MY TOP 25 BOOKS
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HONORABLE MENTION
* the NICKEL BOYS = Colson WHITEHEAD
#25
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THE WHITE BOOKHan KANGThere is beauty in the pain of living.
5 STARS |
#24
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GIRLEdna O'BRIENA breathtaking work of fiction that will open your eyes.
5 STARS |
#23
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AMERICA, THE FAREWELL TOURChris HEDGESA book that may change the way you look at porn!
5 STARS |
#22
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BETWEEN THE WORLD AND METa-Nehisi COATESI will never be black.
5 STARS |
Racism is a learned sickness. Between the World and Me is an eloquently written captivating look at it from the inside. I thank Ta-Neshi Coates for sharing his story.
The book upset me. I don’t want to believe the world to be this way. I don’t bleeping understand what race is—I do—but I don’t. I think it is a creation impacting us from the depths of greed — a way to control.
Ta-Neshi weaves his realities by using the literary tool of a letter to his son. The letter speaks of the atrocities cloaking those of black skin. It navigates the truths of race being a creation of the rich to control the unrelenting challenges of the poor. White poor. Black poor. They’re all the same; however, greed needed to divide. They required one group to be below the other on the pecking order of living. Between the World and Me is a beautiful exposé, highlighting the ridiculousness and blind-sightedness of literally all of us who grew up in suburbia. It scorns the illusive DREAM, which is only allowed to be chased by those deemed to be white enough to participate.
NEWSFLASH: White doesn’t exist. It never has, and it never will. If White Supremacists were to hold a convention where all members took a DNA TEST—there would never be a second convention.
What I loved most about this book; it promotes the quest for critical thought. It challenges us to question everything. It is painful at times. In today’s (and always) climate, it is a vitally important read, to help us to look deeply into the mirror and query how we’ve arrived: HERE - TODAY.
The book upset me. I don’t want to believe the world to be this way. I don’t bleeping understand what race is—I do—but I don’t. I think it is a creation impacting us from the depths of greed — a way to control.
Ta-Neshi weaves his realities by using the literary tool of a letter to his son. The letter speaks of the atrocities cloaking those of black skin. It navigates the truths of race being a creation of the rich to control the unrelenting challenges of the poor. White poor. Black poor. They’re all the same; however, greed needed to divide. They required one group to be below the other on the pecking order of living. Between the World and Me is a beautiful exposé, highlighting the ridiculousness and blind-sightedness of literally all of us who grew up in suburbia. It scorns the illusive DREAM, which is only allowed to be chased by those deemed to be white enough to participate.
NEWSFLASH: White doesn’t exist. It never has, and it never will. If White Supremacists were to hold a convention where all members took a DNA TEST—there would never be a second convention.
What I loved most about this book; it promotes the quest for critical thought. It challenges us to question everything. It is painful at times. In today’s (and always) climate, it is a vitally important read, to help us to look deeply into the mirror and query how we’ve arrived: HERE - TODAY.
RACE WAS CREATED BY GR$$D
There is no Chinese race. There is no Korean race. There is no Muslim race. However, somehow, there is a WHITE RACE.
Isn’t that a ginormous load of BS?
What the bleep are we racing toward?
Ta-Neshi, in perfect clarity, highlights the struggle of being trampled for generations and then being punished for trying to rise. Slavery didn’t end when the so-called white elitists ended it—it just shifted into laws meant to control, leading to unrelenting violence swallowing the ghettoized poor. Prisons for profit continued to incarcerate those who’d already brought a bountiful of wealth to the ruling class by enslaving them in offensive numbers; and then, using the imprisoned labour to keep stuffing their pockets.
I don’t want to be racist. So, I won’t. I wish Ta-Neshi didn’t need to write this heart-wrenching letter to his son. However, he did.
Ta-Neshi’s letter, sadly, reminded me of a beautiful blog post a white musician left for his daughter when he was dying from the wrath of Cancer. In the letter, he explained to his daughter all the beautiful things in the world when he was still alive. Who the leader of his country was, what the number one song was, what his favourite food was—with nary a mention of the struggles of life? The letter contrasted Ta-Neshi’s daily struggles to stay alive, stay out of prison, and not to be destroyed by a created race that for centuries have treated everyone but themselves, as less than human.
I loved this book. For several hours after I completed reading, I tripped into a somber funk, only to snap out of it because I realized how offensive it is to feel sadness for something I can never possibly understand, because if I were to write a letter to a loved one, my struggles would never have to touch on who I am. I blend in with all the so-called-superior whites.
I don’t want this book to be real. I will keep asking questions. Maybe one day we can stop the bleeping race. If we don’t, I’m not sure if reaching the finish line is a good thing.
READ THIS BOOK.
Isn’t that a ginormous load of BS?
What the bleep are we racing toward?
Ta-Neshi, in perfect clarity, highlights the struggle of being trampled for generations and then being punished for trying to rise. Slavery didn’t end when the so-called white elitists ended it—it just shifted into laws meant to control, leading to unrelenting violence swallowing the ghettoized poor. Prisons for profit continued to incarcerate those who’d already brought a bountiful of wealth to the ruling class by enslaving them in offensive numbers; and then, using the imprisoned labour to keep stuffing their pockets.
I don’t want to be racist. So, I won’t. I wish Ta-Neshi didn’t need to write this heart-wrenching letter to his son. However, he did.
Ta-Neshi’s letter, sadly, reminded me of a beautiful blog post a white musician left for his daughter when he was dying from the wrath of Cancer. In the letter, he explained to his daughter all the beautiful things in the world when he was still alive. Who the leader of his country was, what the number one song was, what his favourite food was—with nary a mention of the struggles of life? The letter contrasted Ta-Neshi’s daily struggles to stay alive, stay out of prison, and not to be destroyed by a created race that for centuries have treated everyone but themselves, as less than human.
I loved this book. For several hours after I completed reading, I tripped into a somber funk, only to snap out of it because I realized how offensive it is to feel sadness for something I can never possibly understand, because if I were to write a letter to a loved one, my struggles would never have to touch on who I am. I blend in with all the so-called-superior whites.
I don’t want this book to be real. I will keep asking questions. Maybe one day we can stop the bleeping race. If we don’t, I’m not sure if reaching the finish line is a good thing.
READ THIS BOOK.
#21
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HOW TO CATCH A MOLEMarc HAMERA review. My thoughts. My days. How the book tripped my mind.
5 STARS |
My alarm is about to rattle my soul, sparking me awake. The day is about to begin. It’s just before 4 am. The necessity of work beckons. It’s been screaming my name for more than 14-years, at least this version of adulthood responsibilities. I cannot get used to the hour, with being out-of-sync with the rest of society + my relationships. I take the easy route; I go to work. There is comfort in having the illusion of a place of belonging.
I crack open the ravishing cover of a new day.
The days’ blend, each no different than the last. There is no time to breathe. The pressure to live up to expectations is unrelenting. I must be: SOMETHING, I’ve been told. I am. But, because I am part of the judgment, I must judge, everyone, everything…myself. The drive to work has become a blur. I pull into the parking lot. I park. I only remember A and B, nothing in between. We all think we know what’s best. We all believe if only we were in charge. Collectively, have we stopped living? Have we stopped realizing we are simply part of nature, and all the noise blaring around us, is ephemeral, pointless, limiting? It doesn’t matter.
Until we can clear our mind of the inherent sense of self-importance, I’m not sure any of us can truly be. We must be, nothing more.
How to Catch a Mole made me realize everything in nature is connected. We overthink what we are supposed to be. We have a propensity to become part of the noise. We live in a time where we nearly criminalize those who become less than what societal delusion has determined to be the norm. We are the mole, nothing more. Beauty in life comes from acceptance.
From cover to the last word How to Catch a Mole is a breathtaking trip through the life of a man—many would shun—a man who has his thumb firmly planted on the pulse of today. Thank You.
I look forward to tomorrow!
WRITTEN: NOVEMBER 6, 2019
I crack open the ravishing cover of a new day.
The days’ blend, each no different than the last. There is no time to breathe. The pressure to live up to expectations is unrelenting. I must be: SOMETHING, I’ve been told. I am. But, because I am part of the judgment, I must judge, everyone, everything…myself. The drive to work has become a blur. I pull into the parking lot. I park. I only remember A and B, nothing in between. We all think we know what’s best. We all believe if only we were in charge. Collectively, have we stopped living? Have we stopped realizing we are simply part of nature, and all the noise blaring around us, is ephemeral, pointless, limiting? It doesn’t matter.
Until we can clear our mind of the inherent sense of self-importance, I’m not sure any of us can truly be. We must be, nothing more.
How to Catch a Mole made me realize everything in nature is connected. We overthink what we are supposed to be. We have a propensity to become part of the noise. We live in a time where we nearly criminalize those who become less than what societal delusion has determined to be the norm. We are the mole, nothing more. Beauty in life comes from acceptance.
From cover to the last word How to Catch a Mole is a breathtaking trip through the life of a man—many would shun—a man who has his thumb firmly planted on the pulse of today. Thank You.
I look forward to tomorrow!
WRITTEN: NOVEMBER 6, 2019
#20
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BLACK IS THE BODYEmily BERNARDEvery white person I know displays racist tendencies from time to time. This disturbs me. I’m white.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel (think)?
“Somewhere between the clarity of his focus and the complexity of my father’s anxiety, perhaps, lies the difference between living white and living black in America.”
Every white person I know displays racist tendencies from time to time. This disturbs me. I’m white.
It could be something as ridiculous as stating, “The only people who are affected by the Coronavirus, are yellow.”
When a friend said this, I emphasized it was disgusting and offensive. He thought it was no big deal. It is a big deal.
I’ve encountered people I know, commenting on how indigenous people or black people need to get over the atrocities they’ve faced, because, “I didn’t do it to them. How long do they need to whine? I’ve worked hard for everything I have.”
You had an insurmountable head start.
“Somewhere between the clarity of his focus and the complexity of my father’s anxiety, perhaps, lies the difference between living white and living black in America.”
Every white person I know displays racist tendencies from time to time. This disturbs me. I’m white.
It could be something as ridiculous as stating, “The only people who are affected by the Coronavirus, are yellow.”
When a friend said this, I emphasized it was disgusting and offensive. He thought it was no big deal. It is a big deal.
I’ve encountered people I know, commenting on how indigenous people or black people need to get over the atrocities they’ve faced, because, “I didn’t do it to them. How long do they need to whine? I’ve worked hard for everything I have.”
You had an insurmountable head start.
Racial slurs lose impact when you must Google them before the offensiveness kicks in.
Others scream: Others are racist toward us.
Bleeping, please, the worst thing I’ve ever been called is “Honky,” and I had to look up the meaning—and I still don’t understand what the slur means. Racial slurs lose impact when you must Google them before the offensiveness kicks in.
I once worked for a company based in Minnesota, and while chatting with a white co-worker about the South—his words were so vile; I won’t type them here.
Movies + Television + Pop Culture + the Media have been conditioning us for a long time—this conditioning portrays all non-whites in shaded light.
I called out someone on Facebook for extolling hateful rhetoric. He fired back; I must be ashamed of my own skin.
I’m not too fond of the word woke. I equally detest us whites overcompensating for our horrendous behaviour.
I encourage everyone to read BLACK IS THE BODY, especially, us whites, it may not change who you are, but it just might help you to understand yours are not the only experiences that matter.
WRITTEN: February 7, 2020
Bleeping, please, the worst thing I’ve ever been called is “Honky,” and I had to look up the meaning—and I still don’t understand what the slur means. Racial slurs lose impact when you must Google them before the offensiveness kicks in.
I once worked for a company based in Minnesota, and while chatting with a white co-worker about the South—his words were so vile; I won’t type them here.
Movies + Television + Pop Culture + the Media have been conditioning us for a long time—this conditioning portrays all non-whites in shaded light.
I called out someone on Facebook for extolling hateful rhetoric. He fired back; I must be ashamed of my own skin.
I’m not too fond of the word woke. I equally detest us whites overcompensating for our horrendous behaviour.
I encourage everyone to read BLACK IS THE BODY, especially, us whites, it may not change who you are, but it just might help you to understand yours are not the only experiences that matter.
WRITTEN: February 7, 2020
#19
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GRIEF IS THE THING WITH FEATHERSMax PORTERBreathtaking!
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
BREATHLESS
Every word washed over me like a tsunami. I lost my mother. I lost my father. I lost my mother for a second time. I cannot find my father.
After consuming the last word of GRIEF IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS, I shook, wiped away my tears, embraced my laughter, and was rendered speechless.
My friend Jay glanced my way. All I could muster was WOW.
There is nothing like this. I gasped.
I feel less alone. Fright became swaddled in comfort.
GRIEF IS A THING WITH FEATHERS scorched my every emotion, leaving me warm and hopeful!
"…the fact that their two smells became one smell, our smell. Us."
WRITTEN: MARCH 19, 2020
BREATHLESS
Every word washed over me like a tsunami. I lost my mother. I lost my father. I lost my mother for a second time. I cannot find my father.
After consuming the last word of GRIEF IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS, I shook, wiped away my tears, embraced my laughter, and was rendered speechless.
My friend Jay glanced my way. All I could muster was WOW.
There is nothing like this. I gasped.
I feel less alone. Fright became swaddled in comfort.
GRIEF IS A THING WITH FEATHERS scorched my every emotion, leaving me warm and hopeful!
"…the fact that their two smells became one smell, our smell. Us."
WRITTEN: MARCH 19, 2020
#18
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KNOW MY NAMEChanel MILLEREvery man is capable of sexual assault.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
KNOW MY NAME is a deftly written extraordinarily beautiful book about becoming whole again after being sexually assaulted. Beautiful is an odd description for a book about a horrendous subject matter. But it is. Chanel Miller is a gifted writer, and as she so aptly put, she would have much rather have written about a different subject—however, this was the story she had been given. Fortunately, for us, she survived and found the strength to dig deep within herself to shed light on how as a society, we allow ourselves to live with our heads in the sand, making each of us culpable.
Every man is capable of sexual assault. A bold statement? Yes. As much as every man is capable, mercifully, the percentage who are gripped by the appalling illness are few. Most men evolve, and whether it is through family, or life lessons, develop a sense of right or wrong and know better than repulsively inflicting incurable damage upon another human being. That does not take the rest of us off the hook. Many of us look the other way and diminish even more the lives of those assaulted. We have a propensity to, perhaps, because of conditioning, inflict more pain by questioning the motivation of victims. NO VICTIM WANTED TO BE SEXUALLY ASSAULTED, and it is despicable society questions them. At times, screaming about the motivation of the victim. It’s vile to do so.
WE NEED TO KEEP EVOLVING. We need not give in to the shameful realities of the entitlement of the athletic world. I played at a high level, and though most teammates were upstanding individually, as a group, because of peer pressure, behaved in a predatory manner.
Chanel Miller is a hero. What makes this so is it is not how she thinks of herself.
KNOW MY NAME is a deftly written extraordinarily beautiful book about becoming whole again after being sexually assaulted. Beautiful is an odd description for a book about a horrendous subject matter. But it is. Chanel Miller is a gifted writer, and as she so aptly put, she would have much rather have written about a different subject—however, this was the story she had been given. Fortunately, for us, she survived and found the strength to dig deep within herself to shed light on how as a society, we allow ourselves to live with our heads in the sand, making each of us culpable.
Every man is capable of sexual assault. A bold statement? Yes. As much as every man is capable, mercifully, the percentage who are gripped by the appalling illness are few. Most men evolve, and whether it is through family, or life lessons, develop a sense of right or wrong and know better than repulsively inflicting incurable damage upon another human being. That does not take the rest of us off the hook. Many of us look the other way and diminish even more the lives of those assaulted. We have a propensity to, perhaps, because of conditioning, inflict more pain by questioning the motivation of victims. NO VICTIM WANTED TO BE SEXUALLY ASSAULTED, and it is despicable society questions them. At times, screaming about the motivation of the victim. It’s vile to do so.
WE NEED TO KEEP EVOLVING. We need not give in to the shameful realities of the entitlement of the athletic world. I played at a high level, and though most teammates were upstanding individually, as a group, because of peer pressure, behaved in a predatory manner.
Chanel Miller is a hero. What makes this so is it is not how she thinks of herself.
“Chanel Miller is a hero.”
KNOW MY NAME should be mandatory reading in High School + University. It should be a requirement for every coach + athlete to read and discuss. Any athlete who does not read should not be allowed to participate. It should be mandatory reading for any man accused of sexual assault. It should be compulsory reading for any prisoner serving time for sexual assault—followed by writing their interpretation of what they digested. If their analysis does not meet specific guidelines—more time needs to be added to their sentence.
And, in this time when dinosaurs are holding the highest offices in the land, speaking to a base of ignorance, we must thank Chanel for her fortitude to be strong enough to make her debilitating recovery, mainstream.
On a final note, wouldn’t the world be a better place if the parents of a sexual assaulter were held accountable for their inability to instill morals in their children, and as a result, faced jail time along with their revolting offspring?
How could the mother of a sexual assaulter stand behind her child?
Is it not time for all men to stop being relics and evolve?
WRITTEN: April 17, 2020
And, in this time when dinosaurs are holding the highest offices in the land, speaking to a base of ignorance, we must thank Chanel for her fortitude to be strong enough to make her debilitating recovery, mainstream.
On a final note, wouldn’t the world be a better place if the parents of a sexual assaulter were held accountable for their inability to instill morals in their children, and as a result, faced jail time along with their revolting offspring?
How could the mother of a sexual assaulter stand behind her child?
Is it not time for all men to stop being relics and evolve?
WRITTEN: April 17, 2020
#17
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CONSIDER THISChuck PALAHNIUKInformative + Deftly Entertained
5 STARS |
How did the book make me feel/think?
INFORMED + DEFTLY ENTERTAINED
CONSIDER THIS—I picked it up while practicing Social Distancing at my local Chapters.
The cover sucked me in + disturbed me—I had no idea what the book is about—I cracked it open.
“Hey, Jay, look at this, this is certainly weird, the pages of the book are upside down and work from back to front. Neat.”
Yes, neat.
Someone had turned the jacket around.
Jay laughed.
INFORMED + DEFTLY ENTERTAINED
CONSIDER THIS—I picked it up while practicing Social Distancing at my local Chapters.
The cover sucked me in + disturbed me—I had no idea what the book is about—I cracked it open.
“Hey, Jay, look at this, this is certainly weird, the pages of the book are upside down and work from back to front. Neat.”
Yes, neat.
Someone had turned the jacket around.
Jay laughed.
When I got home, I dove in not knowing what to expect. I never read the book blurbs before reading. I like to be surprised. And, CONSIDER THIS, did precisely that.
The book is an essential bible for anyone who writes. PERIOD. Wow, it is chock-full of sage advice on how to…write…not write…more importantly, craft a story!
I came to a window—I looked in--Mr. |Paula – nick| was handing a man in a flashy jacket, a giant penguin. I’m intrigued.
CONSIDER THIS effortlessly bounces between a literary master class to a visceral look into the author’s life. The stories within are exquisite, at times grotesque, always illuminating.
This book is another word for gem—a precious intoxicating liquefiable nugget.
The previous sentence makes no sense—or does it?
WRITTEN: March 26, 2020
The book is an essential bible for anyone who writes. PERIOD. Wow, it is chock-full of sage advice on how to…write…not write…more importantly, craft a story!
I came to a window—I looked in--Mr. |Paula – nick| was handing a man in a flashy jacket, a giant penguin. I’m intrigued.
CONSIDER THIS effortlessly bounces between a literary master class to a visceral look into the author’s life. The stories within are exquisite, at times grotesque, always illuminating.
This book is another word for gem—a precious intoxicating liquefiable nugget.
The previous sentence makes no sense—or does it?
WRITTEN: March 26, 2020
#16
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MOSTLY DEAD THINGSKristen ARNETTI highly recommend reading this book while eating!
5 STARS |
INGREDIENTS
And, away we go!
Strange doesn’t do MOSTLY DEAD THINGS justice. The book cuts delicately, screw that; rips open every emotion in a viscerally beautiful; way. A family broke by conditioning tear into their beings; slicing deep, exposing every fibre of being. So, they can find a way to move forward and find comfort in whom each of them is meant to become.
MOSTLY DEAD THINGS is jarringly funny, emotionally laced, dripping in a breathtaking need to find similarity in the lives of a family too immersed in beautifying the living past to realize they are stuck in denial.
Parts of the last 100 pages were so incredibly gripping the words lifted off the page, coming to life, and delivering, at least to this reader; to the beautiful pains found in trying to figure out whom you are supposed to be! Parts of the last 100 pages, just might have been, the most powerfully beautiful writing I have ever read.
I read most of this book during lunch breaks. In hindsight, maybe not the best way to learn about taxidermy!
- A father who’s a taxidermist.
- A loving lesbian daughter, Jess, working at his side.
- A semi-lost son, trying to find out who he is.
- The daughter and son love the same girl.
- A mother trying to make the best of the cards dealt.
- Dad commits suicide.
- Jessa discovers the body in the room where she and her father used to bring dead animals back to life, almost ready to return to the wild.
- Mom starts creating pieces of art with the animals, posing them in compromising positions.
And, away we go!
Strange doesn’t do MOSTLY DEAD THINGS justice. The book cuts delicately, screw that; rips open every emotion in a viscerally beautiful; way. A family broke by conditioning tear into their beings; slicing deep, exposing every fibre of being. So, they can find a way to move forward and find comfort in whom each of them is meant to become.
MOSTLY DEAD THINGS is jarringly funny, emotionally laced, dripping in a breathtaking need to find similarity in the lives of a family too immersed in beautifying the living past to realize they are stuck in denial.
Parts of the last 100 pages were so incredibly gripping the words lifted off the page, coming to life, and delivering, at least to this reader; to the beautiful pains found in trying to figure out whom you are supposed to be! Parts of the last 100 pages, just might have been, the most powerfully beautiful writing I have ever read.
I read most of this book during lunch breaks. In hindsight, maybe not the best way to learn about taxidermy!
#15
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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
#14
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OFF TO SEARichard StineA beautiful story about losing love + learning to truly love for the first time...
5 STARS |
This book was recommended to me by an ebullient regular at a pub I was bartending at in the nineties. I had just been dumped by the love of my life* —drowning in misery.
I picked up a copy OFF TO SEA —the very next day. A children book, I thought. I cracked it open. Three minutes later I was done. I read it over and over and over and over again. I repeated the reading cycle for the next hour.
I love this book. The story it shares is beautiful. It may be the only relationship book anyone ever needs. With great ease, the story weaves through the pain of failing relationships. It is a breathtaking story about finding yourself + assuring you’ll embrace who you are when you do.
I resisted the books wise guidance. Instead, I rented a Video Recorder (VHS) and recorded me narrating the book with Extreme’s More Than Words playing in the background. I had the tape dropped off to the love of my life. My astonishing gesture won her back.
After being rejected again: I had a GIANT P tattooed on my forehead.
*Love of My Life much like True Love are fantasy terms, they must be—because you’d never be dumped by either. Unless of course...
I picked up a copy OFF TO SEA —the very next day. A children book, I thought. I cracked it open. Three minutes later I was done. I read it over and over and over and over again. I repeated the reading cycle for the next hour.
I love this book. The story it shares is beautiful. It may be the only relationship book anyone ever needs. With great ease, the story weaves through the pain of failing relationships. It is a breathtaking story about finding yourself + assuring you’ll embrace who you are when you do.
I resisted the books wise guidance. Instead, I rented a Video Recorder (VHS) and recorded me narrating the book with Extreme’s More Than Words playing in the background. I had the tape dropped off to the love of my life. My astonishing gesture won her back.
After being rejected again: I had a GIANT P tattooed on my forehead.
*Love of My Life much like True Love are fantasy terms, they must be—because you’d never be dumped by either. Unless of course...
#13
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THE GLORIOUS HERESIESLISA McINERNEYA riveting story about people who think they matter more than they do. Dazzling!
5 STARS |
Bloody hell, The Glorious Heresies, is like coming across mangled wreckage, un-survivable—on a dreary night, on a rain-smeared highway. Somehow, the occupants of both vehicles, broken lives in tow, claw + scratch their way out of the depths of destruction to willingly, while draped in denial, fuck each other over just because they are fucked themselves.
The characters are dark, flawed, and un-salvageable—I hated each of them. I turned another page and then another with layers of destruction being pounded and laid onto the streets lining Cork’s (Ireland) underbelly—pages leaving behind terrible sadness, an emptiness that feels violent, a dark void. A twist comes. Your hatred seeps away. You find something, someone, a reason to cheer. The city folds itself upon the characters—characters lost in a world where they are too stunned to realise: they do not matter. Their lives are only as big as they are. Another page turns, you search for hope. The book ends. You are left gasping.
The characters are dark, flawed, and un-salvageable—I hated each of them. I turned another page and then another with layers of destruction being pounded and laid onto the streets lining Cork’s (Ireland) underbelly—pages leaving behind terrible sadness, an emptiness that feels violent, a dark void. A twist comes. Your hatred seeps away. You find something, someone, a reason to cheer. The city folds itself upon the characters—characters lost in a world where they are too stunned to realise: they do not matter. Their lives are only as big as they are. Another page turns, you search for hope. The book ends. You are left gasping.
#12
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DAISY JONES & THE SIXTaylor JENKINS REIDA Rock & Roll journey that will leave you spent at the end. In a good way!
5 STARS |
I’m one-hundredth in line at the box office. I will score great seats; I’m excited, shaking! I’m going to read Daisy Jones & The Six. I’ve scored floor seats. Row 3. The lights dim. The bassline pulses. The drums boom. Billy’s voice is achingly beautiful. Daisy’s voice balances his out, leading them to perfection. There is anger in their story, passion, love. They invite me backstage + ask me to join them on tour. I flip through the gripping pages, learning what drives the band through the toxicity of rock & roll. Creativity is damaged. The words on the pages pulse much like the music. Survival depends upon addiction and sobriety at the same time.
DAISY JONES & THE SIX is a compelling read. If you open your mind, it will capture your soul and take you on tour with all the love and damage that ensues. At the end of the journey; I need to check myself into rehab.
What a ride it was!
WRITTEN: August 24, 2019
DAISY JONES & THE SIX is a compelling read. If you open your mind, it will capture your soul and take you on tour with all the love and damage that ensues. At the end of the journey; I need to check myself into rehab.
What a ride it was!
WRITTEN: August 24, 2019
#11
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A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUADJENNIFER EganA PUNCHY, SALACIOUS, SEX-FILLED, SCANDALOUS, DELICIOUSLY EXHILARATING RIDE!
5 STARS |
This book's prose explodes in flavourful descriptive bursts like perfectly ripened cherry tomatoes popping in the readers’ mouths bringing life to every page.
Toxic characters—fucked up—reality struggles—living-large—barely-surviving. You cheer. They survive. They grow. You crave another delicious page.
Toxic characters—fucked up—reality struggles—living-large—barely-surviving. You cheer. They survive. They grow. You crave another delicious page.
#10
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Me Talk Pretty One DayDavid SedarisDavid Sedaris slices through cultural norms with precision leaving readers gasping for air as they laugh out loud.
5 STARS |
Me Talk Pretty One Day is a humour-filled gem scorching new grounds casting political correctness to the side as Sedaris tackles cringe worthy subjects ranging from speech impediments to mania and addiction, somehow, turning them into sardonically hysterical anecdotes taken from his life. His ease of weaving language together takes the reader meandering through his delightfully bizarre life filled with colourful familial characters makes reading an enjoyable breeze.
Stories that include his cat named Neal and a vacuum cleaner may leave you crying with glee: as will the story about his sister, Amy, after being named one the most influential woman in NYC, professing to a stranger, “I’m in love...”
As a writer, I can only hope to find my inner Sedaris and one day reach his level of respect.
Stories that include his cat named Neal and a vacuum cleaner may leave you crying with glee: as will the story about his sister, Amy, after being named one the most influential woman in NYC, professing to a stranger, “I’m in love...”
As a writer, I can only hope to find my inner Sedaris and one day reach his level of respect.
Me Talk Pretty One Day may not be everyone’s cup of tea. And, perhaps, some people may not find it to be funny. If you fall into either of those categories, I suggest, try harder!
I loved this book. 5 Stars are not high enough.
I loved this book. 5 Stars are not high enough.
#9
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A MAN CALLED OVEFredrik BACKMANI want Ove to be my best friend
5 STARS |
A Man Called Ove is my second favourite book— it is close, but still second.
Ove is a snarky old man, 59 years old, not old by any standard, but since he is from Sweden, perhaps old by Ikea standards.
Does Ikea furniture ever make it to antique?
Don’t take that as a slight against Ikea; I love Ikea.
Ove likes order, "rules are rules," they bring order to life.
He’s an awkward man whose deeply principled. When Ove finds a lost item, he turns it in, but at the same time, he will not rat out a lesser man who believes in finder’s keepers.
Ove’s world is black and white. He likes fixing things. He enjoys working with tools. He likes simplicity. He falls in love. He feels unworthy, but his heart fills with true—his love, Sonja, brings colour to Ove’s life. He falls deeply.
Tragedy strikes—his love never wavers through trauma—sadly, love eventually leaves as it succumbs to cancer and his world trips back to black and white.
The days begin darkly blending into the next, and without "pure love" walking lockstep, his will to live begins to evaporate. He plans his exit. He feels isolated despite the collection of unusual blundering characters who keep dropping into his life. He resists their presence. His time is up. Suicide is on the docket.
Ove is a snarky old man, 59 years old, not old by any standard, but since he is from Sweden, perhaps old by Ikea standards.
Does Ikea furniture ever make it to antique?
Don’t take that as a slight against Ikea; I love Ikea.
Ove likes order, "rules are rules," they bring order to life.
He’s an awkward man whose deeply principled. When Ove finds a lost item, he turns it in, but at the same time, he will not rat out a lesser man who believes in finder’s keepers.
Ove’s world is black and white. He likes fixing things. He enjoys working with tools. He likes simplicity. He falls in love. He feels unworthy, but his heart fills with true—his love, Sonja, brings colour to Ove’s life. He falls deeply.
Tragedy strikes—his love never wavers through trauma—sadly, love eventually leaves as it succumbs to cancer and his world trips back to black and white.
The days begin darkly blending into the next, and without "pure love" walking lockstep, his will to live begins to evaporate. He plans his exit. He feels isolated despite the collection of unusual blundering characters who keep dropping into his life. He resists their presence. His time is up. Suicide is on the docket.
He tries. He is interrupted. He tries again. He is interrupted once more. With each chapter read I feared he’d eventually succeed. The damaged blundering characters begin to transform from flawed, to flawed with a purpose. That purpose: to keep Ove busy fixing things broken in each of their lives.
Then, magically, as if a zipper appeared on the pages only to be pulled down allowing me to crawl fully into the story: I felt as if I was becoming a character in the story.
I read “Ove” while reading a memoir about a megalomaniac psychiatrist who was trying to cure the homosexuality of the main character—a light read—not—but a wonderful book nonetheless (more on it at another time). With each passage I finished, of the not so light read, I felt a need to read “Ove” to cheer myself up. Imagine a book about a crotchety old suicidal man being an elixir of hope!
It is time to wind my thoughts down; I feel the wind blowing long here. I never wanted “Ove” to end. I found myself becoming sad as the pages slipped by. Pardon the cliché; the book is a real page-turner—but I found myself only reading a chapter or two at a time in an effort to avoid the last page. As I paced along beside the beautiful cast of characters inside the book I imagined meeting with Ove each week to catch up. Ove became my friend. Ove made me want to be a better man. Ove turned black and white into a vibrant tapestry of colour.
A Man Called Ove is my second favourite book. My first favourite: my memoir—simply because, I did not write Ove!
Then, magically, as if a zipper appeared on the pages only to be pulled down allowing me to crawl fully into the story: I felt as if I was becoming a character in the story.
I read “Ove” while reading a memoir about a megalomaniac psychiatrist who was trying to cure the homosexuality of the main character—a light read—not—but a wonderful book nonetheless (more on it at another time). With each passage I finished, of the not so light read, I felt a need to read “Ove” to cheer myself up. Imagine a book about a crotchety old suicidal man being an elixir of hope!
It is time to wind my thoughts down; I feel the wind blowing long here. I never wanted “Ove” to end. I found myself becoming sad as the pages slipped by. Pardon the cliché; the book is a real page-turner—but I found myself only reading a chapter or two at a time in an effort to avoid the last page. As I paced along beside the beautiful cast of characters inside the book I imagined meeting with Ove each week to catch up. Ove became my friend. Ove made me want to be a better man. Ove turned black and white into a vibrant tapestry of colour.
A Man Called Ove is my second favourite book. My first favourite: my memoir—simply because, I did not write Ove!
#8
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SUPERMARKETBobby HALLA wicked ride on a roller-coaster leaving my mouth agape at the end
5+ STARS |
Hey, look at the red book over there? I pick it up. Simple, interesting texture. I’m sold!
I crack it open. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what the story is about.
An elevator door opens. I get in. The attendant hands me a bag of pills. I resist taking one. We meet Flynn.
He’s quirky. He’s creative. He weaves his words in a unique formation. We rise to the second floor. The characters are colourful, vibrant, consistent, challenged—trapped working in one of the only going concerns in town, a supermarket—generic, like many-a-town, sprinkling the world.
The characters spring to life peculiarities and all, as Flynn writes them to life. Flynn is a writer. He’s signed a book deal. He needs to create fiction from non. He needs to make the boring life of a small town, vibrant. His challenge. He’s kind of messed up.
We reach another floor. The protagonist is antsy. He wants to push the proverbial envelope. He wants to live.
I crack it open. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what the story is about.
An elevator door opens. I get in. The attendant hands me a bag of pills. I resist taking one. We meet Flynn.
He’s quirky. He’s creative. He weaves his words in a unique formation. We rise to the second floor. The characters are colourful, vibrant, consistent, challenged—trapped working in one of the only going concerns in town, a supermarket—generic, like many-a-town, sprinkling the world.
The characters spring to life peculiarities and all, as Flynn writes them to life. Flynn is a writer. He’s signed a book deal. He needs to create fiction from non. He needs to make the boring life of a small town, vibrant. His challenge. He’s kind of messed up.
We reach another floor. The protagonist is antsy. He wants to push the proverbial envelope. He wants to live.
--
“He could be any of us who struggle with belonging.”
--
“He could be any of us who struggle with belonging.”
--
We near the top floor. We’re handed another bag of pills. I resist popping again.
What’s happening? Am I hallucinating? Flynn’s life begins unravelling. He’s damaged. Lost. He could be any of us who struggle with belonging.
We start dropping at an unforgiving pace. I read another page. Reality has become skewed. I read more. Maybe a pill will help clear things up.
I CAN’T STOP READING!
SUPERMARKET is street-smart. It is an outrageous, insanity-laced, roller-coaster ride, with mind-bending realities around every corner. It profoundly tackles issues of mental health + will have you teetering on a line between clarity and fantasy + if you trip too far—you may never make it back.
SUPERMARKET has entered a 3-way tie for my favourite book. “A MAN CALLED OVE” “DRIVING IN REVERSE – THE LIFE I ALMOST MISSED” “SUPERMARKET”
What’s happening? Am I hallucinating? Flynn’s life begins unravelling. He’s damaged. Lost. He could be any of us who struggle with belonging.
We start dropping at an unforgiving pace. I read another page. Reality has become skewed. I read more. Maybe a pill will help clear things up.
I CAN’T STOP READING!
SUPERMARKET is street-smart. It is an outrageous, insanity-laced, roller-coaster ride, with mind-bending realities around every corner. It profoundly tackles issues of mental health + will have you teetering on a line between clarity and fantasy + if you trip too far—you may never make it back.
SUPERMARKET has entered a 3-way tie for my favourite book. “A MAN CALLED OVE” “DRIVING IN REVERSE – THE LIFE I ALMOST MISSED” “SUPERMARKET”
REVIEW WRITTEN: May 12, 2019
#7
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CALYPSODavid SEDARISA darkly entertaining and intimate look at coming to terms with the inescapability of living
5 STARS |
In Calypso, David Sedaris, blast open the doors and windows into his life, inviting readers in for a darkly entertaining and intimate look into his coming to terms with the inescapability of living.
Once inside, I found Sedaris standing in front of the mirror with the image staring back at him attempting to come to terms with life slipping by—part reminiscing—part fear—laced with reality. On any given page, my emotions flipped between laughter, cringing, introspection, and profound sadness.
As David peered into the mirror, the book began to transform. The image looking back at his life morphed into me, you, our neighbours—and—every human being who has their eyes open to the trials and tribulations every one of us deals with at some point in time in our life journeys. David Sedaris is a gifted storyteller—did I just become Mr. Obvious? This collection of stories is a wonderful gift to each of us!
I found the chapters “Why Aren’t You Laughing” and “The Spirit World” tugged at my heartstrings in a painfully visceral way—providing warmth masked as pain—bringing tears to my eyes as the image in the mirror morphed back to me.
Sure, all our paths are uniquely our own, but if you open your heart and mind while reading Calypso, you may realise the threads that bind us altogether likely come from the same source.
Once inside, I found Sedaris standing in front of the mirror with the image staring back at him attempting to come to terms with life slipping by—part reminiscing—part fear—laced with reality. On any given page, my emotions flipped between laughter, cringing, introspection, and profound sadness.
As David peered into the mirror, the book began to transform. The image looking back at his life morphed into me, you, our neighbours—and—every human being who has their eyes open to the trials and tribulations every one of us deals with at some point in time in our life journeys. David Sedaris is a gifted storyteller—did I just become Mr. Obvious? This collection of stories is a wonderful gift to each of us!
I found the chapters “Why Aren’t You Laughing” and “The Spirit World” tugged at my heartstrings in a painfully visceral way—providing warmth masked as pain—bringing tears to my eyes as the image in the mirror morphed back to me.
Sure, all our paths are uniquely our own, but if you open your heart and mind while reading Calypso, you may realise the threads that bind us altogether likely come from the same source.
#6
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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
#5
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ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUSOcean VUONGIt’s a love story. It’s a tragedy. It’s gorgeous. I cried.
5 STARS |
How did the book make me think/feel?
The book obliterated me.
Raw + Visceral + Exhilarating + Unflinching + Real
“Because something in him knew she’d be there. That she was waiting. Because that’s what mothers do. They Wait. They stand still until there children belong somewhere else.”
Little Dog, cobbles together a letter to his illiterate mother. She survived the Vietnam war. Her life is littered with challenge, poverty, and oppression.
Little Dog needs her to know who he is. The pages drift from horrific to understanding to sadness to acceptance.
“Because freedom, I am told, is nothing but the distance between hunter and prey.”
Little Dog, although he’s writing a love letter to his mother, he’s also writing a letter to all of us, to the Universe.
He needs to tell us who he is + who we have become. He needs to tell us the American Dream is fractured, unfair. He needs to tell us of the immigrant’s plight.
The book is visceral, scrutinizing the centuries-long head-start of privilege. It is a story about America’s corporate fed path to addiction ravaging those struggling to climb, to fit in, to belong.
“I did not know then what I know now: to be an American boy, and then an American boy with a gun, is to move from one end of a cage to another.”
ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUS, is a gut-punching tale about the realities of being different and the burning desire to be whole. It is a story about the fears of coming out.
“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you’ve been ruined.”
ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUS, shredded my perceptions, dropping me into the tremulous embrace of understanding—it is one of the best books I’ve read. It’s a love story. It’s a tragedy. It’s gorgeous. I cried.
“It’s not fair that the word laughter is trapped inside slaughter.”
WRITTEN: March 6, 2020
The book obliterated me.
Raw + Visceral + Exhilarating + Unflinching + Real
“Because something in him knew she’d be there. That she was waiting. Because that’s what mothers do. They Wait. They stand still until there children belong somewhere else.”
Little Dog, cobbles together a letter to his illiterate mother. She survived the Vietnam war. Her life is littered with challenge, poverty, and oppression.
Little Dog needs her to know who he is. The pages drift from horrific to understanding to sadness to acceptance.
“Because freedom, I am told, is nothing but the distance between hunter and prey.”
Little Dog, although he’s writing a love letter to his mother, he’s also writing a letter to all of us, to the Universe.
He needs to tell us who he is + who we have become. He needs to tell us the American Dream is fractured, unfair. He needs to tell us of the immigrant’s plight.
The book is visceral, scrutinizing the centuries-long head-start of privilege. It is a story about America’s corporate fed path to addiction ravaging those struggling to climb, to fit in, to belong.
“I did not know then what I know now: to be an American boy, and then an American boy with a gun, is to move from one end of a cage to another.”
ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUS, is a gut-punching tale about the realities of being different and the burning desire to be whole. It is a story about the fears of coming out.
“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you’ve been ruined.”
ON EARTH WE'RE BRIEFLY GORGEOUS, shredded my perceptions, dropping me into the tremulous embrace of understanding—it is one of the best books I’ve read. It’s a love story. It’s a tragedy. It’s gorgeous. I cried.
“It’s not fair that the word laughter is trapped inside slaughter.”
WRITTEN: March 6, 2020
#4
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LUST & WONDERAUGUSTEN BURROUGHSDeliciously, heart-warmingly-heart-wrenchingly honest..
5 STARS |
Augusten Burroughs could write his way out of a sopping wet gunny sack secured with zap straps; whatever the hell that means. I read RUNNING WITH SCISSORS (1st memoir): loved it--laughed so hysterically my room shook--by room I mean: car seat--I read most of it while I was working overnight security on a construction site, much of the time sitting in my vehicle staring at a building's entrance waiting for the bad guys to show up. When they did, they were usually high on crack, so, I just pretended to be a hallucination--which strangely, seemed to work.
I read DRY (2nd memoir): loved it. After reading: I went out and slammed back a flight of fine scotches. That's right: scotch is served by the flight.
However, something was missing. Burroughs comes from the definition of dysfunction, smothering dysfunction--yet; he survived, thankfully for us. What was missing, for me at least, he seemed to be hiding behind his indisputable wit and literary brilliance, although, his life oddities were laid out for all to see, laugh, cringe and cry along with, his mad comedic skills didn't allow me fully in.
As much as I loved those two books, I was hesitant to read another by this amazing, famous author, whose fame arrived by sharing his life. Then, one day, I was shopping, in a drug store, for... I'm not sure what for when I glanced over at the magazine rack, spotted the cover for LUST & WONDER (3rd) - I impulse bought it. I'm ecstatic I did. The book is...searching for the right adjectives...deliciously, heart-warmingly-heart-wrenchingly honest. Augusten not only shares his life's dysfunctions in this compelling memoir, he opens his heart, laying himself bare, allowing readers to fully dive in. The wit and literary brilliance are still there, as strong as ever, the last 60 pages may have been the most engrossing I've ever read. The ending...
I read DRY (2nd memoir): loved it. After reading: I went out and slammed back a flight of fine scotches. That's right: scotch is served by the flight.
However, something was missing. Burroughs comes from the definition of dysfunction, smothering dysfunction--yet; he survived, thankfully for us. What was missing, for me at least, he seemed to be hiding behind his indisputable wit and literary brilliance, although, his life oddities were laid out for all to see, laugh, cringe and cry along with, his mad comedic skills didn't allow me fully in.
As much as I loved those two books, I was hesitant to read another by this amazing, famous author, whose fame arrived by sharing his life. Then, one day, I was shopping, in a drug store, for... I'm not sure what for when I glanced over at the magazine rack, spotted the cover for LUST & WONDER (3rd) - I impulse bought it. I'm ecstatic I did. The book is...searching for the right adjectives...deliciously, heart-warmingly-heart-wrenchingly honest. Augusten not only shares his life's dysfunctions in this compelling memoir, he opens his heart, laying himself bare, allowing readers to fully dive in. The wit and literary brilliance are still there, as strong as ever, the last 60 pages may have been the most engrossing I've ever read. The ending...
AB - LUST & WONDER
Reading LUST & WONDER succeeded magnificently in not only bringing awareness for Austen, I think. I also think: it accomplished a rare thing: it brought self-awareness for anyone who dove into the pages of this wonderful book.
I can't wait for his next book. I think during the process of reading these three, I may have grown alongside of him.
Augusten, thank you, for surviving!
And, Christopher, thank you: for driving the jeep!
I can't wait for his next book. I think during the process of reading these three, I may have grown alongside of him.
Augusten, thank you, for surviving!
And, Christopher, thank you: for driving the jeep!
Lindsay,
Thanks so much. Very kind of you.
Christopher / Agent/ Selectric Artists/Augusten Burroughs
Thanks so much. Very kind of you.
Christopher / Agent/ Selectric Artists/Augusten Burroughs
#1 (t)
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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
#1 (t)
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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
#1 (t)
|
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.
