Monet is my favorite painter. I cried out loud when I saw this at first. I know I sound like a big drama queen WELL maybe cause I am, but whatever, I...moreMonet is my favorite painter. I cried out loud when I saw this at first. I know I sound like a big drama queen WELL maybe cause I am, but whatever, I got this, didn't I?
The book is filled with great pictures and some information, although I hated how repetitive it is, but it's worth checking out.(less)
One of last trip to Paris hunts. I bought it from The Versailles little stores there. I was told it was the best guide book, and indeed it was. Not on...moreOne of last trip to Paris hunts. I bought it from The Versailles little stores there. I was told it was the best guide book, and indeed it was. Not only filled with great pictures, but also historically entraining and well written! The book starts with how and when and who build the great Versailles, and takes you to a detailed information presentation. Great memories, Paris.(less)
**spoiler alert** Apparently, people who read this short novella are divided into two group; there are those who hated it, thought it is sexist, creep...more**spoiler alert** Apparently, people who read this short novella are divided into two group; there are those who hated it, thought it is sexist, creepy and pointless. The other ones, are Marquez fans and of course they are the ones who have seen beyond our Non-Marquezed Average Thinking Mind and were able to understand the philosophy of the story, the hidden meanings and the lyricism in its writing. I am in the middle. I agree with both and I have felt both feelings, although I think I tend to agree more with the second group, but again I understand the first ones.
"The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a night of wild love with an adolescent virgin"
The story begins with the unnamed character turning ninety and for the first time in his life he wanted to experience going to bed with a virgin. Never loved, never married and with almost nothing worth mentioning in his previous life, he calls Rosa, whorehouse owner, asking her to find him the gift he wanted, a virgin.
This shameless person, the narrator, often goes back in memory and recalls the women he has slept with during his life, not one of these relationships was out of love or even slight likeness. The narrator often describes the women he has been with in few words; they are not important, he has felt nothing with them, and they changed nothing in him. Here at first, I was disgusted and humiliated while reading; the narrator sounded selfish and creepy; he was old yet he only kept recalling his ugly nights with whores as if they were some sort of heroic acts. He even prides himself for never having sex with a woman he didn't pay for. Take this for example, he talks about the nights he had with his housekeeper and since she didn't want his money in return, he raises her salary as a way of paying her. WHAT THE HELL, I KNOW. Reading these memories of him got me so disgusted I wanted to throw up. Literally. And here I agree with the first group, I felt that Marquez could never see beyond sex, the female characters had nothing to do and barley spoke or had any sort of impact in the story. They were in the story only as sex objects and guess what? they said nothing even about that; they just ravenously expect anything. I thought it was misogynist and racist and I nearly wanted to stop. But wait, The unnamed man gets the call he-we-has been waiting for. Rosa found the virgin.
Although, this hideous man dream was reluctantly agreed by Rosa, she somehow managed to bring him the gift. a fourteen years old virgin who sews buttons to support her family and her father wanted to sell her. A poor little girl. Pedophilia, I was disgusted even more. But wait...
The narrator refuses to know the girl's name, instead he chooses to name her. The girl, unnamed and unknown, faceless and voiceless, asleep in bed where he first finds her waiting for him. There goes a the turning point of the narrator where he meets the virgin asleep and decides not to disturb her, so he chooses to silently sleep beside her allowing himself to look at her only.
"Rosa Cabarcas had advised me to treat her with caution, since she still felt her terror of the first time. What is more, I believe the solemnity of the ritual heightened her fear and the dose of valerian had to be increased, for she slept with so much placidity that it would have been a shame to wake her without a lullaby. And so I began to dry her with a towel while I sang in a whisper the song about Delgadina, the king’s youngest daughter, wooed by her father. As I dried her she was showing me her sweaty flanks to the rhythm of my song: Delgadina, Delgadina, you will be my darling love. It was a limitless pleasure, for she began to perspire again on one side as I finished drying the other, which meant the song might never end. Arise, arise, Delgadina, and put on your skirt of silk, I sang into her ear. At the end, when the king’s servants find her dead of thirst in her bed, it seemed to me that my girl had been about to wake when she heard the name. Then that’s who she was: Delgadina."
He creates his own Pygmalion version of her and that what I liked the most because I thought Marquez would create a rebellious female who is able to shatter the character's soul, but instead he created a numb one. We don't hear the girl's voice or see her side of the story; and he let our man falls for her, immediately.
For the first time in the narrator life, he chooses not to touch a woman, at least not in a sexual way. He starts for the first time to experience love and the purity of it. He starts to act completely crazy and spends his nights staring at her, he feels the ecstasy of touching her body and singing to her. Through HER, he, for the first time, was able to feel jealousy, responsibility, and the fear of losing someone. At least for once he was able to feel all the privileges and the restrictions of love. Why the hell would he need sex after experiencing all of this? He didn't need it, and he was damn careful not to pollute this little girl; and to keep her as some sort of a statue of pureness, since she is probably the closer thing he had to innocence.
This narrator starts looking differently on life after meeting the girl and suddenly his happiness and sadness were not only his own, anymore. His wrinkled body skin didn't matter, and his old age was a mere number. In less than 200 pages Marquez was able to drive this man to all sort of love experiences; first sight, the ever longing, the wasted hours, jealousy, and loss, and our unnamed character freaking enjoyed it.
"I would not have traded the delights of my suffering for anything in the world."
Whores were his consolation when he didn't have love, suffering was his consolation when he had loved... and that's why I am more into this novella. Simple and short as it is, but God Marquez ability to make me read a hallucinated misogynist old man babbling around and actually make me like it? That's tough, man.(less)
دائمً ما ارى نفسي تائهه في التعبير و ابداء رائي في الشعر؛ و السبب يعود اني لا ارى نفسي محل نقد او تقييم لإي شاعر كان فما بالك بامل دنقل الشاعر اللذي ت...moreدائمً ما ارى نفسي تائهه في التعبير و ابداء رائي في الشعر؛ و السبب يعود اني لا ارى نفسي محل نقد او تقييم لإي شاعر كان فما بالك بامل دنقل الشاعر اللذي تخطى حدود الشعر و كتب. كتب عن صاحبة العيون الخضر و غازلها مرارًا، عن مبادئه و شهواته،ملائكته و شياطينه، عن سبارتكوس و عن سالومي، عن ابيه و عن نفسه، عن صحته و عن مرضه متخطيًا بذلك حدود الكلمه الواحدة و القافيه -حرًا- كتب هو عن كل ذلك.
امل دنقل توفي بمرض السرطان كتب عن مرضه بعد معاناته وصف مرضه و سريره كفاقد الروح؛
السرير أوهموني بأن السرير سريري أن قارب "رع" سوف يحملني عبر نهر الافاعي لأولد في الصبح ثانية .. إن سطع فوق الورق المصقول وضعوا رقمي دون اسم وضعوا تذكرة الدم و اسم المرض المجهول أوهموني فصدقت هذا السرير ظنني - مثله - فاقد الروح فالتصقت بي أضلاعه و الجماد يضم الجماد ليحميه من مواجهة الناس
شعر امل بدا لي مغرق بالسوداويه و الحزن رغم ان شخصيته -كما بدت لي في مقابلاته التلفازيه- كانت مفعمه بالامل و الايجايبه. ربما لانه كتب هذه الاشعار في اواخر واشد حالات مرضه؛
كل صباح.." أفتح الصنبور في إرهاق مغتسلا في مائه الرقراق فيسقط الماء على يدي.. دما! ……………………….. وعندما.. أجلس للطعام.. مرغما: أبصر في دوائر الأطباق جماجما.. جماجما.. مفغورة الأفواه والأحداق!!"
أمل اوضح مرة وجهة نَظره نحو تعامل الاخرين مع المرضى و مَقت الشفقه التي تصدر من المجتمع نحو المرضى -اوضح كيف ان المجتمع قد يغفر للمريض اي شى تعاطفًا مع مرضه و مايحس به من الالام- دفعني ذلك لأتسائل؛ من هو امل دنقل لولا لم يعبث الورم الخبيث باجزاء جسده؟ هل سيبدو لي امل بهذا العمق لو لم يكن هو ضحية للالآم قد لا استطيع القدره حتى علي تصورها؟ لا اعرف ان كانت الالامه قد صورت له معاني اخرى للحياه و بذلك -ربما- هي ضربية شعِره؛ كما كانت ضربية عبقرية قيس ابن الملوح جُنونه...
شعر أمل دنقل قد يبدو مبعثرًا، منثورًا و ملقياً على ارجاء الصفحات؛ تارةً انت -كقارى- جزء من قصيدته و من عالمه المجنون، و تارة اخرى انت مشاهد من بعيد ممنوعًا من اللمس و ممنوعًا من التصور ففهمك لأمل دنقل مقصوراً بحدود عالمًا لست قادر على عبوره.(less)
عند محاولتي الاولى لقراءة درويش، لم استصغ شعره فقد بدأ لي غامض، و ذكره المتكرر لكلمات حديثة كـ" سجائر، بيجامتي الزرقاء، اكواب القهوه، و حتى مطبخِه و ت...moreعند محاولتي الاولى لقراءة درويش، لم استصغ شعره فقد بدأ لي غامض، و ذكره المتكرر لكلمات حديثة كـ" سجائر، بيجامتي الزرقاء، اكواب القهوه، و حتى مطبخِه و تلفازه" جعلني انفر من شعره: لأن في بدايتي في قراءة الشعر، ظننت ان الشعر يجب ان يكون مشابهً لما اتى به المتنبي و قيس ابن الملوح من قبله.
بعد فترة طويله، رجعت مره اخرى لقراءة شعره -بدأت بالجداريه و اعماله المتفرقه الاخرى- و بعدها انهرت في قراءة بقية اشعاره. غموضه الذي لم افهمه بدايةً بل أسأت فهمه على انه مجرد طلاسم و ترهات خرجت من شاعر مجنون لا يأبه ان بدأ شعره معقدًا، استطعت-ولو بجزء- على فهمه! فهذه المره قرأت له نافيةً كل قواعد الشعر... والحياة، عرفت حينها ان درويش شاعر سيريالي من الدرجة الاولى؛ فليس هناك حدود للعوالم في اشعاره هو الرسول، الحمامة، الشاعر و الميت..
وأمشي بل موعدٍ، خالياً من وعود غدي. أتذكر أني نسيتُ، وأنسى كما أتذكرُ:" أنسى غراباً على غصن زيتونةٍ أتذكر يقعة زيت على الثوب أنسى نداء الغزال إلى زوجه أتذكر خط النمال على الرمل أنسى حنيني إلى نجمة وقعت من يدي أتذكر فروَ الثعالب أنسى الطريق القديم إلى بيتنا أتذكر عاطفة تشبه المندرينة أنسى الكلم الذي قلته أتذكر ما لم أقل بعد أنسى روايات جدي وسيفا على حائط أتذكر خوفي من النوم أنسى شفاه الفتاة التي امتلت عنباً أتذكر رائحة الخس بين الصابع أنسى البيوت التي دونت سيرتي أتذكر رقم الهوية أنسى حوادث كبرى وهزة أرض مدمرة أتذكر تبغ أبي في الخزانة أنسى دروب الرحيل إلى عدم ناقص أتذكر ضوء الكواكب في أطلس البدو أنسى أزيز الرصاص على قرية أقفرت أتذكر صوت الجداجد في الحرش أنسى كما أتذكر، أو أتذكر أني نسيت"
شعر درويش فَتح آفاقً جديدة الي؛ ففالبداية لم اعرف ان اللغه العربيه قد تكون متلائمه للشعر السيريالي، عبر درويش عرفت مدى خطأي فلا لغة اكثر تعقيدًا، و تفصيلا كالعربيه: درويش اثبت جدارته كشاعر لانه استطاع كسر حدود اللغه التي اعتدناها؛ فعن طريق اشعاره تمكنت بالسفر الى مدن لم توٌجد، و ايقنت ان هنالك اكثر من "أنا" فيّ.
P.S: منفى نهار الثلثاء والجوّ صافٍ
كانت قصيدتي المفضله في هذا المجموعه: باقي الاشعار اغلبها استطيع ادراجها تحت تصنيف الاشعار الرومانسيه و لو اني اعشق درويش الرومانسي، لكن لا يحركني شى كدرويش الباحث عن معنى الحياة، عن الموت و تبحره بالتاريخ و بالوقت كما فعل في هذه القصيدة و بالطبع الجداريه.(less)
I am not sure how I can describe the intense amount of destruction I went through when I first started reading this epic poem, and how slowly I was pu...moreI am not sure how I can describe the intense amount of destruction I went through when I first started reading this epic poem, and how slowly I was put up to pieces again the more I read. I never thought I'd experience reincarnation through a poem.
Darwish wrote this poem as a result of his near death experience, as I read. He wrote about this experience in a way that goes beyond time-travel, history, and the apocalypse; it reminded me of the Divine Comedy and of Murakami's surreal worlds. Although, I think that this poem has a tremendous uniqueness and should be only set as an example of its own.
Identities no longer exist in here; no "I" no "me" neither "we", all what one can earn is his name. Time, on the other hand, seems to be a different experiment; Darwish travels between Gilgamesh, Sumer, and meet dead great poets all under the same cosmic. Pain is not felt, memories of his life float in front of him. He often wakes up to find himself in a hospital-reality-, but only to get back to this place where he's not alive nor completely dead.
I got a continuous shudder of fear and some sort of sadness while reading the poem. I can definitely say it's my all time favorite, and I shall always be grateful for Darwish.(less)
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove...more "Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
I am sorry, but I find myself speechless and unable to describe the beauty of Shakespeare. He's certainly my favorite English poet; and it's not only because of his language, but rather for his depth and perspective. The way he sees the world, love, revenge, hatred, is both complex and abstract. When it's a Shakespeare love sonnet, then it's a dynamic compelling kind of love. A sickness, a curse. There's no middle ground. Cold feelings do not exist. Everything is heightened, fresh, sharp, a first experience. In another fair world, Shakespeare would have been my husband.... or maybe my prisoner; there isn't much of a difference, really. I shall have him either way.(less)
Since I was a young girl my mother used to tell me about Qays and Layla, Romeo and Juliet and all these kinds of tragic love stories that show how peo...moreSince I was a young girl my mother used to tell me about Qays and Layla, Romeo and Juliet and all these kinds of tragic love stories that show how people can be completely out of their minds when it comes to love. They would hurt themselves, or even kill themselves for reasons that might seem entirely insane, but it's love! The mystery that changes everything and everyone.
Romeo and Juliet is doubtlessly the most famous love story of all times and I'm aware of this, but there are still things I couldn't quite adjust to. Mostly, the huge amount of exaggeration this play contains. I know that exaggeration is required on stage, but here IT'S TOO MUCH! I couldn't believe how it can be possible for two couple to actually fall in love (true love) at the first sight and get married right on the next morning? Call it admiration or lust or anything but not love! I'm sure if things were different and Romeo and Juliet had a life together, they would've realised that too, and they would probably get a divorce after fighting for LONG hours.
Even though the play was written in the 16th century by one of my favorite greatest writers, I still couldn't take it seriously or realistically. It all seemed to me like a story of two teenagers who couldn't distinguish between their feelings and their desires.
Now, don't get me wrong! No mater how much I think the play is nothing but a teenage girl fantasy, I still believe that fantasy is one thing that holds us together, and it sure makes this world bearable. Pretty lies make our world better, somehow. Also, I loved the characters, the quotes and the language. I MEAN OF COURSE! It's Shakespeare! As for the ending, I don't know about what others think, but for me, I only feel sad when someone dies and the other lover gets to live his\her life with pain, but when both lovers die at the same time, what's so sad about it(less)
I got to know E.E. Cummings through Youtube, YES, he was among certain poets Tom Hiddleston read for. He read May I Feel Said He; a really dirty poem....moreI got to know E.E. Cummings through Youtube, YES, he was among certain poets Tom Hiddleston read for. He read May I Feel Said He; a really dirty poem. So yep, I got my hands on Cummings as soon as I could, and I was happy that his other poems were as dirty and erotic as my first impression of him.
E.E Cummings is hard to resist, and this collection gives a great insight into his unique poetry as he doesn't follow any traditional rule or pattern, he makes his own words and rules. Thematically speaking, Cummings focuses on love, mostly and life and he's good at both. Although, sometimes the poems are hard to interpret and you can get lost trying to follow his thoughts, but he manages to get you back to track after a hell of a ride.
"So far as I am concerned," Cummings once declared, "poetry and every other art was and is and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality….Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else."
The rebellious and distinct sounds of E.E Cummings are a great reminder of how important individuality is, he is able to send tremendous feelings in such brief words. He is always mentioned in films -Hanna and Her Sisters- and he has made an influence in poetry. Read him. (less)
I have heard all about Dostoyevsky genius, his philosophy, nihilistic views, and the solitudes of his works. All of that I have comprehended, but stil...moreI have heard all about Dostoyevsky genius, his philosophy, nihilistic views, and the solitudes of his works. All of that I have comprehended, but still all the same I was not even slightly close to realize how deeply Dostoyevsky is capable of giving a near definition of life as what it is, a whole look-or rather an analysis-into the human soul, one that is more darker than ever. A miserable, gloomy look into humanity if it may be, but still an honest one. I was ashamed that for a second I thought I knew Dostoyevsky, because even now, I don't. These notes are full of madness, I tell you. I have been driven, willingly, to chaos and madness by their few pages, and I have sold my soul to this book. Entirely.
The book is divided into two parts. First part, "Underground" starts with the unnamed character writing from the underground, a place he chose to live in after realizing that life is not worth living, a complete waste of time. Full of isolation, misanthrope themes, this unnamed character speaks of the reasons why he’s become who he is, and then starts speaking of finding the purpose life -if there’s such a thing-, and how pain can be a pleasure to humans;
"Well, even in toothache there is enjoyment" ... I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possible Wagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if someone wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is left you for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more.........
Of Free Will;
if there really is some day discovered a formula for all our desires and caprices — that is, an explanation of what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they develop, what they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on, that is a real mathematical formula — then, most likely, man will at once cease to feel desire, indeed, he will be certain to. For who would want to choose by rule? Besides, he will at once be transformed from a human being into an organ-stop or something of the sort; for what is a man without desires, without free will and without choice, if not a stop in an organ? What do you think? Let us reckon the chances — can such a thing happen or not?......... "Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view of our advantage. We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a supposed advantage. But when all that is explained and worked out on paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and senseless to suppose that some laws of nature man will never understand), then certainly so-called desires will no longer exist......
Two plus two is four, you can never be free. Even if there’s a utopian world that exists -A Crystal Palace- a world of absolute perfection, man shall always do what is out of his own advantages only to prove his own individual existence. An animal-like behavior.
The second part ”Apropos of the Wet Snow”; is a look into the past of the Underground Man; he writes of how small and insignificant he often felt, how detached from society he was, and of his moral views. He even shares these views with a prostitute called Liza, a prostitute whom he lectures and tries to save from being used more. Liza, after listening to The Underground Man and thinking that he may actually save her, he may be different, get our man address, and pays him a visit where she sees him in his greatest humiliation. Poverty. The Underground Man; the man of books and intelligence living among mice and ashes. Once, again, he feels little and thus takes back all the good things he once said to her. Maybe out of disgust, fear, humiliation, he curses her and again shows his ugly side, or perhaps his only side to her. Liza, unlikely, choses to embrace him maybe out of love…. or pity.
"They won't let me...... I can't be good"
Was the cry The Underground Man let out under Liza’s arms. His most sincere cry. Blaming society for his own sins, and incapability of love. Afterward, he proves to be no different from others he wrote about, he continued to treat Liza badly and -acting against his own advantages- succeeds in making her leave. Certainly, he hesitates, but only to convince himself later that it was for the best. He admits, as a way to solaces himself, that he imagines love only as a struggle, and wonders which is better a cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Clearly enough, Underground Man shall always choose exalted sufferings over anything.
Sometimes I wished The Underground Man had a name, so I can mention him in my silly conversations, or perhaps idolize it the way I idolize names like Dorian Gray, Kafka, and Hamlet. But thinking about it, maybe it’s for the best to keep this hideous man, a man who was able enough to get to know life and chose isolation over it, as an idea rather than a person. Perhaps The Underground Man is the unnamed soul inside each of us, a rebellious perception of life.
The Underground Man ends his notes daring the readers that he, as isolated and lonely as he may be, has more life in him than any of us;
"there is more life in me than in you"
The Underground itself can be a metaphor. Let alone the men who chose to live in it. Going quite numb toward certain things, having this whole illusion of life and what it should be like. The Underground Man is the soul inside you, the disgusted disgusting part of you that you don't want to talk about, and Dostoevsky isn't afraid to show it.
“ . . . we’ve all grown unaccustomed to life, we’re all lame, each of us more or less. We’ve even grown so unaccustomed that at times we feel a sort of loathing for real “living life,” and therefore cannot bear to be reminded of it. For we’ve reached a point where we regard real “living life” almost as labor, almost as service, and we all agree in ourselves that it’s better from a book. And why do we sometimes fuss about, why these caprices, these demands of ours? We ourselves don’t know why. It would be the worse for us if our capricious demands were fulfilled. Go on, try giving us more independence, for example, unbind the hands of any one of us, broaden our range of activity, relax the tutelage, and we . . . but I assure you: we will immediately beg to be taken back under tutelage. I know you’ll probably get angry with me for that, shout, stamp your feet: “Speak just for yourself and your miseries in the underground, don’t go saying ‘we all.’” Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am not justifying myself with this allishness. As far as I myself am concerned, I have merely carried to an extreme in my life what you have not dared to carry even halfway, and, what’s more, you’ve taken your cowardice for good sense, and found comfort in thus deceiving yourselves. So that I, perhaps, come out even more “living” than you. Take a closer look! We don’t even know where the living lives now, or what it is, or what it’s called! Leave us to ourselves, without a book, and we’ll immediately get confused, lost—we won’t know what to join, what to hold to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. It’s a burden for us even to be of it, we consider it a disgrace, and keep trying to be some unprecedented omni-men. We’re stillborn, and have long ceased to be born of living fathers, and we like this more and more. We’re acquiring a taste for it. Soon we’ll contrive to be born somehow from an idea.”
Murakami is one of my favorite writers; he makes things possible. Animals talking all of the sudden in his novels is never childish or absurd, peculia...moreMurakami is one of my favorite writers; he makes things possible. Animals talking all of the sudden in his novels is never childish or absurd, peculiar twists are part of the amusement, a sense of individuality is almost always felt, weird intercourses, open endings, surreal events; he's basically insane, but hello, welcome to Murkami's World.
Here, though less insane he appears than in his most novels, he writes six short stories about the aftermath of Kobe earthquake, and how people were affected by it, emotionally. None of these characters experience the death of someone or the fear of being too close to the earthquake. None of them is directly linked or involved; these stories are, mostly, about what happens beyond our sight or interests. This is a collection of people's realizations of life. A wife deciding to leave her husband after realizing she's been living with "a chunk of air" in the first story, UFO in Kushiro, we are shown through the events how this man is actually a true chunk of air and maybe the earthquake had her wondering of the life she's been living. The five following stories differ in characters and events, but are all set in February 1995, a month after the earthquake and follow the emotional changes of different people.
Landscape in Flatiron is my personal favorite story. The obsession of bonfires, the suicidal themes, and of course the idea of premonition was all very meaningful to me, at least.
So in short, these six short stories are quite entertaining. They got most of Murakami's elements, and can be read in an hour or less. I'd say it's a good book to start determining your feelings toward Murakami. I mean his books are usually loooong, so get this one, and see if you're into him or not. I can pretty much say you'd fall for him the way I did.(less)
Sylvia Plath; a writer that I have been trying to figure out my feelings toward this summer. I started with her most famous novel couple of weeks ago;...moreSylvia Plath; a writer that I have been trying to figure out my feelings toward this summer. I started with her most famous novel couple of weeks ago; The Bell Jar which only succeeded in making me more uncertain of how I truly feel about her; The Bell Jar, for me at least, was a bit monotonous; although its theme is mental illness, it was not filled (enough) with toxic, sick, darky ideas, nor was it pure or childish. It was not gloomy neither hopeful, not personal enough to get me associated neither it was out of my understanding. It was just is. I am not sure how I can exactly describe how I felt for Sylvia during the Bell Jar, but it certainly was not closeness, just complete apathy. Sylvia, along with many other women, was out my reach; long time way dead and hopeless not only physically but also mentally. I couldn't get her. Yes, she had her reasons, but I was not able to fully sympathize with her in any possible way.
I thought maybe reading her journals will get me closer to her head, I mean after all, it’s her own personal journals. As I began reading, the feelings I got in The Bell Jar were, fortunately, absent here; Sylvia in her diaries is more brave, more her, more unclear and uncertain of who she is and what she wants. She would sound, for once, like a hopeful little girl, and another like a desperate woman with so many broken dreams. She, most often, expresses her desire to be pretty much..everything, out of space and time, she wants to be more than one person and have all the experiences one could ever have, all the virtues and the imperfections, but she always finds herself haunted with these ugly notions of how limited she may be. Her long years of mental suffering are quite constant; the dissonance between her bright, successful persona and her isolated, struggled one keep on switching all along her diaries. You could feel her inner struggle, her combats, self-loathing, and discontent at once, and then all of the sudden, she would write about her nice walks, her dreams to build a family, and her detailed conversations with her friends. Just all of the sudden, I must admit I can’t remember the last time I read a book where I had to switch moods that quick. I guess I learned how to read Sylvia, freely and openly.
The journals collection start from 1950 until 1962, the older Sylvia gets, the more engaging her writing becomes. The book starts with endless paragraphs of endlessly silly boys datings on cheesy parties and, somehow, slowly develops into an exposed diary of identity disturbance and emptiness. Sometimes she adds few beautiful poems-both sad and happy ones-. Her poems, I must say, were kind of my type. I’d usually skip few pages and jump into the poems parts. The poems she wrote didn't have an intelligible pattern, just like her diaries, they changed pretty often which of course I loved.
Getting this book done was really a challenge. It's HUGE, I know Goodreads says it’s only 700 pages, but it’s A Huge Seven Hundred Pages Book. If the edition was smaller, it would probably be around one thousands pages. It contains few of her drawings, and some rare pictures of her, as well. That all helped to get Sylvia better and made her diaries even more personal and real.
I want to quote some stuff, but there are truly so many beautiful words and poems and I am sure if I started, I won't stop. Yeah! There's also LOTS of Sylvia Talking about Ted Hugh here which is something I have always dreamt of reading, I mean their relationship was sort of weird and mysterious and I wanted to know more of that. It was fun. REALLY FUN.
At last, I think this book in precise isn't for anyone. If you are into getting to know Sylvia’s head, and can handle reading hundreds of pages of her daily life-with full details, God, this woman is full of details-and have no problem with her mood swings, then fine go ahead, it’s your best way to know the true Sylvia. But if you only want to add her name to your books, then you should probably consider her poems or novel; The Bell Jar. (less)
رغم كثرة تثاوبي خلال قراءه الكتاب: لكني لا املك الا ان اعترف ان الكتاب عباره عن بحث كبير و شامل للشعر العربي منذ بداية الجاهليه... قد يعجب المهتمين به...moreرغم كثرة تثاوبي خلال قراءه الكتاب: لكني لا املك الا ان اعترف ان الكتاب عباره عن بحث كبير و شامل للشعر العربي منذ بداية الجاهليه... قد يعجب المهتمين بهذه المواضيع.(less)
رغم سماعي الكثير عن توفيق الحكيم، الا اني لم يسبق لي ان اقرء له. بدايتي كانت مع هذا الكتاب. الكتاب عباره عن مجموعات مقالات تتناول مختلف مواضيع ادب، اغ...moreرغم سماعي الكثير عن توفيق الحكيم، الا اني لم يسبق لي ان اقرء له. بدايتي كانت مع هذا الكتاب. الكتاب عباره عن مجموعات مقالات تتناول مختلف مواضيع ادب، اغلبها كانت موجه للكٌتاب الجدد: توفيق هنا كتب عن كل ما يمكن لأي كاتب ان يواجه: من ناحية الآلهام، اللغة المستخدمة، و ايضًا المواضيع المتطرق إليها. كتاب لطيف عموما :") (less)
Poe is a weirdo writer and I am all over weirdos, specially brilliant ones. His poetic gothic writing is so hunting and beautiful, the way he describe...morePoe is a weirdo writer and I am all over weirdos, specially brilliant ones. His poetic gothic writing is so hunting and beautiful, the way he describes things and people is just amazing, although he has this thing where he loves to challenge the readers not to use a dictionary pretty often, but you'd never hate him for that because his words are all sentimental and idealistic and somehow you will feel smart reading them..
Okay, "the tales part", well... The Fall of House of Usher is my favorite; I could relate a lot to how the narrator feels toward this creepy, gloomy dark house, which makes me wonder if the House of Usher is not a mere house, but maybe a state of being, like some sort of heavy weight pressing down one's chest. From the very start of the story, the narrator describes the way he feels as well as the things he observes while approaching the house, Poe uses such poetic, complex, deep words to describe this. Take a look;
“During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into every-day life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime."
This whole gothic themes, and the sadness, Poe puts you in is scary. I mean the power of words, people. I could take out that quote and compare it to a five hundreds pages written book and yet Poe would still win with just that quote. Gotta love him.
When it comes to his poems, there are few ones that I genuinely loved, and others that I could not understand. My favorites: A Dream Within A Dream, Tamerlane, Annabel.. and so many more. On a side note, I was REALLY astonished of how Poe was influenced by so many Islamic\Quran themes. Great book.(less)