Lakis Fourouklas's Blog, page 2

My (Previous) Year in Reading: 61 to 70

…in chronological order.
2015 has been a great year when it comes to reading books for me. During it, according to Goodreads, I have gulped down 212 volumes that were not only novels for adults but also volumes that belonged in many other genres: YA, graphic novels, poetry, children's stories, short stories and books in translation. This has also been a year that I stopped writing reviews since I had much else occupying my mind and time, so below I'll give you no more than a few words about the books I have read. I hope some of my choices echo yours and I look forward to an exciting new year of reading.
So here it goes:
61) The October Faction by Steve Niles and Damien Worm. I first fell in love with the cover here, that reminded me of one of the best of families, the Addams', and then I fell in love with the story and the illustrations. Dark, funny, adventurous; what's not to like in this graphic novel? One of my favorites of the past year.

62) Let's Eat Ramen and Other Doujinshi Short Stories by Nagumo. I wasn't certain that I was going to enjoy reading the volume at hand, but in the end I was won over by the story that tells of the adventures of a noodle-loving girl. The whole concept may sound strange to our western minds, but it works out really well on the page, as we follow Saeki on her unique journey.
63) Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson. One of the special novels that capture my attention and enchant my imagination every now and then, this is the story of Silver, an orphan girl who's taken in by an old lighthouse keeper, that tells her fantastic tales about a past long gone. Lovely, fluid prose and a myth that keeps on giving, from start to finish.
64) Knight Rider Volume 1 by Geoffrey Thorne and Jason Johnson. I grew up watching the Knight Rider, so when I first saw this volume I got excited. However the end product didn't quite satisfy my expectations and I don't know quite what to blame for that. Perhaps I expected something more or maybe by romanticizing in my head something of the past, I have lost the opportunity to enjoy it anew. Verdict: mostly good, but it could have been better.
65) Jupiter's Legacy: Book 1 by Mark Millar and Frank Quitely. There's something rotten in the kingdom of superherodom. That is the idea that carries this graphic novel, as we watch a-kind-of a civil war developing between the children of the superheroes of old. A very good story and great illustrations to match.
66) The Child Prodigy by Irène Némirovsky. Némirovsky definitely knew how to tell a good story, and The Child Prodigy, though short it is, hardly the size of a novella, is a good one indeed. It talks about a boy of humble beginnings who, thanks to his wit and imagination, manages to find himself in a place of luxury and power. Vivid prose.
67) Creature Cops: Special Varmint Unit by Rob Anderson. This story is not, well, it is not exactly my cup of tea. I can see the merit in the concept and how some people may come to love it, but nevertheless I found it somewhat lacking when it came to the creatures themselves. I think the creator could do a much better job in their creation, no matter that most other reviewers see it differently.
68) Star Project Chiro Volume 1 by HyeKyung Baek. Korean comics still feel like a foreign country to me. The volume at hand tells the story of a young girl who's quite popular with boys. The problem is that the only boy she's interested in is not interested in her so she comes up with a plan to win his heart. A story about young love and longing told well, but I found the art a bit on the light side.
69) Full House by Maeve Binchy. I really liked this novella that recounts the tale of a mother and her children in modern day Ireland. Mothers will always be mothers, people say, and by that they mean they would do anything for their children, but shouldn't there a be a limit to their self-sacrifice? Perhaps there should be, and that's exactly why the mother in this story decides to change things. She has to make her children understand that they have to find their own way in life and stop depending on her. Highly recommended.
70) Memory Man by David Baldacci. The good author introduces a new hero in his ever expanding pantheon with this novel. His name is Amos Decker, a man who's been hit hard by luck more than once, firstly losing a career as an athlete, and then a family, and as a result yet another career, this time as a cop. Can he find his way back to life? Perhaps he can, but it will be a hell of a ride until he gets there, if he ever does that is. Since this is a Baldacci, all I'm left to say is, fasten your seat-belts people. 
To be continued.
Read also: 1 to 10, 11 to 20, 21 to 30, 31 to 40, 41 to 50, 51 to 60

My (Previous) Year in Reading: 11 to 20

…in chronological order.
2015 has been a great year when it comes to reading books for me. During it, according to Goodreads, I have gulped down 212 volumes that were not only novels for adults but also volumes that belonged in many other genres: YA, graphic novels, poetry, children's stories, short stories and books in translation. This has also been a year that I stopped writing reviews since I had much else occupying my mind and time, so below I'll give you no more than a few words about the books I have read. I hope some of my choices echo yours and I look forward to an exciting new year of reading. 
11) Confessions by Kanae Minato. This book, to put it simply, is absolutely great. The author did a trick on me, as I'm certain she did on many other readers. If you like mysteries with many twists and turns and really unexpected endings, then you'll love this. Easily one of my best ten reads of the year.

12) Spectacle: Stories by Susan Steinberg. It's almost impossible for me to award five stars to a short story collection, but I did it for this one and for one by Alice Munro. These stories discuss the big questions in life; love, loss, difficult choices, revelations and secrets left untold. Her writing is exquisite and she's definitely a writer to look out for.
13) The Great Race: How the Chinese Zodiac Came to Beby Stacey Hirata and Charles Huang. This is a really fun book to read with your children. The plot is simple and the story straightforward, and I guess more or less the title explains it all. Reading it me gave me a lot of smiles and also taught me a little bit on the way I guess. Lovely.
14) The Wild Book by Margarita Engle. This is yet another children's book that I really loved. Its subject matter is not light but the author manages to make it sound fun and interesting to all in a playful manner, using beautiful prose that captures the reader's heart. Dyslexia is the name, getting over it is the game. Highly recommended.
15) Hold Your Own by Kate Tempest. I have to admit that I'm a big fan of KT, whom I discovered from a Guardian piece and her youtube videos. This poetry collection was almost all expected from her, as she uses simple words and straightforward language to talk about today's world. Some of the poems are better than others, a few of them are really great. The fact is that I've enjoyed reading most them so much that I sat myself down and translated the whole volume to Greek. Unfortunately, unless a miracle happens, it is never going to be published since, a) I'm not well connected when it comes to Greek publishers, and, b) The Greek market is on its deathbed after the last economic downturn. Oh well, at least I enjoyed the journey.
16) Poems Without Name by Dulce María Loynaz. I have bought this book 14 years ago in Cuba and I have read it three times since then. The poet is one of the most famous in her country and, though dead now, still waits to be discovered by the rest of the world. If you like poetry that talks about the things that matter not only on a personal but also a societal level, then this book can work wonders for you.
17) Pine and the Winter Sparrow by Alexis York Lumbard and BeatrizVidal. This is an old story told anew in beautiful prose and accompanied by wonderful illustrations. A children's story it is, but it can be read with pleasure by everyone. In these pages we watch birds and trees as they interact with each other and in the end we get to know why the pine trees are one of the few that stay green all year around.
18) Stories of Havana by Estrella Fresnillo. I bought this short story collection during that trip to Cuba as well, and I really enjoyed it. The stories here are quite simple. They are stories about people and their everyday lives. Stories that can make you smile or make you sad. The author seems more interested about the myth than the plot and that works just fine here.
19) Swamp Bones by Kathy Reichs. This is an original ebook novella that sees the famous forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan travel to Florida for a short holiday that was never meant to be. Human bones are found in the stomach of a Burmese python, and Temp, feeling certain that foul play was involved throws herself into full investigative mode. One of the author's better works, a fact perhaps helped by the size of the book.
20) Three Twisted Stories by Karin Slaughter. (Beware: This is the AUDIO version. You can seek the ebook elsewhere.) I don't think that there are many authors that do twisted as well as Karin Slaughter does. I won't go into details about the three stories that are included in this small collection, but I will say that they achieve their goal, which is to upset the reader, seemingly without great effort. KS reminds me of some Japanese masters of the genre. 
To be continued 

See also: 1 to 10
 

My (Previous) Year in Reading: 1 to 10

…in chronological order.
2015 has been a great year when it comes to reading books for me. During it, according to Goodreads, I have gulped down 212 volumes that were not only novels for adults but also volumes that belonged in many other genres: YA, graphic novels, poetry, children's stories, short stories and books in translation. This has also been a year that I stopped writing reviews since I had much else occupying my mind and time, so below I'll give you no more than a few words about the books I have read. I hope some of my choices echo yours and I look forward to an exciting new year of reading.
So here it goes:
1) The Lost Daughter by Elena Ferrante. I have been reading about this author in newspapers, blogs and elsewhere for a long time now, so I've decided to read something of hers to find out what the buzz was all about. And I wasn't disappointed. Ferrante is a fine storyteller and a master at diving into the abysmal depths of the human psyche. She's on my reading list for the new year as well.


2) Picture Me Gone by Meg Rosoff. Truth to be told I am new to YA fiction but I think this is one of those special books that can capture the heart of young and old alike. Perhaps the world described here differs a lot from my own experience but it also sounds familiar in a way I can't quite pinpoint. But that doesn't matter. What counts is the story, and this is a very good one.


3) Grandma's Poetry Book by Di Castle. I really loved this book. It's fun and tender, and I remember smiling again and again whilst reading it. These poems are full of memories, past and present, and rich in emotions. I wholeheartedly recommend it to everyone.


4) Fear and Trembling by Amélie Nothomb. I love discovering "new" authors just as much as I love reading about Japan. This is an outsider's tale. The tale of a young woman that feels happy to return to the land of her birth, but whose happiness turns to sorrow as time passes by and she finds out that she no longer belongs there. Perhaps she never did. As the pages turn, her psychological portrait is built before our very eyes, and bit by bit she (and we) discovers things about herself that look foreign to the self that once was. A short novel that carries a lot of weight.


5) There Once Lived a Mother Who Loved Her Children, Until They Moved Back In: Three Novellas About Family by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya. I bet that this is not an easy book to stomach for western readers. You have to be willing to let go of your own perspective of the world to fully appreciate the one that inhabits the stories of this collection. Melancholy seems to be the prevalent feeling here, but that shouldn't surprise us since we all know what they say about the Russian soul. That though doesn't necessarily mean that there's no joy to be found in these stories. There is. A lot. And then there are the stories themselves, small masterpieces in the puzzle that we call humanity. An amazing book.


6) Dreaming of Elizabeth by Camilla Läckberg. A single short, as they call them, this is the story of Malin and Lars. They sail together on a boat, but that's just the background. The story itself is mostly a story about suspicion and fear, about the paranoia that grips people every now and then and never lets go. I've enjoyed reading it but didn't like it as much as this very good author's novels.


7) Evening by Anna Akhmatova. This is the first collection that I've read by this great poet, and it so happens that it is also the first one she published. I am no poetry critic but when I like something I tend to shout it out loud. And I did REALLY LIKE this one. Akhmatova had a way with words that decades after her death still sounds current and even urgent. It's as if her voice was meant to last for the ages. And it did.


8) Thunderstruck & Other Stories by ElizabethMcCracken. A collection of short stories can traverse through a range of lives and emotions and gift the reader with pure moments of narrative magic that speak to his own soul. And this one does just that as it explores loss and grief, loneliness and love, serenity and regret. A job very well done by the author.


9) Bristly Hair and I Don't Care by Nadia Budde. This is a funny book about a very serious subject matter for a lot of people, the way they look. We all say that looks don't really matter, but most of us don't really mean it. Well, this little volume tries to change that with some hilarious rhymes and the help of an uncle that's all the money. Lovely.


10) Art by Yasmina Reza. This is one of those little books that I pick up by chance every now and then, and which most often than not come to surprise me in a pleasant way. What we have here is a story about friendship, and about the differing views that people often come to hold about a subject, object, emotion or whatever else comes to mind. A delight to read.

To be continued...

Week 21

He loves his job, a lot, because it helps him remember a past that he has never lived, but about which he heard many a story by his forefathers.
Tourists don't come too often, because there's nothing much for one to see in his parts of the wood anymore; a few impalas, a lonely antelope maybe, some zebras, and if they really get lucky they can even catch a glimpse of an old lion that has probably lost its way and wandered here.
But these few things, these few animals, are more than enough for him, since they give him the chance to meet and converse with a few foreigners, which in turn allows him to escape the constant boredom and walk for once again in the misty landscapes of his ancestors.

Short Cuts 4

That night trip to the falls. Magic. I don't have to ask you. I know you remember. How could you not?
The blanket on the rocks. The sweet red wine. The whisper of the trees and the thunder of the water. And the stars above. A sky unlike any other. A wonder unlike any other.
***
Where are you now? What are you doing? Is that flame that once pierced your eyes and engulfed my soul gone?
I wish not. As I wish you'll seize to fight. You'll never find happiness where others do. You scare people. They can't handle your honesty. And that's my fault.
***
Friends move on. Friends make new friends. Friends forget. And sometimes are forgotten. But not lovers.
Young love is an ode to the misery to come. And yet. Give me young love and I'll be willing to sacrifice everything at its shrine. Now that I know better.
***
They say that people can't save us. We can only save ourselves. But how can that be? How can that be?
If there are no people in your life, there's nothing to bind you to this world. People may be our killers, but they can also be our saviors. Different people. The ones who are right for us.
Make me, I'm begging you. Make me into someone else. But, alas, I know you cannot hear me...
The image was taken from here. 

Short Cuts 3

Someone once told me that I was going to drink my life away. I wish they were right, but they were wrong. I know how I'm going to die. Out of boredom. Like my favorite poet did.
Death. It follows my thoughts wherever I go. It breathes into my ear. It makes me want to live. And die.
***
Is there a part of you that still loves me? I wonder. But why would there be? Your eyes are now open. To all my flaws.
And yet. I always think tenderly for you. Because what I had with you was truth itself. Our love made me who I was meant to be. No matter that I hate who I am.
***
The first words. Those I didn't write for you. But that is of no importance. She's now yet another picture in the pantheon of my life. While you are more.
The muse. The conscience. The first person that ever made me admit my mistakes. And whom I've failed.
***
The songs. The music that we've heard lying on a carpet in my house. The lyrics we sang along to.
Your paintings. Your failing. Because you could create miracles if you put your mind to it. But you never believed in you. I still see them. Every day. As a reminder of…
To be continued.
The image was taken from here. 

Short Cuts 2

I recall. My words. The death of our parents grants us the freedom to die ourselves, I've said. Or live. Depending on the faulty psyche.
I was right. And wrong. A death has set me free. But its memory has kept me captive. Death is the joker in every pack of cards. It decides your fate.
***
Give me a reason to live, I scream to the stars all night. And by morn I'm rich in reasons to die.
The dawn comes as a curse. It promises to bring me yet another day of one and the same. The same thoughts. Silences. Regrets. And anger. Anger towards me.
***
Mercy. I should have shown you that. By staying away from you. I was your bigger blessing, you said. I was your grandest curse, I knew.
You gave me inspiration. You gave me love. And I gave you false hope. And I bought you gifts. And told you how great you are. But, at least I gave no promises.
***
Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson sang. But hope is the opposite of dream. Hope is the great pretender.
The ones who dream should do. Otherwise the dream will come to naught. And those who hope should dream. If for them there should remain a hope. It seems that playing with words is…
***
The only thing I know how to do. I was always a storyteller. On the page. In the real world I was a hermit.
I cannot understand the way you think, you said. It was okay. I couldn't understand it either. Then. Now I know. I can only find redemption in the written word...
To be continued.
The image was taken from here. 

Short Cuts 1

You have potential, I've said the first time I saw you, and for a long time you sat still, as frozen in time, before replying, no I have not.
Our perspectives were different. You saw the world, I saw what it could be. Now we just both see the world, and melancholy is our constant.
***
I remember you. Your skinny body. Your unruly hair. The way you looked at me sometimes, as if I wasn't real.
I wasn't. Our reality was an illusion. But not at first. What started off as a joke came to be. What came to be was beauty. And beauty, as time passes, always subsides.
***
When did that happen? When did things…? Oh, forget it. I know the answers to all the questions. When it comes to us.
It all began with my cowardice. My unwillingness to sacrifice some of my personal space. And with my stubbornness. If I could go back, well, I would change nothing, because then what was true to us would seize to be.
***
Life. They say that it moves in circles, but it doesn't. Death may be the recycler but birth, no matter how many times it happens, is not the creator. It's simply the mother of all repetition.
***
My thoughts do not arrive whole, but in pieces, like shots of vodka. Great when ice cold, not so good when warm.
I try to smile and I cry. The great paradox. Or rather the parody of being. What I need to say I will, but only when drunk. When uninhibited. Though that I have never been...
To be continued
The image was taken from here 

Via - Chapter 1

I have killed my daughter. Or, actually, no. No, I haven't. I have simply killed her soul. And that is worse. But she regained it. At least partly. And that is good.
My thoughts come out in shards and splinters, torn or chipped off from the mosaic of a dreadful life. That's how my life has been. Until now. Now it's simply sad and pathetic. Can I call this progress?
Where do I begin? Telling my story I mean. Dreams? I used to have some. Plans? I didn't even have the time to make. Love? A word well known, but a feeling almost alien to me; erotic love.
I do have hope though, and it resides on the face of my daughter. Her name is Chara, which means joy in Greek, but joy is something that she found very late in life, and for that I am to blame. I am to blame for everything actually, everything bad that ever happened to her.
The past. I remember it. I can't escape it. I used to be good when I was young. I was a good daughter, a good student, a good Christian. And when I grew up a bit I became a good spouse, a good housewife. And I became bad; a bad mother.
I never loved my husband. Never. Because I had no word in choosing him. My father did that for me. It was the late 80's and at the time we were living in a village south of Nicosia, here in Cyprus, that could remind someone of Europe in the fifties. The law of the father was the only law of the house, and no one dared disobey. So, just after I finished school and though I wanted to go and study at the university in Athens, he just picked a groom for me and that was that.
At the time I couldn't even describe how sad I felt about this turn of events. Depressed? I didn't even know the meaning of the word back then. Angry? Oh yes, I was angry, but I kept that inside because there was no meaning in expressing the fury that was boiling within. Disappointed? Definitely.
I haven't talked about this to anyone yet because, well because, I am me. And the me of today has no friends and no allies. And I haven't even dared say it to my daughter, though these days our relationship has started getting a little bit better. OK, there it goes, the big secret: I have only loved one man in my life, and that was my teen love, Panagiotis.
Oh him. Him I could love for ever after! But I haven't seen him for a lifetime. The last time we've met was when we were both eighteen, twenty-seven years ago. I remember. His dark eyes. His tender gaze. Our first kiss at the back of the classroom during a break. The way he held me in his arms at the final school dance, the party of our lives.
I was taller than him but that didn't matter. I was a better student but that was of no importance. His eyes and his arms, that's my version of paradise. A paradise that I long to rediscover, but where and with whom? Isn't every paradise of the past a paradise lost?
Where is he? What has he done with his life? There are ways to find out, but I wonder as to whether I should even try to do that, as I'm certain that he's moved on with his life, that he is happy. Who am I to intrude? But…
I want to know. All I have to do is strike a few keys, type in his name, and see what comes up. So easy. Oh blessed epoch. When I was young a simple phone call was considered a-kind-of luxury in our part of the world. Do it! I command myself. Do it. I have to. Otherwise I won't sleep all night, as I'll keep thinking about him.
I type his name. I hit enter. I wait. Not for long. A common name and surname. Too many results, from Cyprus, Greece, England, Australia and South Africa. I go through the links, visiting profile pages in social media and webpages, and I finally spot his profile. He aged well. I check his About link. It says nothing about his work and there's no mention of any family relations. I feel myself smiling. Just a little.
I scroll down his posts. There are links to some articles, youtube videos, and photos from some places he visited and with some friends. I try to see if I can recognize someone else in them but I don't. New friends probably. Or relatives. I don't know.
I go back to his profile picture. It's a good one. Close up. His hair is longer than I remember, his eyes the same black, though they seem a little sad or thoughtful, I'm not sure. I look at the other photos. They are bright there. I can't help from wondering about what happened to him. I have this feeling that there's been quite a bit of suffering in his life. Or maybe I'm just projecting.
I turn off the screen. I take a sip from my glass. Vodka with ice. Russian. Always Russian. The ice is about to disappear at the bottom of the glass and the drink will soon turn warm. I don't mind.
I drink a lot these days, perhaps out of boredom, or probably because it would be impossible for me to forget my circumstances, even for a little while, otherwise. An author said: "You know me. I like thinkers, but I love drinkers…" Would he love me?
"You are pathetic," I can almost hear you scream that in my ears, but I don't care about what you think. If you were in my shoes you'd most likely react just the way I do. Loneliness is a bitch, and something has to tame it. Chara, my daughter, my savior, is not here right now, so vodka will have to do.
A note on the title: In Greek "Via" means violence and that's what this book is about; violence against women. But in the Latin languages the word has a completely different meaning, a meaning that also resonates when it comes to this story, and that's exactly the reason that I chose it.
The image was taken from here. 

Week 19

She likes more than anything to walk in the woods, as it makes her feel more like herself - a self that she's lost somewhere in the city streets.
She loses herself in nature as often as she can, but she always feels a bit empty inside, as she no longer seems able to enjoy its beauty the way she should. Many times she thinks about giving everything up and, better late than never, coming back to her roots, but then something happens that doesn't allow the thought to become an act. If it did…
If it did maybe she'd once again feel just as happy as in the past. Like when she knew all the names of the trees and the flowers and could recognize the chirping of most birds. Like when… but…