Frankly amazing. Herr Sommer is a man after my own heart, blinded by narcissism and silliness as he blames everything but himself. It's like the less-...moreFrankly amazing. Herr Sommer is a man after my own heart, blinded by narcissism and silliness as he blames everything but himself. It's like the less-severe Crime and Punishment, but with poop jokes.
The narrator is so wrapped in his own fantasy, the alcohol merely plays a small role in the man's breakdown. He is able to (hilariously) through the blame on doctors and policeman and his wife during his madness. And even well after the alcohol leaves his system, the cycle of self-congratulation and silliness continues.
It's easy to laugh at Sommer, who throws a bitch fit every time someone forgets to address him as the formal "Herr Sommer." However, I found myself looking back through some of these pages as I considered the many, many bad decisions I've justified for myself. Drinking and otherwise. It asks its audience, even in the face of this lesson, what drove Sommer to drink. But not merely to drink; what drove this man into self-ruin? Because it does seem, frankly, as easy as walking around Germany barefoot one night. With Schnaps.
This book is a hike up Giggle Mountain, with a Joan Crawford-esque heroine in yummy furs. It's hard to dislike a book with so much kink and melodrama....moreThis book is a hike up Giggle Mountain, with a Joan Crawford-esque heroine in yummy furs. It's hard to dislike a book with so much kink and melodrama.
This book is the height of fun sex stuff and strange, twisted relationships. It's a pure exploration of "feels and fantasy." It fits nicely beside other books I place beside it, such as "The Story of the Eye," "The Sheik," and maybe a little bit of "Madame Bovary." I disagree with many reviewers who believe that this text has impacted society, and readers, in such a way that it "poisoned the well."
Pish posh! Abuse and misuse has always been a kinky fantasy for humanity. This book is an exploration of the fabulous possibility that we all run around with boners, whips, and masters. It's a delightfully written porn, in many ways. And I love the fantasy of a woman in total control. Why don't we have more of this? Why aren't there more consenting men in movies and literature pulling a plow? We need more Wandas in literature. And everywhere else.
This book is frankly adorable, please read it.
Ex: "During the sitting she nibbles at candies, and rolls the paper-wrappers into little pellets with which she bombards him."
Science fiction generally isn't my favorite genre, mostly because it is so trope-tastic. Particularly, I so weary of the "chosen one" male-centric sto...moreScience fiction generally isn't my favorite genre, mostly because it is so trope-tastic. Particularly, I so weary of the "chosen one" male-centric story. I loved The Exile's Violin for taking me to new places in science fiction, and for featuring an incredibly well-rounded kick ass set of characters, like its heroine Jacquie.
I would describe this book as a blend of a steampunk Zelda quest and an action story, with shades of spy drama. The turmoil between the different countries sets a nice backdrop to the epic quest to find out more information about a legendary key. Mr. Hunter is a Grade A world builder in this, and carefully creates a set of realistic, although steampunk, landscapes with their own political agendas.
Being a steampunk virgin (or am I?), I enjoyed the use of "electrick" lights and other such detail that makes living on Earth sound so lame and unrefined. I'm not a huge action crazy, but those scenes were well-crafted, and shall appeal to the tiny James Bond inside all of us. But, as I am a twitterpated lady, my favorite part of Exile's was the romantic tension between Clay and Jacquie. MEOW.
Anyways, I can't wait to see what else Mr. Hunter whips up next in the series. Viva la Jacquie!(less)
My sympathy for this really, truly awful situation dwindled because I just could not understand what the fuck was going on with her lifestyle. I had t...moreMy sympathy for this really, truly awful situation dwindled because I just could not understand what the fuck was going on with her lifestyle. I had to re-read and re-read many passages because "plane" would be used interchangeably with "private jet," so I couldn't understand how they just let her roll from one place to another no charge, etc.
Let me start this over.
I have loved Joan Didion's writing in the past. Without including herself in the equation, her stories have always been coherent and lovely.
This perhaps was too personal? It's so choppy and uneven. Point A to point B just aren't reached with any clarity. And I hate the idea that everything who I've tried to talk about this book with thinks I'm the Grinch because I'm hung up on narrative when people have DIED in this non-fiction. It's not her situation I'm criticizing. It's just structure.
I think Didion is blind to the fact that we, her readers, don't know who the hell she is name dropping at all times. Also, I really think she wrote this to please herself, which puts we readers on a boat in the middle of nada ocean. It's a collection of quotes she likes and memories only she can appreciate.