Saw this in a bookshop and got so excited. MUST READ IT.
Well, now I have read it. I'm not yet sure how I feel about it. Was it a disappoiSaw this in a bookshop and got so excited. MUST READ IT.
Well, now I have read it. I'm not yet sure how I feel about it. Was it a disappointment? Yes, I suppose, but I still liked it. I don't know. I really don't know. It was definitely worth reading but I can't place my thoughts and opinions on it. ...more
I wish I could give this collection of poetry the review that it deserves but truthfully, I find myself unable to write about it adequately enough. ThI wish I could give this collection of poetry the review that it deserves but truthfully, I find myself unable to write about it adequately enough. The book is so good. It's not often I read poetry and it is even less so that I find myself drawn into it. With this, each poem drew me in. Each line felt like a story of its own and more often than not, I found myself reading a poem further in and reminisicing a poem that I had read earlier in the collection and wondering how connected they were. I love the style of writing; it is powerful, emotional and chilling. His words are filled with details and anyone who knows me well, know that I absolutely love that.
I would write more but I'm just going to leave this review now with my favourite parts (as well as one complete but short poem):
"Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses. It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it's more like a song on a policeman's radio, how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces. Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable. Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we'll never get used to it.” ---- Scheherazade
"We made a graveyard// out of the bone white afternoon."
"When we were little we made houses out of // cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because // our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we // struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring // your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making // those long noodles you love so much."
"Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?"
"I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings // and you say I'll give you anything but you never come through."
"These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn't have to // clean them up like this."
"A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river // but then he's still left // with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away // but then he's still left with his hands."
"Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars // for you? That I would take you there? The splash // of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?"
Yes, it's a children's book but what an adorable little story!
I am absolutely delighted in seeing children's book that have a focus on LGTB because thYes, it's a children's book but what an adorable little story!
I am absolutely delighted in seeing children's book that have a focus on LGTB because this world really needs more of them. I can only imagine how it is for a child with two same-sex parents to read books that are so very heteronormative. I for one, also cannot wait to read this for my own children (if I ever have any, that is) to make them understand and realize that there are many different kinds of love and family. ...more
"Love does not traffic in a marketplace, nor use a huckster's scales. Its joy, like the joy of the intellect, is to feel itself alive. The aim of Lov
"Love does not traffic in a marketplace, nor use a huckster's scales. Its joy, like the joy of the intellect, is to feel itself alive. The aim of Love is to love: no more, and no less. You were my enemy: such an enemy as no man ever had. I had given you all my life, and to gratify the lowest and most contemptible of all human passions, hatred and vanity and greed, you had thrown it away. In less than three years you had entirely ruined me in every point of view. For my own sake there was nothing for me to do but to love you."
This is another book that I wish I could have given 3½ star to because I'm not sure whether to give it a 3 or a 4.
De Profundis is the 50 000-word letter (yes, imagine writing that by hand with ink.) that Oscar Wilde wrote to his lover Lord Alfred Douglas, whilst in prison. Some say it is a love letter, other says it is not. It's not the relationship between them that makes the "love letter or not" debatable - because there is no denying that Wilde loved Douglas - it's the fact that most of the time, Wilde portrays Douglas as a - how should I put this - douchebag.
The letter begins with a very detailed account of how Wilde was put into prison in the first place. He describes detailed and with his own words the moments between him and Douglas and everything that lead to to the trial. I thought this part was the most interesting. I'm not that fond of autobiographies and memoirs but I've always been interested in Oscar Wilde (or anything else LGTB-related for that matter) and hearing Wilde put everything into his own words and describing, to Douglas, how he was to blame for the misery and downfall of Wilde, and still loving the man, was very fascinating. Like always, his language is beautiful and there are lots of wit and aphorism. He writes about how much he loved Douglas and the things he had done for him yet at the same time, condemns him for behaving so selfish and rude.
What makes me hesitate about giving it a four star instead of a three is the middle part of the letter when Wilde all of the sudden goes into deep contemplation and comparison between religion, Christ and artists. I find religion interesting too but those pages were simply put, boring. The third half of the book becomes better however when he goes back to talk about Douglas actions and the philosophy of life. It's filled with emotions and you can tell that there is a lot of misery, sorrow and grief. One of my favourite passages that describe the sorrow very well and at the same time shows the beauty is this:
"Of course to one so modern as I am, `Enfant de mon siècle,’ merely to look at the world will be always lovely. I tremble with pleasure when I think that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the lilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind stir into restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the other toss the pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be Arabia for me. Linnaeus fell on his knees and wept for joy when he saw for the first time the long heath of some English upland made yellow with the tawny aromatic brooms of the common furze; and I know that for me, to whom flowers are part of desire, there are tears waiting in the petals of some rose. It has always been so with me from my boyhood. There is not a single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower, or the curve of a shell, to which, by some subtle sympathy with the very soul of things, my nature does not answer. Like Gautier, I have always been one of those ‘pour qui le monde visible existe.’"
I was planning on continuing this review but now I am left speechless again and I think I will, after all, give this a four star. Here are several memorable quotes however to read and admire.
"I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art: I altered the minds of men, and the colour of things: I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me: I summed up all things in a phrase, all existence in an epigram: whatever I touched I made beautiful."
"To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul."
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are some one else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. "
"We are the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken."
"There is no room for Love and Hate in the same soul. They cannot live together in that fair cavern house. Love is fed by imagination, by which we become wiser than we know, better than we feel, nobler than we are: by which we can see Life as a whole: by which, and by which alone, we can understand others in their real as in their ideal relations. Only what is fine, and finely conceived, can feel Love. But anything will feed Hate."
"After my terrible sentence, when the prison dress was on me, and the prison house closed, I sat amidst the ruins of my wonderful life, crushed by anguish, bewildered with terror, dazed through pain. But I would not hate you. Every day I said to myself: 'I must keep love in my heart today, else how shall I live through the day?'"
"The most terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart — hearts are made to be broken — but that it turns one's heart to stone."
"Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain."
"Morality did not help me. I am one of those who are made for exceptions, not for laws. But while I see that there is nothing wrong in what one does, I see that there is something wrong in what one becomes."