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MY THOUGHTS ABOUT THE BOOKS I'VE READ
I read a lot. Okay, maybe not a lot, but about one book per week. I’m grateful to be gifted with the desire to dive into the words of other writers in a quest for entertainment, understanding—basically, an awakening*.
* A Honky’s version of becoming woke. In that spirit, every book you see in my I Love It section: I loved!?! I find giving these books a score pointless. I try to share how the books made me feel as opposed to firing out a synopsis. Every book on these pages deserves 5 STARS! Because,who the hell, am I, to try to tell anyone else what to like? And because, unless the book is filled with hate, writing is hard, writers deserve to be encouraged to keep writing. Unless of course, you suck as a writer, even then, keep writing, one day you might stop sucking. 
(I TRY TO REFRAIN FROM SHARING THOUGHTS ON BOOKS I DON'T LIKE)
ULTIMATE RATING SCALE
5 STARS = 5 STARS
5 STARS? = Less than or greater than 5 STARS - YOU DECIDE
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LEGENDS OF THE FALLJim HARRISONA riveting + breathtakingly timeless classic, blasting readers into yesteryear.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Harrison writes with deft aplomb whisking the characters off of the pages to such an extent, it feels like they will haunt you throughout each day.
“The Texas girl was lovely, long-limbed, intelligent but far too young to be daffy: she was a house that wanted to be haunted while Miryea, only a few years older, was haunted.”
In his stories, he writes of times long gone by, walking lockstep with damaged characters he most surely must have encountered in his previous lives. As I turned the pages, I felt as if I was transported onto the pages alongside him, feeling the pain, sorrow, growth, and joy of these richly flawed humans, much like each of us living in today’s tumultuous times. The paths of the characters in his riveting stories are infinitely different than ours, but are they? We all struggle, we all wish we could control our destinies; what Harrison expounds is perhaps whatever is meant to be will be, and we need to simply dive into our existences and simply enjoy the ride.
Try to tell me this, “He was past regretting for the moment how he tracked mud from one part of his life into another.” --is not you + every living being on this spinning rock?
Legends of the Fall is a wonderous literary masterpiece containing three stories that allows us to escape into ourselves and hopefully come out stronger long after the last word is read.
That’s how this book made me feel!
Stay Safe. Wear a mask. Be Kind.
WRITTEN: November 19, 2020
Harrison writes with deft aplomb whisking the characters off of the pages to such an extent, it feels like they will haunt you throughout each day.
“The Texas girl was lovely, long-limbed, intelligent but far too young to be daffy: she was a house that wanted to be haunted while Miryea, only a few years older, was haunted.”
In his stories, he writes of times long gone by, walking lockstep with damaged characters he most surely must have encountered in his previous lives. As I turned the pages, I felt as if I was transported onto the pages alongside him, feeling the pain, sorrow, growth, and joy of these richly flawed humans, much like each of us living in today’s tumultuous times. The paths of the characters in his riveting stories are infinitely different than ours, but are they? We all struggle, we all wish we could control our destinies; what Harrison expounds is perhaps whatever is meant to be will be, and we need to simply dive into our existences and simply enjoy the ride.
Try to tell me this, “He was past regretting for the moment how he tracked mud from one part of his life into another.” --is not you + every living being on this spinning rock?
Legends of the Fall is a wonderous literary masterpiece containing three stories that allows us to escape into ourselves and hopefully come out stronger long after the last word is read.
That’s how this book made me feel!
Stay Safe. Wear a mask. Be Kind.
WRITTEN: November 19, 2020
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ANXIOUS PEOPLEFredrick BACKMANAbsolutely💯 perfectly splendidly 👌 delicious 😋
5+ STARS |
Absolutely💯 perfectly splendidly 👌 delicious😋
How did the book make me feel/think?
I literally couldn’t put this book down, well, that’s a load of hooey—and incontrovertibly a misuse of the word literally. I hate when persons, including me, misuse literally. Of course, this has nothing to do with the book, or my ability to put it down. For my literal statement to be true, the book would have to be a never-ending book, or somehow fastened to my arms with me being unable to unfasten. So, perhaps, utterly would have been a better word choice; until it came time to walk. I was going to say eat, but sometimes I devour food while reading not paying attention to what I’m stuffing down my gullet. So, until it came time to walk, makes more sense. I don’t read books while walking. Some people do. That confuses me. Of course, none of this pertains to the book.
About the book. Mr. Backman speaks a language I understand.
“English?”
“Yes,” but I mean written words. I laughed out loud, loudly on several pages, guffawed actually, “Is this candy?” “It’s an eraser.” ”Stop eating everything.” “I was only asking.” And turn the page, I cried, “You love each other until you can’t live without each other. And even if you stop loving each other for a little while, you can’t…you can’t live without each other.”
And then, or the opposite of, and then, a rabbit craps, try to get that out of your mind.
Anxious People is now my most-est favourite book!
I couldn’t put it down. I didn’t want to put it down. I wanted more pages. Backman has a way of reading like a friend you never want to let go. This is as close to perfect a book can be.
I’ll leave you with this, how do we know that love is winning: “All the apartments that aren’t for sale.”
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
How did the book make me feel/think?
I literally couldn’t put this book down, well, that’s a load of hooey—and incontrovertibly a misuse of the word literally. I hate when persons, including me, misuse literally. Of course, this has nothing to do with the book, or my ability to put it down. For my literal statement to be true, the book would have to be a never-ending book, or somehow fastened to my arms with me being unable to unfasten. So, perhaps, utterly would have been a better word choice; until it came time to walk. I was going to say eat, but sometimes I devour food while reading not paying attention to what I’m stuffing down my gullet. So, until it came time to walk, makes more sense. I don’t read books while walking. Some people do. That confuses me. Of course, none of this pertains to the book.
About the book. Mr. Backman speaks a language I understand.
“English?”
“Yes,” but I mean written words. I laughed out loud, loudly on several pages, guffawed actually, “Is this candy?” “It’s an eraser.” ”Stop eating everything.” “I was only asking.” And turn the page, I cried, “You love each other until you can’t live without each other. And even if you stop loving each other for a little while, you can’t…you can’t live without each other.”
And then, or the opposite of, and then, a rabbit craps, try to get that out of your mind.
Anxious People is now my most-est favourite book!
I couldn’t put it down. I didn’t want to put it down. I wanted more pages. Backman has a way of reading like a friend you never want to let go. This is as close to perfect a book can be.
I’ll leave you with this, how do we know that love is winning: “All the apartments that aren’t for sale.”
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
Helt 💯 helt utmärkt 👌 utsökt😋
Jag kunde bokstavligen inte lägga ner den här boken, ja, det är en massa hooey - och obestridligt ett missbruk av ordet bokstavligen. Jag hatar när personer, inklusive jag, missbrukar bokstavligen. Naturligtvis har detta ingenting att göra med boken eller min förmåga att lägga ner den. För att mitt bokstavliga uttalande ska vara sant, måste boken vara en oändlig bok, eller på något sätt fästas i mina armar med att jag inte kan lossa. Så, kanske, helt hade varit ett bättre ordval; tills det var dags att gå. Jag tänkte säga ät, men ibland slukar jag mat medan jag läser utan att vara uppmärksam på vad jag fyller ner min spets. Så tills det var dags att gå är det mer meningsfullt. Jag läser inte böcker när jag går. Vissa människor gör det. Det förvirrar mig. Naturligtvis avser inget av detta boken.
Om boken. Mr. Backman talar ett språk jag förstår.
"Engelsk?"
"Ja", men jag menar skrivna ord. Jag skrattade högt, högt på flera sidor, gissade faktiskt: "Är detta godis?" "Det är ett suddgummi." ”Sluta äta allt.” ”Jag frågade bara. ” Och vänd på sidan, ropade jag, ”Ni älskar varandra tills ni inte kan leva utan varandra. Och även om du slutar älska varandra en liten stund kan du inte ... du kan inte leva utan varandra. ”
Och sedan, eller motsatsen till, och sedan, en kanin craps, försök att få det din dig.
Anxious People är nu min mest favoritbok! Jag kunde inte lägga ner det. Jag ville inte lägga ner det. Jag ville ha fler sidor. Backman har ett sätt att läsa som en vän du aldrig vill släppa taget. Det här är så nära perfekt som en bok kan vara.
Jag lämnar dig med detta, hur vet vi att kärleken vinner: "Alla lägenheter som inte är till salu."
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
Jag kunde bokstavligen inte lägga ner den här boken, ja, det är en massa hooey - och obestridligt ett missbruk av ordet bokstavligen. Jag hatar när personer, inklusive jag, missbrukar bokstavligen. Naturligtvis har detta ingenting att göra med boken eller min förmåga att lägga ner den. För att mitt bokstavliga uttalande ska vara sant, måste boken vara en oändlig bok, eller på något sätt fästas i mina armar med att jag inte kan lossa. Så, kanske, helt hade varit ett bättre ordval; tills det var dags att gå. Jag tänkte säga ät, men ibland slukar jag mat medan jag läser utan att vara uppmärksam på vad jag fyller ner min spets. Så tills det var dags att gå är det mer meningsfullt. Jag läser inte böcker när jag går. Vissa människor gör det. Det förvirrar mig. Naturligtvis avser inget av detta boken.
Om boken. Mr. Backman talar ett språk jag förstår.
"Engelsk?"
"Ja", men jag menar skrivna ord. Jag skrattade högt, högt på flera sidor, gissade faktiskt: "Är detta godis?" "Det är ett suddgummi." ”Sluta äta allt.” ”Jag frågade bara. ” Och vänd på sidan, ropade jag, ”Ni älskar varandra tills ni inte kan leva utan varandra. Och även om du slutar älska varandra en liten stund kan du inte ... du kan inte leva utan varandra. ”
Och sedan, eller motsatsen till, och sedan, en kanin craps, försök att få det din dig.
Anxious People är nu min mest favoritbok! Jag kunde inte lägga ner det. Jag ville inte lägga ner det. Jag ville ha fler sidor. Backman har ett sätt att läsa som en vän du aldrig vill släppa taget. Det här är så nära perfekt som en bok kan vara.
Jag lämnar dig med detta, hur vet vi att kärleken vinner: "Alla lägenheter som inte är till salu."
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
13
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ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDEGabriel Garcia MARQUEZA little gold, goldfish swims by, someone discovers ice, someone levitates...
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I once worked with an editor who compared my writing to Marquez.
The cover says Nobel Prize Winner. This sounds promising!
The chapters are all around twenty pages, some of the paragraphs run for five, I tried to read a few paragraphs out loud in one take, I became breathless; for an English speaking Canadian, the Spanish names became jumbled; a little gold, goldfish swims by, someone discovers ice, someone levitates, there are endless wars threatening a mythical make-believe town—I think?—outsiders from a banana company bring a mix of wealth and despair—I think?—the fabric of the town is torn, threatened to be ripped to shreds—some people have sex, sometimes with the underaged, maybe with animals—I’m not sure?—people age, someone eats the earth, someone is beautiful, someone is not, a hundred years pass, give or take a hundred years. I’m confused. Seriously, the words leave the page entering my cranium, but before they lay down to ruminate, they POOF!—are gone, everything flows in a conundrum of descriptions—am I high?—no, just reading.
What?
For heaven’s sake: I don’t know.
An editor I worked with compared my writing to Marquez. I must ask myself what it is I have just read because it most certainly: beats me.
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
I once worked with an editor who compared my writing to Marquez.
The cover says Nobel Prize Winner. This sounds promising!
The chapters are all around twenty pages, some of the paragraphs run for five, I tried to read a few paragraphs out loud in one take, I became breathless; for an English speaking Canadian, the Spanish names became jumbled; a little gold, goldfish swims by, someone discovers ice, someone levitates, there are endless wars threatening a mythical make-believe town—I think?—outsiders from a banana company bring a mix of wealth and despair—I think?—the fabric of the town is torn, threatened to be ripped to shreds—some people have sex, sometimes with the underaged, maybe with animals—I’m not sure?—people age, someone eats the earth, someone is beautiful, someone is not, a hundred years pass, give or take a hundred years. I’m confused. Seriously, the words leave the page entering my cranium, but before they lay down to ruminate, they POOF!—are gone, everything flows in a conundrum of descriptions—am I high?—no, just reading.
What?
For heaven’s sake: I don’t know.
An editor I worked with compared my writing to Marquez. I must ask myself what it is I have just read because it most certainly: beats me.
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
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THE TOPEKA SCOOLBen LERNERA story suggesting white identity might be nothing but a stunted metaphor.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
This is a tough one to write my thoughts on.
Did I love it?
Hate it?
Understand it?
Somewhere in between?
How do we live life to its fullest when we are continually struggling to belong, define, and be more?
I grew up in insular Saskatchewan. Why is that relevant?
Saskatchewan shares threads with Kansas. Cultural non-diversity creates a world of cultural misappropriation. We want what we can’t have; we want to be whom we are not, while at the same time condemning the various things, we so desire.
White entitled, sheltered kids, lost souls, all growing up in the same houses, filled with identical bedrooms, kitchens, garages, lives, often lashing out at what they don’t understand, lacking the travels to grasp how deficient in thought they really are. They strike out at those they reckon weaker. They shout out racist hymns while at the same time spreading rap lyrics at a furious pace, while their pants hang down. An identity crisis brews; it is stirred by the generations before trapped in the same spinning vortices and trapped in the death throes of dying marriages. Their lakes are manmade, their lives are shaded, but translucent, they need to feel superior. They’re not. They don’t comprehend they need to struggle to grow; they need to look outside of their own needs—or their growth will become nothing more than a stunted metaphor.
I moved away from insular Saskatchewan (a beautiful place). I discovered I’m not the only one who matters. I’m not entitled; my identity was blown apart by familial darkness. I’m trying to grow. I want to grow.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
This is a tough one to write my thoughts on.
Did I love it?
Hate it?
Understand it?
Somewhere in between?
How do we live life to its fullest when we are continually struggling to belong, define, and be more?
I grew up in insular Saskatchewan. Why is that relevant?
Saskatchewan shares threads with Kansas. Cultural non-diversity creates a world of cultural misappropriation. We want what we can’t have; we want to be whom we are not, while at the same time condemning the various things, we so desire.
White entitled, sheltered kids, lost souls, all growing up in the same houses, filled with identical bedrooms, kitchens, garages, lives, often lashing out at what they don’t understand, lacking the travels to grasp how deficient in thought they really are. They strike out at those they reckon weaker. They shout out racist hymns while at the same time spreading rap lyrics at a furious pace, while their pants hang down. An identity crisis brews; it is stirred by the generations before trapped in the same spinning vortices and trapped in the death throes of dying marriages. Their lakes are manmade, their lives are shaded, but translucent, they need to feel superior. They’re not. They don’t comprehend they need to struggle to grow; they need to look outside of their own needs—or their growth will become nothing more than a stunted metaphor.
I moved away from insular Saskatchewan (a beautiful place). I discovered I’m not the only one who matters. I’m not entitled; my identity was blown apart by familial darkness. I’m trying to grow. I want to grow.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: November 8, 2020
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PEOPLE ALWAYS ASK ME (ARC)Robert CONFIANTA story about perseverance + overcoming the most formidable odds.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
In “People Always Ask Me,” Robert Confiant swings the door wide open into his life, a life rife with challenges because being gay with a disability—could be nothing more than rife.
What makes this read a compelling gem is Confiant’s sparsity in the usage of language. Reading it flowed from page-page without being bogged down with fluff or a need to overdramatize his realities. Life can be challenging, throw in gayness, and the difficulty quotient increases tenfold or more—mix in a debilitating disability—how could any of us articulate what we feel or find the empathy to understand the daunting hurdles, anyone, with that mix of characteristics would have to endure?
We may not have the capacity to walk a mile (for Confiant, walking, a challenge in itself) in Robert’s shoes—but what we can do is listen (read).
Confiant deftly uses his ease of language in sharing his struggles, without whining about the cards he’s been dealt—how?—with an unflinching dose of courage—it’s perhaps, all he knew—but courage, nonetheless.
A difficult upbringing. A thirst for belonging. A struggle to thrive. Gay. And yet, Robert falls, gets up, trips into depression and avoidance, but somehow, gets up again, moves on, and keeps clawing upward, forward.
One passage highlights how far humanity has come. Yet, I found it upsetting and shining a burning light on how far we still need to go—Confiant finds love, he moves with his husband to the judgment of the Bible Belt in British Columbia (Abbotsford). Yet, “I believe our not being so out, and in your face, about being gay has helped us integrate within the community so effortlessly.”
It’s a shame that with all Confiant has had to overcome throughout this captivating journey through his life, he still feels “not being so out” is something he must do to fit in.
Confiant has had to withstand more than most people would have to in several lifetimes. His story is an essential read and a testament to his strength of character.
It is a must-read for anyone, gay, disabled, straight: offering a glimmer of hope that with the strength of will and perseverance, you can overcome, thrive, and look at the bright side of life regardless of the shade continually being thrown your way!
WRITTEN: October 28, 2020
In “People Always Ask Me,” Robert Confiant swings the door wide open into his life, a life rife with challenges because being gay with a disability—could be nothing more than rife.
What makes this read a compelling gem is Confiant’s sparsity in the usage of language. Reading it flowed from page-page without being bogged down with fluff or a need to overdramatize his realities. Life can be challenging, throw in gayness, and the difficulty quotient increases tenfold or more—mix in a debilitating disability—how could any of us articulate what we feel or find the empathy to understand the daunting hurdles, anyone, with that mix of characteristics would have to endure?
We may not have the capacity to walk a mile (for Confiant, walking, a challenge in itself) in Robert’s shoes—but what we can do is listen (read).
Confiant deftly uses his ease of language in sharing his struggles, without whining about the cards he’s been dealt—how?—with an unflinching dose of courage—it’s perhaps, all he knew—but courage, nonetheless.
A difficult upbringing. A thirst for belonging. A struggle to thrive. Gay. And yet, Robert falls, gets up, trips into depression and avoidance, but somehow, gets up again, moves on, and keeps clawing upward, forward.
One passage highlights how far humanity has come. Yet, I found it upsetting and shining a burning light on how far we still need to go—Confiant finds love, he moves with his husband to the judgment of the Bible Belt in British Columbia (Abbotsford). Yet, “I believe our not being so out, and in your face, about being gay has helped us integrate within the community so effortlessly.”
It’s a shame that with all Confiant has had to overcome throughout this captivating journey through his life, he still feels “not being so out” is something he must do to fit in.
Confiant has had to withstand more than most people would have to in several lifetimes. His story is an essential read and a testament to his strength of character.
It is a must-read for anyone, gay, disabled, straight: offering a glimmer of hope that with the strength of will and perseverance, you can overcome, thrive, and look at the bright side of life regardless of the shade continually being thrown your way!
WRITTEN: October 28, 2020
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AGATHAAnne CATHRINE BOMANNWondrous, evocative, a poignant look at the beauty of vulnerability.
5+ STARS |
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Welcome, take a seat; what brings you here today?
Well, several things, I feel lost, confused, overwhelmed.
My childhood keeps repeating on a continuous loop. My parents pushed and pushed. They said they encouraged me for my own good, but really, I don’t think it was for me.
“I hated the piano, and I hated hearing them talk about me. It was all about showing other people what good parents they were. It had nothing to do with me.”
My parent’s thirst for me to be more—I’ve carried it with me for my whole life. It crippled my thoughts, haunting me to this day.
“I’m angry because I haven’t accomplished anything. I should have been someone, and I’m nothing.”
My interactions with others have paid a heavy price. I’m often lost for words, when silent empathy may be the best course. Once, while facing death, all I could muster was.
“”Thomas is a good man,” I said, struck once again by how inadequate words can be.”
I cry. Talking with you resonates loudly with me. You touch on life’s vulnerabilities. We can’t grow without the beauty of vulnerability being stripped down to its essence.
I worry about you. You’re 72, alone. I fear love is missing from your life equation. You drink in everyone else’s pain every day.
“You can end up a very small creature if nobody cares about you. Sometimes I wonder whether such a creature is even a person at all.”
Promise me you’ll allow yourself to be vulnerable; promise me you will let yourself be loved.
You’ve spoken volumes to me. I will leave you with this.
“Her face was a lifeless mask, and not until I squinted did I see the tears fall like drops of ink onto the fabric of the blouse.”
Enjoyment Factor: I think it may find a place in my Top 3.
Welcome, take a seat; what brings you here today?
Well, several things, I feel lost, confused, overwhelmed.
My childhood keeps repeating on a continuous loop. My parents pushed and pushed. They said they encouraged me for my own good, but really, I don’t think it was for me.
“I hated the piano, and I hated hearing them talk about me. It was all about showing other people what good parents they were. It had nothing to do with me.”
My parent’s thirst for me to be more—I’ve carried it with me for my whole life. It crippled my thoughts, haunting me to this day.
“I’m angry because I haven’t accomplished anything. I should have been someone, and I’m nothing.”
My interactions with others have paid a heavy price. I’m often lost for words, when silent empathy may be the best course. Once, while facing death, all I could muster was.
“”Thomas is a good man,” I said, struck once again by how inadequate words can be.”
I cry. Talking with you resonates loudly with me. You touch on life’s vulnerabilities. We can’t grow without the beauty of vulnerability being stripped down to its essence.
I worry about you. You’re 72, alone. I fear love is missing from your life equation. You drink in everyone else’s pain every day.
“You can end up a very small creature if nobody cares about you. Sometimes I wonder whether such a creature is even a person at all.”
Promise me you’ll allow yourself to be vulnerable; promise me you will let yourself be loved.
You’ve spoken volumes to me. I will leave you with this.
“Her face was a lifeless mask, and not until I squinted did I see the tears fall like drops of ink onto the fabric of the blouse.”
Enjoyment Factor: I think it may find a place in my Top 3.
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FLEISHMAN IS IN TROUBLETaffy BRODESSER-ANKERA fascinatingly upsetting look into the dichotomy of marriage + relationships.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Love comes, marriage follows; forevermore has arrived.
But has it?
Life is hard; symbiotic is not defined. It cracks. The male ego is burdened by fragility.
A man only has to be a man, childish for most of his life, hard-done-by when his needs are not paramount.
A woman’s journey is different.
Can a woman be driven and emotional at the same time?
A man might find drive intoxicating—as long as it doesn’t come with emotions—life is filled with emotion.
A woman becomes a working mother. A descriptor laced in disdain. A man picks up the children from school: he is dubbed a hero. He drinks it in, basking in the admiration. His wife makes 10-times his income. His ego fractures. He stops listening. He never truly did. The fragility of manliness needs to blame. He lives voyeuristically through a non-committed friend.
At the beginning of this page-turner, his marriage ruptures. He and his wife both go their separate ways. He trips upward to heaven; a heaven he determines to be meaningless conquests found on dating sites. She drops into the despair of hell, trying to satisfy an unquenchable thirst to be seen, be relevant, and understood.
He never truly listened. He came from privilege. His wife crawled and clawed her way from obscurity, rising toward fame + fortune. She succeeds. But at what cost?
The frailty of his mind kept looking to blame. His wife needs to be heard.
“He had parents—a mother whom he damned for his terrible self-image, never once taking into consideration that the person he was talking to about this would have killed to have a mother to blame for everything.”
“Fleishman is in Trouble” is a fascinatingly upsetting look into the dichotomy of marriage + relationships, deftly leaving readers examining if what they are reading is something they see in themselves. Something that might make them whole.
Enjoyment Factor: I think it may find a place in my Top 25.
WRITTEN: October 23, 2020
Love comes, marriage follows; forevermore has arrived.
But has it?
Life is hard; symbiotic is not defined. It cracks. The male ego is burdened by fragility.
A man only has to be a man, childish for most of his life, hard-done-by when his needs are not paramount.
A woman’s journey is different.
Can a woman be driven and emotional at the same time?
A man might find drive intoxicating—as long as it doesn’t come with emotions—life is filled with emotion.
A woman becomes a working mother. A descriptor laced in disdain. A man picks up the children from school: he is dubbed a hero. He drinks it in, basking in the admiration. His wife makes 10-times his income. His ego fractures. He stops listening. He never truly did. The fragility of manliness needs to blame. He lives voyeuristically through a non-committed friend.
At the beginning of this page-turner, his marriage ruptures. He and his wife both go their separate ways. He trips upward to heaven; a heaven he determines to be meaningless conquests found on dating sites. She drops into the despair of hell, trying to satisfy an unquenchable thirst to be seen, be relevant, and understood.
He never truly listened. He came from privilege. His wife crawled and clawed her way from obscurity, rising toward fame + fortune. She succeeds. But at what cost?
The frailty of his mind kept looking to blame. His wife needs to be heard.
“He had parents—a mother whom he damned for his terrible self-image, never once taking into consideration that the person he was talking to about this would have killed to have a mother to blame for everything.”
“Fleishman is in Trouble” is a fascinatingly upsetting look into the dichotomy of marriage + relationships, deftly leaving readers examining if what they are reading is something they see in themselves. Something that might make them whole.
Enjoyment Factor: I think it may find a place in my Top 25.
WRITTEN: October 23, 2020
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THE MYSTERY OF HENRI PICKDavid FOENKINOSAmelie meets Knives Out.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
A madcap caper, with a literary bent: Amelie meets Knives Out. Deception on every page. A gaggle of colourful characters traipsing through life searching for light amongst shadowy darkness. A twist. A turn. Luscious comedy—nuanced in mystery. I laugh.
Whodunit—I mean: Whowroteit?
I write.
The Mystery of Henri Pick captures most writers dream, to live in obscurity while at the same time being revered and well-read.
“As if recognition consisted of being understood. Nobody is ever understood, and certainly not writers. They wander through kingdoms of strange emotions and, most of the time, do not even understand themselves.”
Enjoyment factor for me: I think it may find a place in my Top 25.
WRITTEN: October 8, 2020
A madcap caper, with a literary bent: Amelie meets Knives Out. Deception on every page. A gaggle of colourful characters traipsing through life searching for light amongst shadowy darkness. A twist. A turn. Luscious comedy—nuanced in mystery. I laugh.
Whodunit—I mean: Whowroteit?
I write.
The Mystery of Henri Pick captures most writers dream, to live in obscurity while at the same time being revered and well-read.
“As if recognition consisted of being understood. Nobody is ever understood, and certainly not writers. They wander through kingdoms of strange emotions and, most of the time, do not even understand themselves.”
Enjoyment factor for me: I think it may find a place in my Top 25.
WRITTEN: October 8, 2020
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SEAWEED - AN ENCHANTING MISCELLANYMiek ZWAMBORNA gorgeously illustrated, fascinating look into an alien planet.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Thanks to Greystone Books + Miek Zwamborn, I had the opportunity to dive into the gorgeously illustrated, fascinating look into an alien planet that occupies about 70% on top of this glorious world we inhabit.
Land. Water.
Advantage, well, actually: neither.
Why?
Because there is a parasite roaming the land. Most of us are unknowingly willing to destroy the water world that is paramount for most species’ survival.
Seaweed – An Enchanting Miscellany is a captivating look into a near-mythical, richly varied water plant that has inspired artists, musicians, photographers, and sea goers from the dawn of time.
Little did I know of the spiritual + health + world-saving nature of this diverse foliage of the sea.
Little did I know without seaweed, we would not be able to breathe.
Little did I know if grandpa added seaweed to his diet, he might be able to reduce his flatulence by upward of 60%.
“…the addiction of just a small amount of Asparagopsis taxiformis macroalage (less than 1% if the total feed) reduced methane emissions in sheep by 50-75%.”
I’ve now read a book about seaweed. I am still a neophyte on the subject—but I have a better understanding of why we all get to stay alive, as well as an understanding of what we need to collectively do to save the planet.
Gotta run, I have a craving for Fish in a Seaweed Coat, with a squeeze of lemon.
WRITTEN: October 7, 2020
Thanks to Greystone Books + Miek Zwamborn, I had the opportunity to dive into the gorgeously illustrated, fascinating look into an alien planet that occupies about 70% on top of this glorious world we inhabit.
Land. Water.
Advantage, well, actually: neither.
Why?
Because there is a parasite roaming the land. Most of us are unknowingly willing to destroy the water world that is paramount for most species’ survival.
Seaweed – An Enchanting Miscellany is a captivating look into a near-mythical, richly varied water plant that has inspired artists, musicians, photographers, and sea goers from the dawn of time.
Little did I know of the spiritual + health + world-saving nature of this diverse foliage of the sea.
Little did I know without seaweed, we would not be able to breathe.
Little did I know if grandpa added seaweed to his diet, he might be able to reduce his flatulence by upward of 60%.
“…the addiction of just a small amount of Asparagopsis taxiformis macroalage (less than 1% if the total feed) reduced methane emissions in sheep by 50-75%.”
I’ve now read a book about seaweed. I am still a neophyte on the subject—but I have a better understanding of why we all get to stay alive, as well as an understanding of what we need to collectively do to save the planet.
Gotta run, I have a craving for Fish in a Seaweed Coat, with a squeeze of lemon.
WRITTEN: October 7, 2020
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THE SECRET LIFE OF GROCERIESBenjamin LORRA gripping dash of memoir with a colossal sprinkling of investigative journalism + a delightful mix of shredded wit.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I’m sitting at a picnic bench in beautiful Stanley Park in Vancouver, enjoying my favourite Korean chicken sandwich. The smoke has temporarily cleared from the wildfires of 2020. I dive into the book—a book that reads like a gripping dash of memoir with a colossal sprinkling of investigative journalism + a delightful mix of shredded wit to lighten the taste. Fortunately, I finish my lunch before I get to an early part that expounds how chickens go from animal to product before returning to our tables as food.
That night, during dinner, my throat closes, I can’t eat, and I violently bring up the few bites of dinner I try to eat.
DID THE BOOK DO THIS TO ME?
The next day I have emergency life-saving surgery to remove a growth from my esophagus. Once again: the book?
While at the hospital, as I wait for my invasive, excruciating surgery, I devour most of this book. The pages keep turning.
I ponder: Where do I fit in, in the food chain?
I learn there are two kinds of groceries:
A light went on: Groceries don’t sell food; they sell experiences + Store 2 doesn’t really exist. If it did, the poorer members of society wouldn’t be ladled with the guilt of purchasing on price point alone to feed themselves and their families. Nutrition shouldn’t be a luxury.
I dabbled in the industry for a short period. I chased the dangling carrot of $$$ by racing around a humungous distribution warehouse. Risking injury on a 3,000-pound-pallet jack—timed, picking orders requiring an Olympian effort. Only to be let go before the $$$’s and benefits kicked in, like 99.999% of the other workers, mostly immigrants, were let go as well, for failing.
Trucking surely must be better?
No. It is peppered with addiction, violence, sexual abuse, and indebtedness because the carrot comes with a truck + a 112% turnover rate.
How about working in a store?
Sure, but personality isn’t a requirement; the staffing algorithm only sees numbers. And besides, it’s heart wrenching not being able to afford the foods you stock on the shelves.
How about inspecting food?
The FDA doesn’t protect us, lawyers dangling lawsuits like shredded cheese over the producers’ do. The industry is ripe with corruption as privatized auditors, working ungodly hours, are bought off to protect bottom lines.
Becoming a food entrepreneur sounds noble?
It is, but it requires luck and deep pockets, not only to produce a product, but to pay to get it on the shelves, and to pay to get it off the shelf if it doesn’t sell, as you grind your way to obscurity.
Let’s travel to Thailand for shrimp. Immigrants from poor neighbouring countries are captured and enslaved to work—working in beyond horrid conditions—stripping oceans of all living matter—slaves who are not paid and have no recourse against unscrupulous fisheries, as they chase the dream of a better life. However, they are treated like they are criminals, bringing disease, bringing…but willing do the work the people of Thailand no longer are willing to do, and yet, they are forced underground and are treated as illegal aliens. Sound familiar?
The Secret Life of Groceries is a captivating book that opened my eyes. As much as the machine seems out of control, by opening our eyes, changes are slowly being made + media exposure, at times, is laser-focused on the horrendous fishing practices + unfair labour practices.
Everything in the grocery chain is geared toward bringing US cheap products with little regard for the toll upon the people doing the work.
I must run. It’s lunchtime. The smoke from the wildfires has returned. I have lost my appetite for food, so today, I think I will consume smokey air.
When I can eat again, the next time I’m in my local grocery, I’ll make sure to smile at the staff.
WRITTEN: October 2, 2020
I’m sitting at a picnic bench in beautiful Stanley Park in Vancouver, enjoying my favourite Korean chicken sandwich. The smoke has temporarily cleared from the wildfires of 2020. I dive into the book—a book that reads like a gripping dash of memoir with a colossal sprinkling of investigative journalism + a delightful mix of shredded wit to lighten the taste. Fortunately, I finish my lunch before I get to an early part that expounds how chickens go from animal to product before returning to our tables as food.
That night, during dinner, my throat closes, I can’t eat, and I violently bring up the few bites of dinner I try to eat.
DID THE BOOK DO THIS TO ME?
The next day I have emergency life-saving surgery to remove a growth from my esophagus. Once again: the book?
While at the hospital, as I wait for my invasive, excruciating surgery, I devour most of this book. The pages keep turning.
I ponder: Where do I fit in, in the food chain?
I learn there are two kinds of groceries:
- Stores where they overwhelm us with every product imaginable—in massive stores—competing on price point only.
- Stores where yoga-pant wearing educated, but maybe not intelligent persons, roam the aisles purchasing products they can barely afford because they believe they are saving the planet. Puke.
A light went on: Groceries don’t sell food; they sell experiences + Store 2 doesn’t really exist. If it did, the poorer members of society wouldn’t be ladled with the guilt of purchasing on price point alone to feed themselves and their families. Nutrition shouldn’t be a luxury.
I dabbled in the industry for a short period. I chased the dangling carrot of $$$ by racing around a humungous distribution warehouse. Risking injury on a 3,000-pound-pallet jack—timed, picking orders requiring an Olympian effort. Only to be let go before the $$$’s and benefits kicked in, like 99.999% of the other workers, mostly immigrants, were let go as well, for failing.
Trucking surely must be better?
No. It is peppered with addiction, violence, sexual abuse, and indebtedness because the carrot comes with a truck + a 112% turnover rate.
How about working in a store?
Sure, but personality isn’t a requirement; the staffing algorithm only sees numbers. And besides, it’s heart wrenching not being able to afford the foods you stock on the shelves.
How about inspecting food?
The FDA doesn’t protect us, lawyers dangling lawsuits like shredded cheese over the producers’ do. The industry is ripe with corruption as privatized auditors, working ungodly hours, are bought off to protect bottom lines.
Becoming a food entrepreneur sounds noble?
It is, but it requires luck and deep pockets, not only to produce a product, but to pay to get it on the shelves, and to pay to get it off the shelf if it doesn’t sell, as you grind your way to obscurity.
Let’s travel to Thailand for shrimp. Immigrants from poor neighbouring countries are captured and enslaved to work—working in beyond horrid conditions—stripping oceans of all living matter—slaves who are not paid and have no recourse against unscrupulous fisheries, as they chase the dream of a better life. However, they are treated like they are criminals, bringing disease, bringing…but willing do the work the people of Thailand no longer are willing to do, and yet, they are forced underground and are treated as illegal aliens. Sound familiar?
The Secret Life of Groceries is a captivating book that opened my eyes. As much as the machine seems out of control, by opening our eyes, changes are slowly being made + media exposure, at times, is laser-focused on the horrendous fishing practices + unfair labour practices.
Everything in the grocery chain is geared toward bringing US cheap products with little regard for the toll upon the people doing the work.
I must run. It’s lunchtime. The smoke from the wildfires has returned. I have lost my appetite for food, so today, I think I will consume smokey air.
When I can eat again, the next time I’m in my local grocery, I’ll make sure to smile at the staff.
WRITTEN: October 2, 2020
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THE TOWNShaun PRESCOTTIs this as good as it gets?
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I scratch my head. What am I reading?
Is this a book about nothing? Everything?
I’m confused, the prose courses through me. I like it. I don’t know why?
The characters are dullards—to the point of being profoundly, confoundedly, fascinating.
I laugh.
Is this book about gentrification, xenophobia, sameness, misguided fear?
Towns are disappearing. Why do they exist, to begin with? Nothing happens. Everything happens. Corporations start infesting the outskirts, dumbing us all down. Making our experiences painfully tedious, breaking those swallowed by their promises of more.
Can we escape?
The town begins disappearing rapidly. A hole appears on the page. I slide into it and arrive at a different page. The characters grow into who they are trapped at being. Gaps are spread between the vanilla-ness of the slapdash mess of perceived wealth. Tentacles fill suburbia, town centers collapse. The broken can’t escape. They die within the town.
“The holes were spreading quickly, doubling overnight, and it would come as no surprise if they started appearing inside of people too. This possibility of holes appearing inside of people had never occurred to me until I said it. Now I wondered if the holes had been appearing inside of people for years. What if the librarian had a hole inside him? What if I did?”
I laugh again. I don’t know why?
The destruction of souls engulfs us all. Another hole appears on the page. I slide into it, searching for more—for the depth of the city. I escape the town to become more—I am destined to grow—the city will be my saviour.
In reality, the city is a collection of connected non-descript towns. A strip mall appears. Addiction and despair add colour to living.
I retreat to the mirror. I snicker. Am I breaking?
The city begins to disappear as we race toward the…?
Is this as good as it gets?
WRITTEN: September 28, 2020
I scratch my head. What am I reading?
Is this a book about nothing? Everything?
I’m confused, the prose courses through me. I like it. I don’t know why?
The characters are dullards—to the point of being profoundly, confoundedly, fascinating.
I laugh.
Is this book about gentrification, xenophobia, sameness, misguided fear?
Towns are disappearing. Why do they exist, to begin with? Nothing happens. Everything happens. Corporations start infesting the outskirts, dumbing us all down. Making our experiences painfully tedious, breaking those swallowed by their promises of more.
Can we escape?
The town begins disappearing rapidly. A hole appears on the page. I slide into it and arrive at a different page. The characters grow into who they are trapped at being. Gaps are spread between the vanilla-ness of the slapdash mess of perceived wealth. Tentacles fill suburbia, town centers collapse. The broken can’t escape. They die within the town.
“The holes were spreading quickly, doubling overnight, and it would come as no surprise if they started appearing inside of people too. This possibility of holes appearing inside of people had never occurred to me until I said it. Now I wondered if the holes had been appearing inside of people for years. What if the librarian had a hole inside him? What if I did?”
I laugh again. I don’t know why?
The destruction of souls engulfs us all. Another hole appears on the page. I slide into it, searching for more—for the depth of the city. I escape the town to become more—I am destined to grow—the city will be my saviour.
In reality, the city is a collection of connected non-descript towns. A strip mall appears. Addiction and despair add colour to living.
I retreat to the mirror. I snicker. Am I breaking?
The city begins to disappear as we race toward the…?
Is this as good as it gets?
WRITTEN: September 28, 2020
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VESPER FLIGHTSHELEN MACDONALDAnimals are magnificent feeling + thinking creatures...
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
ANIMALS. HUMANS.
Animals are magnificent feeling + thinking creatures crucial to our health and the health of the planet. Rarely do us, humans, take a moment to consider what they want + need. For most of us, they represent a mystery we like to look at in zoos, and at times in the wilderness, believing they are there for nothing more than our viewing pleasure. And at times, disgustingly, to hunt, or to feast on—I do not apologize for using disgustingly.
Humans are mass murders, pure and simple. We generally do not care about the well beings of the animals that share the planet with us. Most of us definitely do not care when we invade their habitats, forcing them into extinction, turning what once was wondrous, bio-diverse, eco-systems into new communities only sustainable for our own consumptive urges. Another sub-division—thousands of deaths. Do you want to come over for a barbeque and a swim?
Wildfires rage—plumes of smoke rise and impact communities thousands of miles away. My home city of Vancouver has the worst air quality in the world for a few days. People are advised to stay indoors. The news flashes scenes of humans, barely escaping the onslaught. “We’re losing everything. OMG. We’ll have to start over.” Cry. Cry. Cry.
In the meantime, new developments are nearing completion; thousands of acres are felled. Not once was an animal interviewed about the impact on them.
Imagine an animal, “We’re losing everything. OMG. I guess we’ll perish.” Silence.
Displaced refugees from the wildfires move into the new subdivision and repeat the cycle once more.
Plumes of smoke continue to rise.
Animals can’t go indoors.
Birds flight paths are skewed.
We don’t care.
We build a new subdivision. We fell thousand of acres of trees. Is our turn to perish next?
That’s how this book made me feel.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I gained a different perspective on the movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
And—I care—animals think, feel, and need.
“Later, she points out that the Earth itself is in no danger whatsoever. ‘It will survive whatever we throw at it. What is in danger is the environment that made us possible. We are pretty much cutting the branch we are sitting on. So either we understand that very quickly or life will go on — but a different one.’”
WRITTEN: September 24, 2020
ANIMALS. HUMANS.
Animals are magnificent feeling + thinking creatures crucial to our health and the health of the planet. Rarely do us, humans, take a moment to consider what they want + need. For most of us, they represent a mystery we like to look at in zoos, and at times in the wilderness, believing they are there for nothing more than our viewing pleasure. And at times, disgustingly, to hunt, or to feast on—I do not apologize for using disgustingly.
Humans are mass murders, pure and simple. We generally do not care about the well beings of the animals that share the planet with us. Most of us definitely do not care when we invade their habitats, forcing them into extinction, turning what once was wondrous, bio-diverse, eco-systems into new communities only sustainable for our own consumptive urges. Another sub-division—thousands of deaths. Do you want to come over for a barbeque and a swim?
Wildfires rage—plumes of smoke rise and impact communities thousands of miles away. My home city of Vancouver has the worst air quality in the world for a few days. People are advised to stay indoors. The news flashes scenes of humans, barely escaping the onslaught. “We’re losing everything. OMG. We’ll have to start over.” Cry. Cry. Cry.
In the meantime, new developments are nearing completion; thousands of acres are felled. Not once was an animal interviewed about the impact on them.
Imagine an animal, “We’re losing everything. OMG. I guess we’ll perish.” Silence.
Displaced refugees from the wildfires move into the new subdivision and repeat the cycle once more.
Plumes of smoke continue to rise.
Animals can’t go indoors.
Birds flight paths are skewed.
We don’t care.
We build a new subdivision. We fell thousand of acres of trees. Is our turn to perish next?
That’s how this book made me feel.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I gained a different perspective on the movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
And—I care—animals think, feel, and need.
“Later, she points out that the Earth itself is in no danger whatsoever. ‘It will survive whatever we throw at it. What is in danger is the environment that made us possible. We are pretty much cutting the branch we are sitting on. So either we understand that very quickly or life will go on — but a different one.’”
WRITTEN: September 24, 2020
12
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REAL LIFEBrandon TAYLORA heart-wrenchingly beautiful + essential tale. It destroyed me.
5+ STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Real Life destroyed me.
It destroyed me because I don’t want to be another white guy spinning banalities about what it is like to live in different coloured skin. We can’t keep pretending we know—or continue, in silence, when racism is being served in front of our minds.
“…but she won’t say anything either, can’t bring herself to. No one does. No one ever does. Silence is their way of getting by, because if they are silent long enough, then this moment of minor discomfort will pass for them, will fold down into the landscape of the evening as if it never happened.”
It destroyed me because it made me realize my limitations in accepting unconditional love.
“He puts his hand on Wallace’s stomach, which makes Wallace feel uncomfortable.”
It destroyed me because it made me realize my past is always on the attack, and I must stomp it down.
“There comes a time when you have to stop being who you were, when you have to let the past stay where it is, frozen and impossible.”
It destroyed me because I don’t want to be weak.
“Get even sounds like the rallying cry of weak people who have no other way to bargain with the world.”
And it destroyed me because it made me realize, to grow, I must accept who I am.
“He wants to be not himself. He wants to be not depressed. He wants to be not anxious. He wants to be well. He wants to be good.”
Taylor’s writing is an eloquent master class, swallowing us effortlessly in the environment breathing all around us. Everything is essential to the story. Taylor nimbly deposits each of us on the page, making us vital to the moving pieces of this heart-wrenchingly beautiful tale.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: September 18, 2020
Real Life destroyed me.
It destroyed me because I don’t want to be another white guy spinning banalities about what it is like to live in different coloured skin. We can’t keep pretending we know—or continue, in silence, when racism is being served in front of our minds.
“…but she won’t say anything either, can’t bring herself to. No one does. No one ever does. Silence is their way of getting by, because if they are silent long enough, then this moment of minor discomfort will pass for them, will fold down into the landscape of the evening as if it never happened.”
It destroyed me because it made me realize my limitations in accepting unconditional love.
“He puts his hand on Wallace’s stomach, which makes Wallace feel uncomfortable.”
It destroyed me because it made me realize my past is always on the attack, and I must stomp it down.
“There comes a time when you have to stop being who you were, when you have to let the past stay where it is, frozen and impossible.”
It destroyed me because I don’t want to be weak.
“Get even sounds like the rallying cry of weak people who have no other way to bargain with the world.”
And it destroyed me because it made me realize, to grow, I must accept who I am.
“He wants to be not himself. He wants to be not depressed. He wants to be not anxious. He wants to be well. He wants to be good.”
Taylor’s writing is an eloquent master class, swallowing us effortlessly in the environment breathing all around us. Everything is essential to the story. Taylor nimbly deposits each of us on the page, making us vital to the moving pieces of this heart-wrenchingly beautiful tale.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: September 18, 2020
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THE HEAPSean ADAMSA profound look into the lonliness often consuming each of us.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
A massive tower, nearly five hundred stories tall, a city within, collapses—a heap of rubble remains. A digging team looks for survivors. A radio station broadcasts from inside the wreckage. On the dig team is the brother of the broadcaster. They connect. Their connection becomes a voyeuristically visceral smash hit. One catch, they aren’t emotionally close and awkwardly use their link to develop a relationship. Is it possible?
Mix in the developer’s greed + the disparity between the haves and have nots who resided inside the mega-tower. Toss in corruption + a need to bombard the world with 24/7 marketing of product after product—and what do you have?
You are left with an exciting romp delving deeply into the ills of society today + a profound look into the loneliness often consuming each of us as we meander through a world bursting with scorn.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: September 15, 2020
A massive tower, nearly five hundred stories tall, a city within, collapses—a heap of rubble remains. A digging team looks for survivors. A radio station broadcasts from inside the wreckage. On the dig team is the brother of the broadcaster. They connect. Their connection becomes a voyeuristically visceral smash hit. One catch, they aren’t emotionally close and awkwardly use their link to develop a relationship. Is it possible?
Mix in the developer’s greed + the disparity between the haves and have nots who resided inside the mega-tower. Toss in corruption + a need to bombard the world with 24/7 marketing of product after product—and what do you have?
You are left with an exciting romp delving deeply into the ills of society today + a profound look into the loneliness often consuming each of us as we meander through a world bursting with scorn.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: September 15, 2020
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THE NAME OF THE WORLDDenis JOHNSONPain emanates from every page.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Denis Johnson’s writing has a way to pull you in, embrace you—with each word orchestrated in luminous poetic harmony with pain emanating from every page. Johnson finds solace in the anguish of living—anguish only a few escape.
I don’t want his world to be real. It isn’t. But in a gloriously decadently dark rapture, it might be?
WRITTEN: September 5, 2020
Denis Johnson’s writing has a way to pull you in, embrace you—with each word orchestrated in luminous poetic harmony with pain emanating from every page. Johnson finds solace in the anguish of living—anguish only a few escape.
I don’t want his world to be real. It isn’t. But in a gloriously decadently dark rapture, it might be?
WRITTEN: September 5, 2020
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SO LONG, SEE YOU TOMORROWWILLIAM MAXWELLHeartache in the 1920s is no different than grief in 2020...
5 STARS? |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Two kids. One privileged. One an outcast. An unlikely friendship. The outcast’s father commits murder. The friendship + many lives are torn apart.
This radiant little book transported me back to a time long before I walked on this earth and helped me realize humanity’s challenges regardless of the times, share similar threads. Heartache in the 1920s is no different from grief in 2020—privilege and struggle are as well.
So Long, See You Tomorrow, tugged at my heartstrings, and is filled with heartrending sorrow. One section and particular left me shattered: Maxwell writes part of the book from a dog’s perspective after its world is turned upside down because of his best friend’s loss.
Love + Friendship + Deception + A Quest for Understanding burst forth from every page.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: September 3, 2020
Two kids. One privileged. One an outcast. An unlikely friendship. The outcast’s father commits murder. The friendship + many lives are torn apart.
This radiant little book transported me back to a time long before I walked on this earth and helped me realize humanity’s challenges regardless of the times, share similar threads. Heartache in the 1920s is no different from grief in 2020—privilege and struggle are as well.
So Long, See You Tomorrow, tugged at my heartstrings, and is filled with heartrending sorrow. One section and particular left me shattered: Maxwell writes part of the book from a dog’s perspective after its world is turned upside down because of his best friend’s loss.
Love + Friendship + Deception + A Quest for Understanding burst forth from every page.
That’s how this book made me feel.
WRITTEN: September 3, 2020
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WEATHERJenny OFFILLORIGINAL TIMES 7
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
This is the second Offill book I’ve read. And I must say, original, original, original, original. I was looking for synonyms for original, and the best I could come up with is ORIGINAL in ALL CAPS.
Weather is mystifying. Much like Dept. of Speculation, I dove in, my mind raced, what the heck am I reading? Is this real life, fiction, a combination, a fantasy?
Weather is delightfully hilarious. A guffaw is waiting on most pages. A tug at the heartstrings often follows closely behind.
“A few days later, I yelled at him for losing his lunch box, and he turned and said to me, Are you sure you’re my real mother? Sometimes you don’t seem like a good enough person.”
Suddenly, it hit me, an epiphany of sorts, Weather is original fiction (for those scoring at home, NUMBER OF ORIGINALS IN THIS REVIEW = 7) mirroring real life. It is scattered choppy, much like life. It is confusing, but as the pages flip by, it starts to be cobbled together, and again, much like life, hidden within the insatiable wit, darkness lurks.
Offill is a master at deftly pulling life fragments together, mixing them into bite-sized morsels, and in the end, making us all crave another word.
WRITTEN: August 23, 2020
This is the second Offill book I’ve read. And I must say, original, original, original, original. I was looking for synonyms for original, and the best I could come up with is ORIGINAL in ALL CAPS.
Weather is mystifying. Much like Dept. of Speculation, I dove in, my mind raced, what the heck am I reading? Is this real life, fiction, a combination, a fantasy?
Weather is delightfully hilarious. A guffaw is waiting on most pages. A tug at the heartstrings often follows closely behind.
“A few days later, I yelled at him for losing his lunch box, and he turned and said to me, Are you sure you’re my real mother? Sometimes you don’t seem like a good enough person.”
Suddenly, it hit me, an epiphany of sorts, Weather is original fiction (for those scoring at home, NUMBER OF ORIGINALS IN THIS REVIEW = 7) mirroring real life. It is scattered choppy, much like life. It is confusing, but as the pages flip by, it starts to be cobbled together, and again, much like life, hidden within the insatiable wit, darkness lurks.
Offill is a master at deftly pulling life fragments together, mixing them into bite-sized morsels, and in the end, making us all crave another word.
WRITTEN: August 23, 2020
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DRIVE YOUR PLOW OVER THE BONES OF THE DEADOlga TOKARCZUKA murder mystery, chock-full of mind-blowing twists.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Reporter
I’m here with the delightfully quirky. Some would say a tad off, Mrs. Janina Duszejko, the main character in Olga Tokarczuk’s tantalizingly mind-bending novel “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.”
Could you tell me in a nutshell what this captivating story is about?
Duszejko
Hmm. In a nutshell. The book is about the never-ending struggle between good and evil, right and wrong, + the continuous struggle to eradicate misogynistic attacks. The story takes place in Poland’s eerily dark cottage area, where cottage owners escape harsh winters, leaving behind a few odd souls to mind the fort. My task is to maintain a series of cottages. There are only two others who brave the elements: Oddball + Big Foot. And, right from the get-go, the numbers are reduced to only two.
Reporter
Yes, in the first pages, we come across the corpse of Big Foot. The scene of his death is incredibly disturbing: he choked on the bones of a deer he had poached. The deer’s severed head lying nearby. Immediately after that, you begin uncovering greed, evil, and corruption. Your character instantaneously starts evolving. How did you land the leading role?
Duszejko
I slipped myself into Olga’s dreams nightly. I was unrelenting. Every time she’d start to drift off, I’d be there. I’d speak of my two missing dogs. I’m irresistible. So, she started writing me. The townsfolk labelled me a crackpot because I fought for the animals. Hunters and poachers were slaughtering innocent living beings for nothing more than the horrendous sport of it. They’d set up feeding stations and sit in their pulpits and kill them. It was like inviting someone to dinner and murdering them.
Reporter
This book is a murder mystery, chock-full of mind-blowing twists. Are you happy with your character + tell me a little about the murders?
Duszejko
The town is diseased, corrupt, patriarchal. Big Foot was an act of revenge manifested by the animal he slaughtered and choked on its bones. There are three more murders, the Police Commandant, a Fox Farmer, and the Town Pastor. Each of them was complicit in the torturous deaths of animals + perhaps my dogs. This novel explores the possibility of animals seeking revenge. As for my character, I’m ecstatic, I may have been written as a crackpot old dame, but in reality, layer after layer of depth is added to who I am, and I must say, I turned out delightful with unbending fortitude. My role is to clean out evil. Along the way, I encounter a litter of colourful characters. If I say so myself, I’m sort of an old crackpot superhero. Revenge comes with an animalistic twist.
Duszejko
Thanks for your time.
“Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.”
What happens when animals seek revenge, with the help of a determined, quirky, often hilarious, loveable, and vengeful crackpot.
WRITTEN: August 10, 2020
Reporter
I’m here with the delightfully quirky. Some would say a tad off, Mrs. Janina Duszejko, the main character in Olga Tokarczuk’s tantalizingly mind-bending novel “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.”
Could you tell me in a nutshell what this captivating story is about?
Duszejko
Hmm. In a nutshell. The book is about the never-ending struggle between good and evil, right and wrong, + the continuous struggle to eradicate misogynistic attacks. The story takes place in Poland’s eerily dark cottage area, where cottage owners escape harsh winters, leaving behind a few odd souls to mind the fort. My task is to maintain a series of cottages. There are only two others who brave the elements: Oddball + Big Foot. And, right from the get-go, the numbers are reduced to only two.
Reporter
Yes, in the first pages, we come across the corpse of Big Foot. The scene of his death is incredibly disturbing: he choked on the bones of a deer he had poached. The deer’s severed head lying nearby. Immediately after that, you begin uncovering greed, evil, and corruption. Your character instantaneously starts evolving. How did you land the leading role?
Duszejko
I slipped myself into Olga’s dreams nightly. I was unrelenting. Every time she’d start to drift off, I’d be there. I’d speak of my two missing dogs. I’m irresistible. So, she started writing me. The townsfolk labelled me a crackpot because I fought for the animals. Hunters and poachers were slaughtering innocent living beings for nothing more than the horrendous sport of it. They’d set up feeding stations and sit in their pulpits and kill them. It was like inviting someone to dinner and murdering them.
Reporter
This book is a murder mystery, chock-full of mind-blowing twists. Are you happy with your character + tell me a little about the murders?
Duszejko
The town is diseased, corrupt, patriarchal. Big Foot was an act of revenge manifested by the animal he slaughtered and choked on its bones. There are three more murders, the Police Commandant, a Fox Farmer, and the Town Pastor. Each of them was complicit in the torturous deaths of animals + perhaps my dogs. This novel explores the possibility of animals seeking revenge. As for my character, I’m ecstatic, I may have been written as a crackpot old dame, but in reality, layer after layer of depth is added to who I am, and I must say, I turned out delightful with unbending fortitude. My role is to clean out evil. Along the way, I encounter a litter of colourful characters. If I say so myself, I’m sort of an old crackpot superhero. Revenge comes with an animalistic twist.
Duszejko
Thanks for your time.
“Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.”
What happens when animals seek revenge, with the help of a determined, quirky, often hilarious, loveable, and vengeful crackpot.
WRITTEN: August 10, 2020
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JESUS' SONDenis JOHNSON...poetic verses drip off the pages...
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
EMPATHETIC
The only difference between a narcissistic politician using all means available to hold onto power and a junkie hunting for their next fix is the junkie can’t lie about who they are.
JESUS' SON is almost perfect. The poetic verses drip off the pages, pooling together only to burst forth in perfect harmony—words you can hear, see, feel, and almost taste.
"The Savoy Hotel was a bad place. The reality of it gave out as it rose higher above First Avenue, so that the upper floors dribbled away into space. Monsters were dragging themselves up the stairs."
Johnson’s prose is sublime, humanizing addiction, something most of us would like to deny, looking the other way, making those who are gripped by the demon’s talons invisible.
JESUS' SON does not demonize or offer judgment or solutions to those trapped in the cycles of addiction—what it does do is highlight how people who’ve fallen through the cracks have dreams and desires and how they survive the daily grind of living. Those suffering are no different from money barons of Wall Street: one chases wealth, often breaking those below, who, much like them, mostly crave love and belonging. The money barons don’t understand; they are one wrong decision and only a heartbeat away from despair themselves.
No child dreams of becoming a broken addict.
Johnson’s deft humanizing of lost souls dosed me with compassion. I may still find those on society’s fringes somewhat vile. Yet, after reading this breathtaking novel, I realize the persons lying in desperation on the streets of our cities, frequently have heart-wrenching stories lost in pain.
If you write and this book doesn’t inspire you to want to hone your craft, quit writing.
This might be my favourite book.
Thank You, Mr. Johnson, RIP.
WRITTEN: August 6, 2020
EMPATHETIC
The only difference between a narcissistic politician using all means available to hold onto power and a junkie hunting for their next fix is the junkie can’t lie about who they are.
JESUS' SON is almost perfect. The poetic verses drip off the pages, pooling together only to burst forth in perfect harmony—words you can hear, see, feel, and almost taste.
"The Savoy Hotel was a bad place. The reality of it gave out as it rose higher above First Avenue, so that the upper floors dribbled away into space. Monsters were dragging themselves up the stairs."
Johnson’s prose is sublime, humanizing addiction, something most of us would like to deny, looking the other way, making those who are gripped by the demon’s talons invisible.
JESUS' SON does not demonize or offer judgment or solutions to those trapped in the cycles of addiction—what it does do is highlight how people who’ve fallen through the cracks have dreams and desires and how they survive the daily grind of living. Those suffering are no different from money barons of Wall Street: one chases wealth, often breaking those below, who, much like them, mostly crave love and belonging. The money barons don’t understand; they are one wrong decision and only a heartbeat away from despair themselves.
No child dreams of becoming a broken addict.
Johnson’s deft humanizing of lost souls dosed me with compassion. I may still find those on society’s fringes somewhat vile. Yet, after reading this breathtaking novel, I realize the persons lying in desperation on the streets of our cities, frequently have heart-wrenching stories lost in pain.
If you write and this book doesn’t inspire you to want to hone your craft, quit writing.
This might be my favourite book.
Thank You, Mr. Johnson, RIP.
WRITTEN: August 6, 2020
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A WOMAN IS NO MANEtaf RUMUntil the shackles of shame are removed, we are all complicit in the oppression of women.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
BREATHLESS. MOVED.
A WOMAN IS NO MAN is a powerful work of “fiction” deserving of being mandatory reading by every man and woman. It is a formidable look at a vile, and the diseased part of a culture often disparaged for political gain and racist superiority.
The writing is exquisite, gripping, heart-rending. I often found myself squirming as I; stereotyped the Arab culture as a monstrously sick, almost less-than-human, evilness, less than worthy of understanding. A strange thing happened as the pages slipped by, I began to understand the plight of women is often debilitating, limiting, controlled, regardless of ethnicity.
As a white man, it is easy to be coerced into the trap of perceived superiority |I’m not| by drinking a Kool-Aid laced with fear and misunderstanding—often for political gain. No Caucasian can grasp what it is to be anything other than white—we often fall victim to thinking we are immune to oppression. We can easily be sold that white is a birthright to be revered, and we are not capable of the disgusting acts portrayed within the pages. We are. And we do.
Being white limits my understanding, but it doesn’t limit my desire to learn from others’ words. Another page and I retreated from my belief all Arabs are misogynistic terrorists.
BREATHLESS. MOVED.
A WOMAN IS NO MAN is a powerful work of “fiction” deserving of being mandatory reading by every man and woman. It is a formidable look at a vile, and the diseased part of a culture often disparaged for political gain and racist superiority.
The writing is exquisite, gripping, heart-rending. I often found myself squirming as I; stereotyped the Arab culture as a monstrously sick, almost less-than-human, evilness, less than worthy of understanding. A strange thing happened as the pages slipped by, I began to understand the plight of women is often debilitating, limiting, controlled, regardless of ethnicity.
As a white man, it is easy to be coerced into the trap of perceived superiority |I’m not| by drinking a Kool-Aid laced with fear and misunderstanding—often for political gain. No Caucasian can grasp what it is to be anything other than white—we often fall victim to thinking we are immune to oppression. We can easily be sold that white is a birthright to be revered, and we are not capable of the disgusting acts portrayed within the pages. We are. And we do.
Being white limits my understanding, but it doesn’t limit my desire to learn from others’ words. Another page and I retreated from my belief all Arabs are misogynistic terrorists.
"Heaven lies under a mother’s feet."
Etaf, by sharing that powerful verse from the Qur’an, erased many of my misconceptions. I understand, there is a despicable sickness infesting part of the Arab culture needing to be eradicated. But it is not the whole. I began to think of other books I’ve read. The subject matter of these books is heart-wrenching. The words shared highlight women continuously are forced to struggle for a sense of equality, to be taken as more than subservient, regardless of culture, from the beginning of time.
“EDUCATED” by Tara Westover sheds light on many of the atrocities in the Mormon world (white).
“KNOW MY NAME” by Chanel Miller encapsulated the struggles of being raped by a white assaulter who comes from privlege.
PAUSE FOR A PERSONAL MOMENT
I was a secret baby, born in a secret place--the shame of community, religion, family. A secret I was supposed to take with me to my grave until I found out by accident the truth.
Mine, and I am sure, the realities of these brave woman, can never be discounted. Unless they are spoken about, they can easily turn into a burden carried throughout life; limiting who a person can become.
What do these captivating stories have in common: they are fuelled by a perceived shame created by unwell men’s needs. They share common threads. They blast forth the realities of the illness of limiting opportunity for the purpose of control. They bring to the forefront the need to continually evolve and engage in dialogue to change reality for the better.
The need for control is a plague. If we are honest with ourselves, sure, Western Culture may be ahead in exterminating the sickness.
But really, are we?
These truths have all occurred during my lifetime.
Each of us has a responsibility to look, change, and make the world a kinder place.
As disturbing and upsetting A WOMAN IS NO MAN is, I am grateful Etaf Rum had the strength + courage to share her voice.
Until the shackles of shame are removed, we are all complicit in the oppression of women.
WRITTEN: May 29,2020
“EDUCATED” by Tara Westover sheds light on many of the atrocities in the Mormon world (white).
“KNOW MY NAME” by Chanel Miller encapsulated the struggles of being raped by a white assaulter who comes from privlege.
PAUSE FOR A PERSONAL MOMENT
I was a secret baby, born in a secret place--the shame of community, religion, family. A secret I was supposed to take with me to my grave until I found out by accident the truth.
Mine, and I am sure, the realities of these brave woman, can never be discounted. Unless they are spoken about, they can easily turn into a burden carried throughout life; limiting who a person can become.
What do these captivating stories have in common: they are fuelled by a perceived shame created by unwell men’s needs. They share common threads. They blast forth the realities of the illness of limiting opportunity for the purpose of control. They bring to the forefront the need to continually evolve and engage in dialogue to change reality for the better.
The need for control is a plague. If we are honest with ourselves, sure, Western Culture may be ahead in exterminating the sickness.
But really, are we?
These truths have all occurred during my lifetime.
Each of us has a responsibility to look, change, and make the world a kinder place.
As disturbing and upsetting A WOMAN IS NO MAN is, I am grateful Etaf Rum had the strength + courage to share her voice.
Until the shackles of shame are removed, we are all complicit in the oppression of women.
WRITTEN: May 29,2020
|
NOBODY EVER TALKS ABOUT ANYTHING BUT THE ENDLiz LEVINE...a beautiful, amazing, darkly hilarious, gem...
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
Connected. Less Alone.
In 1985 the day after my birthday, I watched my father die.
In late 1987, I watched my mother die, just before Christmas.
Fast-forward to 2003, after a two-month period where my relationship ended, and four people close to me died, I discovered my parents I watched die, were not my real parents (long story – for another time).
"They," say there are 5-7 stages of grief, depending on whom you ask?
I find these stages don’t follow a formula, we are kind of told they do, but from my experience, at times, one stage will demand full attention, and at others, all seven bombard you at the same time leaving you reeling. Often alone. As compassionate as others can be, they can also suck and drop their judgement on how long grief should be on the docket.
It doesn’t bleeping work that way.
During my times of struggle, Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But The End would have been a godsend. This book is the most honest, visceral, voyeuristic, did I say; honest (?) conversation with a friend about coming to terms with layers of trauma including suicide + cancer.
Liz Levine paints a rich, in-depth, enlightening picture of what it is like to be attacked by “what ifs” and “I could have, should have, done…”
On one-page tears blasted from my eyes. On the next, I cringed while laughing uncontrollably at the healing morbidity of comedy in the darkest moments.
Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But The End is a must-read for anyone who thirsts for compelling life stories. It is a fabulous read for everyone. But, if you’ve suffered devastating losses in your life, this book will help you realize you’re not alone, whatever you are feeling + going through, uniquely belongs to you—don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
One last note: Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But The End is a beautiful, amazing, darkly hilarious, gem, that might help those suffering to place their grief in a compartment quicker. A place where it is no longer all-consuming. Because when it is finally placed somewhere manageable, which is something Levine deftly shares with unflinching courage, you will finally arrive at a new BEGINNING.
WRITTEN: July 18, 2020
Connected. Less Alone.
In 1985 the day after my birthday, I watched my father die.
In late 1987, I watched my mother die, just before Christmas.
Fast-forward to 2003, after a two-month period where my relationship ended, and four people close to me died, I discovered my parents I watched die, were not my real parents (long story – for another time).
"They," say there are 5-7 stages of grief, depending on whom you ask?
I find these stages don’t follow a formula, we are kind of told they do, but from my experience, at times, one stage will demand full attention, and at others, all seven bombard you at the same time leaving you reeling. Often alone. As compassionate as others can be, they can also suck and drop their judgement on how long grief should be on the docket.
It doesn’t bleeping work that way.
During my times of struggle, Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But The End would have been a godsend. This book is the most honest, visceral, voyeuristic, did I say; honest (?) conversation with a friend about coming to terms with layers of trauma including suicide + cancer.
Liz Levine paints a rich, in-depth, enlightening picture of what it is like to be attacked by “what ifs” and “I could have, should have, done…”
On one-page tears blasted from my eyes. On the next, I cringed while laughing uncontrollably at the healing morbidity of comedy in the darkest moments.
Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But The End is a must-read for anyone who thirsts for compelling life stories. It is a fabulous read for everyone. But, if you’ve suffered devastating losses in your life, this book will help you realize you’re not alone, whatever you are feeling + going through, uniquely belongs to you—don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
One last note: Nobody Ever Talks About Anything But The End is a beautiful, amazing, darkly hilarious, gem, that might help those suffering to place their grief in a compartment quicker. A place where it is no longer all-consuming. Because when it is finally placed somewhere manageable, which is something Levine deftly shares with unflinching courage, you will finally arrive at a new BEGINNING.
WRITTEN: July 18, 2020
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DEPT. OF SPECULATIONJenny OFFILL I am confident I’ve read something like nothing else.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
I dove in. Pages began flipping, I’m not sure if I was flipping them. I started laughing. There is nothing like this. A little girl makes me laugh, she’s incredibly cute. The little girl makes me ponder, she’s smarter than most.
What is this book?
Is this a memoir? I should check the cover, the jacket, nah…I can’t stop reading.
This is the author’s life, it can’t be, it must be.
I reach the halfway mark; laughter turns into a cringe, darkness arrives, a perfect life begins to unravel. Life has a way of depositing us there when we least expect it.
I want the author to be okay. Is she okay? Will she survive? Where has the little girl’s zest for life gone? I still laugh—but now, I’m worried. I need to stop reading, I can’t, I need to know the outcome.
Can the family come together again, fall in love once more; does it need to be blown up to start over again? It sounds a bit like America.
Cover-to-cover in one sitting. I’m spent. There is nothing like this.
Is it her life, it must be, the book is fiction; I doubt that.
I’m finished. I’m spent. I am confident I’ve read something like nothing else.
I’m positive I’ve read the musings of a lyrical genius.
I want more pages!
I dove in. Pages began flipping, I’m not sure if I was flipping them. I started laughing. There is nothing like this. A little girl makes me laugh, she’s incredibly cute. The little girl makes me ponder, she’s smarter than most.
What is this book?
Is this a memoir? I should check the cover, the jacket, nah…I can’t stop reading.
This is the author’s life, it can’t be, it must be.
I reach the halfway mark; laughter turns into a cringe, darkness arrives, a perfect life begins to unravel. Life has a way of depositing us there when we least expect it.
I want the author to be okay. Is she okay? Will she survive? Where has the little girl’s zest for life gone? I still laugh—but now, I’m worried. I need to stop reading, I can’t, I need to know the outcome.
Can the family come together again, fall in love once more; does it need to be blown up to start over again? It sounds a bit like America.
Cover-to-cover in one sitting. I’m spent. There is nothing like this.
Is it her life, it must be, the book is fiction; I doubt that.
I’m finished. I’m spent. I am confident I’ve read something like nothing else.
I’m positive I’ve read the musings of a lyrical genius.
I want more pages!
WRITTEN: July 28, 2020
