that I stole the breath from men, and now they must steal mine."
An impressive first novel from young Australian writer, Hannah Kent. This disquieting tale is based on historical events that happened in Iceland almost two centuries ago.
Agnes Magnúsdóttir was a local woman condemned to death for murder in 1829. This is her story re-imagined by the author for our reading pleasure.
Because there were no jails in 19th century Iceland, Agnes is billeted with an understandably reluctant family who already have enough on their plate eking out a meagre existence on an isolated farm (Jails, pah! Who needs jails, eh?) Fast forward to the present day and there isn't one single McDonald's on the entire island, which seems a more sensible idea altogether.
Time is running out for Agnes, and the executioner's axe looms large (beheading being the punishment of choice at the time).
The story is well-crafted and meticulously researched. Kent totally nails the island's haunting beauty and the divided loyalties of its people. Set against a backdrop of long Nordic days, with their constant gloaming, this is a remarkable début novel.
I cannot fault the author's evocative prose, but if I were to be picky, the characters were thinly-drawn and the dialogue was stilted at times.
2 out 5 for the characterisation. 5 out of 5 for the prose.
Now, let's see: using the arithmetic formula of 2 + 5, multiplied by 2, d being the common difference, divide that by 2, add 7, divide by 4 ...um, oh God, where was I? I'm not Albert bloody Einstein y'know! Yep, got it! That comes to 3.5, which I've bumped up to 4 because Hannah Kent has added a delightfully honest account of what led her to write the novel in the first place. Loved that bit!...more
Stating the blindingly obvious is our supernatural narrator, none other than Death himself, aka The gri"HERE IS A SMALL FACT you are going to die."
Stating the blindingly obvious is our supernatural narrator, none other than Death himself, aka The grim Reaper (an innovative gambit that doesn't quite work, in my opinion).
Almost a book for older children, The Book Thief can also be appreciated by adults. That said, the jejeune innocence of the book, given that some of the characters' lives are imperiled by Nazi oppression, did begin to niggle after a while.
Liedel, the young book thief in question, discovers that the reading of illicit novels empowers her in a way that enchants and delights her. But a whitewashed copy of Mein Kampf, and the fact that Hitler was also an avid reader, provide proof that books are not always the beneficial influence we customarily believe.
The novel is at times playful, and also charmingly life-affirming. It's rather plainly written for my own personal taste, but still plucked at my heartstrings in a way that surprised me.
(Mrs A, the true arbiter of taste in our household, disagrees with me entirely, stating that it was beautifully written and that it elicited real emotions). My rating: 3 stars Mrs A: 4 stars...more
Despite historical fiction not being my thang, there is no doubt that O'Connor is an astonishingly accomplished writer. A book that will transport youDespite historical fiction not being my thang, there is no doubt that O'Connor is an astonishingly accomplished writer. A book that will transport you back in time, to a wintry voyage in the mid-1880s, where a vengeful killer hides in plain view......more
From lovelorn soldiers, knee-deep in French mud, to privileged ladies taking tea in Blighty, Birdsong is a war story that appeals to both sexes. ClassFrom lovelorn soldiers, knee-deep in French mud, to privileged ladies taking tea in Blighty, Birdsong is a war story that appeals to both sexes. Class war/ real war; there are so many dimensions to this thunderous epic. Through unaffected prose, Faulks manipulates our emotions in a way that few authors can. My wife proclaims this to be her most favourite read, and were she to have typed this review, it would have attracted an easy five stars....more
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