Two stars would have been a little generous for this book with the eye-grabbing cover (oh, if only they could live up to their outsides!). Eternal wasTwo stars would have been a little generous for this book with the eye-grabbing cover (oh, if only they could live up to their outsides!). Eternal was not as tasteful as Tantalize, if you can call Tantalize tasteful at any given time. But there were some nice concepts here and there. ...more
**spoiler alert** What haven't I thought? Was there ever such an imbecile? Getting stuck in the introductions, come on! WheredidIputthatstupidthesaurus**spoiler alert** What haven't I thought? Was there ever such an imbecile? Getting stuck in the introductions, come on! WheredidIputthatstupidthesaurus. Oh, jeez, people! What is it with the interlude of childhood? I know she didn't come from a peapod. Hmm, Clare old or not? Clare, is this some sort of hint of hip novelists of the seventies using last names when they are talking to subordinates? [Clare forgets Molly in her room] Yup, definitely a speaking-to-subordinates thing. I really shouldn't have gotten stuck in that intro!
How many of us really want to own up to being a mess after reading something. For my family, being a weepy boo-hoo signified that you were too weak for anything stronger than milk (and I like cow juice above whiskey, but that isn't the point). You'd be the one getting the porcupine orange at Christmas time instead of the wicked new set of blades.
I wept away two hours anyway.
In entering Molly Gibson's world you feel as if you are looking at Charlotte Bronte leftovers. Save for the omnipotent eye of course (I had an offending feeling that Bronte could never do that). I thought that Gaskell was making a mistake in beginning a book that yellered all hope of being a moving read with a childhood depiction. I lamented that this was no such case, this book was going to give me a real hard time. Or at least, a hard look at myself. PMS? Maybe. But I doubt it. 'Cause the chocolate Peepsters didn't help this time.
If you are not used to Gaskell's style of who is telling the story, then you might be get tortoise-flipped (I admit, she was beginning to run circles around me with sub plots). The crazy thing about this lady's sub plots is that each of them belongs to a singular character.
Each character that is introduced (save the petty town gossips, who are cute, but ninnies) has either a long story, or alterior motives, or both (Aiii!). The Hamley family nestled pretty firmly as a burr, the turmoil their family encounters throughout the book is so easy to relate to nowadays. Or perhaps it is just my phantasmal imaginings. I felt pre-warned though, by looking through the chapters, and knew where I would lose my composition.
When the story first begins, it's all ado about the eldest son, Osbourne. Teenage me was hollering, "FAKE AND GAY." Described, little Ozzy is a bit girly, admittedly. He has a pleasantness of face, and delicate bones. If it had not been for the movie and a Mr. Collins who I thought could never be such hot stuff, I found him out to be something along the lines of a Percy Shelley. Now THAT'S pixie, people.
His countenance seemed to echo the sensitive being that he was, and that his parents cossetted. I mean, he was the literary kid, and they put all their hope in that. Folks must have put more stake in being a qualifiable literary mind back then, because this was astounding to me. The younger boy, Roger, was made out to be an affable fellow, loveable enough, just not brilliant like Osbourne because he was built scientifically. I felt hazy, looking into this telescope. However diffidently these lads were treated by their parents, it seemed they loved each other equally (I can tell you if my parents prized my sister above me I would be hard pressed to give her most of my fellowship money. Hm, guts man).
This is constant, inequality, inferiority. It rings soundly throughout Hollingford (poor Pecksy/Flapsy), along with a whole trove of social issues, making it the opposite of an 'every day novel.' Of course, there is the hilarity of the rife between Molly, her step-momma, and Cynthia and Mr. Gibson. The first pair of contenders face off on the matter of insensitivity, the latter, oh would you look at that! The same flipping thing. Cynthia, I think, will always embody that kind of woman that's always irritated the rest of the lovely females. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS. BOYS.
It seems to be all these chickies think about, and score. TBC ...more
Of Proust: squelching shape-up shoes. Dangit! Needing to go and buy heavy cream for the chilled quiche. A.S. Byatt: dealing with smog-sickness on a GerOf Proust: squelching shape-up shoes. Dangit! Needing to go and buy heavy cream for the chilled quiche. A.S. Byatt: dealing with smog-sickness on a German bus, annnnd I finally basted myself with the mustard (if confused by 'the' in bold, see your funds for traveling details. You'll understand when you eat it). Jane Austen: I had a black eye. My first. And I was grumpy, so, I put her on the shelf and forgot to read her until the last minute. My best bookmark? Yeah, the book had a retribution nom-nom-nom session.
There are many, many others I can remember in my 'firsts.' And yes, I believe remembering the firsts is essential to literary development. Or at least, memory retension. I forgot about the browning butter next to the no-hope-in-hades-you-can-save-it scalded roux. But I somehow never misplace the who, what, where, when, why, if, and, although, or because of my first times.
Poor Annette, she will be forever tied with deer refuse (berries can't get any earthier). I read The Silver Kiss with my plump tween legs swinging down from the comfy camp chair I was half-slumbering in. As a future addendum, I note that this was to be the decent for me from 'good' books for a while. Silver Kiss was my first succubus novel (if they even deserve to be called novels. The idea ain't that new). The concept of snapping things so easily, like mantis thin pencils, was not an idea that my soft head was able to dispel for a while. It was so alluring, to think that there was this fictional being who lived as long as haters permit.
I've drunk worse battery acid, but The Weight of Silence was bad in the kind of cake-without-yeast kind of way. Reading the story on the back of the b I've drunk worse battery acid, but The Weight of Silence was bad in the kind of cake-without-yeast kind of way. Reading the story on the back of the book you would have thought that this would be a great read, especially with the raving reviews from Borders, and some authors that I still don't like. It's usually words like,
"Eloquent and astounding!"
"Explosive tale of suspense"--Susan Wiggs, NY Times best selling author
that get my attention when I am looking for a great read. And hey, that's what it's supposed to do, right? Except I cheated and got a library copy.
What was morbidly wrong with it:
'Show, don't tell' never prevails here.
The childs father wouldn't even scare my cowardly Jack Russell.
What was pretty great:
The premise never was met by the brains, but it was still pretty fantastic. This part of Weight of Silence actually reminded me of my old shorts and the queries I would precede them with. The queries were better than the story. And the plot was never carried out here, sadly.
Settings (the small town thing WILL get old, but not one with a forest).
Horrifying attacks are great I will consent. But the heights to which the insanity of the evil antgonist is taken is a bit much for my wee brain. WhicHorrifying attacks are great I will consent. But the heights to which the insanity of the evil antgonist is taken is a bit much for my wee brain. Which is to say that the characters in this story couldn't have fought their way out of a plastic bag, cuffed or uncuffed. I suppose I could be grandios and say that they are a collection of t.s.t.l characters, otherwise know as, "too stupid to live." Man, I love me some Patterson. Nothing like a great literary feast. Beam me up scotty, I'm into some high quality stuff now! ...more
Yes, yes, yes, yes! This is the book to read if you are thinking of metamorphosing into a steam-punk Londoner. Neverwhere was just as effective on m Yes, yes, yes, yes! This is the book to read if you are thinking of metamorphosing into a steam-punk Londoner. Neverwhere was just as effective on my poor little heart as Roald Dahl, Tim Burton and Poe, because on these I have a crush-a-la-mode. Gladly Gaiman embarked on the journey of transcribing this story from the telly to the page, introducing me to another twisted mind. And where would our modern master of the night be without his references? Heck, I am related to a Lamia, but didn't realize it until I cracked open a book on mythology. All I am missing now is a Croup. Can't wait for that one. ...more
I picked this one up at a time in life where I was obsessed with obtaining a new and glorious nickname. And as my profile clearly states, I settled fo I picked this one up at a time in life where I was obsessed with obtaining a new and glorious nickname. And as my profile clearly states, I settled for the given nick after all. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to find another historical fiction author I could latch onto in my growing years. The so called "Birdy" leads you on a wonderful frollick through her damp and uncultivated world. ...more