Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 22

The Rib Joint by Julia Koets | Book Review

The Rib Joint by Julia Koets

Published by Red Hen Press, 2019

My rating:

[image error]The Rib Joint is a memoir of sorts, comprised of a collection of personal essays. These essays explore Koets’ experiences growing up as a closeted queer woman in a conservative, religious community in the American South. In particular, she explores the pain of navigating the murky intersection between friendship and love, desire and self-loathing, and freedom and suppression when she and her female best friend fall for each other.

With clarity and self-reflection, Koets explores the difficulty of trying to reconcile long-held beliefs with newfound emotion, and the struggle to overcome your own ingrained homophobia when you’ve been raised to believe your love is a sin, and that embracing it will see you ostracised from your community. There’s a lyrical, lively quality to her writing style, as she plays with imagery and highlights linguistic parallels. This never bogs down the essays, however, each of them being incredibly readable for all their inherent pathos.

Indeed, there were some incredibly moving passages here. Anyone who has grown up queer is sure to find moments of painful familiarity, but it’s a read I’d recommend widely. My only criticism is the arguable lack of variety in subject matter or tone throughout the collection. It certainly makes sense to have such a clear thematic lynchpin, but with hindsight, I wish I had taken more time to sit with each individual essay. As it was, I felt a few of them did bleed together somewhat, their potential impact diluted to some degree.

Still, this is a little gem I wish I’d seen discussed more. Koets bravely bares her soul in the hope that others will find their own pain reflected there, and feel less alone as a result.

Thank you to the publisher for a free copy via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.

You can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Women’s Prize for Fiction 2020 | Reaction and Reading Plans

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The 16 books on this year’s longlist.

Last year was the first time I read the entire Women’s Prize for Fiction longlist before the shortlist was announced. Though I didn’t necessarily love all of the titles, I adored the experience of following the prize, and the friendships that were forged from discussing it with fellow bloggers. My initial reaction to seeing this year’s longlist was, “How can I possibly have read so many eligible titles, but only two of them made the list???” Once I calmed down and got over myself, however, I realised it was a pretty interesting selection, nonetheless. So, let’s chat about it!

Ironically, I think one of the most notable things about this year’s list is which books are absent. Whether it’s titles that have had huge media coverage (The Testaments by Margaret Atwood); titles from well-established authors (Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson); titles that have had previous award success (The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins, 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak); titles that have generated big buzz within the bookish world (Ducks, Newburyport by Lucy Ellmann, Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid); or simply some personal favourites from this year’s eligible titles (The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave, Long Bright River by Liz Moore), to name just a few; there are lots of big hitters that didn’t make the cut. In some ways, avoiding many of the ‘obvious’ picks is exciting, and once I started looking into the list properly, I started feeling more excited and optimistic about the prospect of committing to reading (almost) all of them once again.

The two I’ve read thus far are Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo and Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell (click on the titles if you’d like to check out my reviews). I enjoyed both, and am perfectly happy to see them make the list. Weather by Jenny Offill, and Girl by Edna O’Brien were both already on my TBR, so I’m happy for the excuse to try and pick them up sooner rather than later.

Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams, A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes, The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, and Actress by Anne Enright were already firmly on my radar, and I’ve heard sufficiently good things about each of them to now officially add them to my TBR as well.

I knew next to nothing about Nightingale Point by Luan Goldie, Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson, or How We Disappeared by Jing-Jing Lee before the list was announced. Having looked into them, I’m definitely intrigued enough to want to give them a shot, and I’m really pleased I discovered a few exciting new-to-me books through the prize!

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara, Dominicana by Angie Cruz, and The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo don’t immediately jump out at me. Depending on how well I get on with the ones I’m planning to prioritise, and the reviews I see coming in for them from fellow bloggers over the coming weeks, I may reach for them.

The only one I don’t want to read is Fleishman is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner. It doesn’t sound like my kind of thing at all, and I’ve seen a few ‘meh’ reviews from people I trust. We’ll see…

And last but not least, the only one I definitely won’t be reading is The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel. It’s the third in a trilogy of historical behemoths, none of which I’ve read yet, and none of which particularly appeal to me – despite Mantel’s immense success and reputation (I know, don’t come for me, okay?). With a longlist this extensive already, there’s no way I can commit to making my way through that whole series within the next month or two.

So, taking stock, there are 11 titles that I would ideally like to have read by the time the shortlist/winner is announced, 3 that are maybes, 1 that’s unlikely, and 1 that’s a definite no. Honestly? I’m pretty happy with that. In an ideal world, I’d be able to wholeheartedly commit to the entire list every year, but as it is, I’m looking forward to following this one as best I can, and seeing where it takes me.

What about you? How many of the longlisted titles have you read? How many others do you plan to pick up? Which titles are you most surprised and/or sad didn’t make the cut? Let me know your thoughts!

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The Girls with No Names by Serena Burdick | Book Review

The Girls with No Names by Serena Burdick

Published by Park Row, 2020

My rating:

[image error]Against the backdrop of a patriarchal society under threat from the suffrage movement, Serena Burdick examines the enduring bond of sisterhood and those who were relegated to the fringes of society.

It’s the early 20th century and women are taking to the streets of New York to demand their rights. Teenage sisters Luella and Effie Tildon have enjoyed a comparatively privileged upbringing, but money has not afforded them health or happiness; Effie suffers the effects of a malformed heart, while Luella longs for freedom. The sisters rebel quietly at first, but when Luella’s defiance escalates, a dangerous rift tears the family apart. Waking one morning to find her sister gone, Effie fears her father has made good on his threat to send Luella to the House of Mercy. This infamous reform house promises to straighten the paths of troublesome girls through a strict regimen of manual labor and religious virtue, and Effie decides she must get inside in order to rescue her sister and repair her broken family.

The primary strength of the novel lies in the depth of its characters. None of the main players are presented as wholly good or bad, and in the nuance of these complexities, Burdick captures a society on the cusp of change.

You can read my full review over on BookBrowse. I also wrote a piece about women’s suffrage in America which you can read here.

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February Wrap Up

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The books I read in February

February may be a short month that flew by, but I still managed to pack a good amount of reading in! I finished 11 books, bringing my total for the year so far up to 20. Here are some brief thoughts on each of them, with links to full reviews if you’d like to know more.

The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins

[ ] A former slave is accused of murdering her master and mistress in this richly woven, evocate historical read. Through her phenomenally well-drawn and morally complex heroine, Collins explores the trappings of race, class, gender, and sexuality with nuance, without sacrificing the gripping feel of a page-turner.

10 Minutes 38 Seconds in the Strange World by Elif Shafak

[ ] At its core, this book explores the power of found family, as a dying woman uses her final moments to recall how and why each of her closest friends came to be in her life. The supporting cast feel like caricatures at times, and the huge shift of pace and tone in the book’s latter half pushes things towards farce. In its quieter moments, where the characters navigate difference, tolerance, and understanding, the book has a real sense of warmth and wisdom.

Frida: The Story of Her Life by Vanna Vinci (translated from the Italian by Kathrine Colfer)

[ ] This graphic memoir of Frida Kahlo offers a particularly insightful look into life with chronic pain, and the transformative power of art. I appreciate that Vinci chose to present Kahlo as the complex being she was, with the playful, free-flowing structure and often surreal art style paying suitable homage to the life and work of one of the greats.

Not Here by Hieu Minh Nguyen

[ ] The poems in this collection are largely concerned with identity, trauma, the queer immigrant experience, and the painful journey towards acceptance. There are a few absolute gems, but Nguyen’s poetic voice and array of styles didn’t always click with me, sadly.

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

[ ] Full review to come for BookBrowse in March.

A Burden Shared by Jo Walton

[ ] This Tor short has a very striking concept, exploring the idea that pain transference would allow us to literally shoulder the burden of someone else’s suffering. With impressive brevity, Walton comments on the selflessness and the folly of such an act, and its moral and medical complexities. I felt it ended rather abruptly, and though it certainly left me thinking, I would have liked a little more emotional development for the characters.

Long Bright River by Liz Moore

[ ] A police officer determines to find her missing, drug addicted sister before she can fall victim to the killer targeting similarly vulnerable women in this intense and nuanced read. Despite its heft and considerably slower pace, the book retains the thrilling quality of a great mystery-thriller. Where the author really excels, however, is her extensive look at the reality of the opioid crisis and institutionalised inequality.

In the Tall Grass by Stephen King & Joe Hill

[ ] Adult siblings Cal and Becky quickly regret their decision to help a lost child calling to them from a field of impossibly tall grass when they stumble into a real-life nightmare. As disorientating for the reader as it is for the characters, King and Hill do a great job of creating tension and unease. Driven more by its concept and atmosphere, however, it felt more like stumbling between a series of horrifying tableaus than following a cohesively developed narrative.

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

[ ] This account of Machado’s experiences within an abusive same-sex relationship is painfully honest, beautifully written, and stylistically pioneering. By boldly challenging several social taboos head-on, she attempts to place the queer victims of domestic abuse within the literary canon from which they have been routinely excluded. Her use of structure and perspective enriches the reading experience, making this as eye-opening and anxiety-inducing as it is readable.

Wisdom from a Humble Jellyfish by Rani Shah

[ ] This book encourages us to take inspiration from nature, by streamlining our lives and prioritising our own health and well-being. A few self-care ideas were very tenuously linked to their animal counterparts, but I enjoyed the warm, gentle feel of the book throughout. I also very much enjoyed it for the plethora of fun, fascinating facts about nature, and the concluding message about the importance of safeguarding the planet for the benefit of us all.

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

[ ] O’Farrell’s fictionalised account of the relationship between Shakespeare and his wife, and the untimely loss of their son, does an excellent job of breathing life and emotion into a lesser-discussed part of The Bard’s history. Initially laboured prose, unnecessary nonlinearity, pacing issues, and a denouement that doesn’t quite land somehow didn’t stop me from enjoying the time I spent with this novel; its evocation of grief and handling of its characters more than enough to hold interest.

There we have it! Looking back, this was a very strong reading month with lots of excellent reads, but my favourites were The Mercies and The Confessions of Frannie Langton. What was your favourite read in February?

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Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell | Book Review

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

Published by Knopf, 2020

My rating:

[image error]In a bold departure from her previous work, O’Farrell attempts to paint a portrait of the relationship between William Shakespeare and his wife, particularly concerning the death of their 11-year-old son.

It’s important to note that the names Hamnet and Hamlet were entirely interchangeable in Shakespeare’s day, and so the primary question O’Farrell concerns herself with is why The Bard chose to name that particular play/character after his deceased son. The second (and most interesting) thing to note is that Shakespeare is never actually named throughout the novel. By only ever referring to him based on his various roles in life and relationships to others (the son, the husband, the tutor, the father) O’Farrell cleverly accomplishes two things: Firstly, she humanises the myth, reminding us that Shakespeare was much more than just a writer; he was a man who endured the same hardships and cherished the same things as everyone else. Secondly, she vindicates his wife and children, allowing them to take the spotlight for once, subverting the norm of having them defined solely by their connection to him.

With little detail known about Shakespeare’s wife (now believed to have been named Agnes, rather than Anne) or the death of their son, O’Farrell does a great job of breathing life and emotion into their story. I have to say, however, that the narrative structure and pacing didn’t entirely work for me. The first two thirds of the novel are split into a dual timeline, jumping between the early courtship of Shakespeare and Agnes, and the events years later that lead up to Hamnet’s inevitable death. This nonlinearity added nothing for me, and there’s an oddly drawn out attempt at misdirection regarding the fate of Hamnet and his twin sister that felt redundant given both the book’s blurb, and the story’s real-life historical basis.

Initially, I also felt O’Farrell’s prose was somewhat laboured; the push for a rich, evocative feel coming off as overwritten. Whether she found her stride with the historical setting, or whether I simply got sufficiently drawn in for it to stop bothering me, this problem did lessen as the novel progressed. Where the book excelled unwaveringly, however, was its eventual portrayal of a family blindsided by grief. She captures their bewilderment as individuals and as a unit with real fervour.

It’s a daring move for any writer to tackle the intimate life of the writer, and whilst I certainly found it compelling, I do think it ultimately failed to stick a proper landing. O’Farrell clearly undertook this novel with the aim of answering key questions about Shakespeare and his family, but the attempt at a revelatory denouement felt both hurried and underwhelming, proving why those questions have remained unanswered for so long. Still, it’s a book I had high expectations for, and despite feeling it didn’t quite capitalise on its full potential, I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with it.

Thank you to the publisher for an advanced copy via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.

You can pre-order a copy of Hamnet from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Supernatural Horror & Nature Nonfiction | Mini Reviews

In the Tall Grass by Stephen King and Joe Hill

Published by Scribner, 2012

My rating:

[image error]In this novella, adult siblings Cal and Becky pull over for a rest stop by the side of an old church. On the other side of the road, a field of impossibly tall grass spreads to the horizon. From it, they hear a young boy pleading for help, and his mother, begging them to stay away. Against the mother’s warnings, the two venture into the grass to try and help; a decision they will quickly regret.

Father and son writing duo, King and Hill, do a great job of creating tension and unease. The fever dream of events that unfolds is as disorientating for the reader as it is for the characters, with several horrifying tableaus that are sure to linger in the mind. I can’t say the plot itself did much to satisfy, however; this being a conceptually driven story that hinges around its atmosphere and key set pieces rather than a particular arc. In that respect, I found it to be the kind of read that is somehow weaker than the sum of its parts. Still, it’s morbidly entertaining if you want something unapologetically strange and disturbing to fly through well within a couple of hours.

You can read In the Tall Grass online here, or purchase it as part of a full collection of stories by Joe Hill here.

Wisdom from a Humble Jellyfish by Rani Shah

Published by Dey Street Books, 2020

My rating:

[image error]The primary aim of this book is to encourage us all to follow the many examples of self-care and wisdom found throughout the natural world, by simplifying our daily lives and prioritising our own health and wellbeing. It does so by sharing fascinating facts about the weird and wonderful creatures we share the Earth with, and exploring what principles we as humans can take from them to apply to our own routines.

It has to be said that a few of the equivalent self-care tips for people were very tenuously linked to their animal counterparts, but I consistently enjoyed the gentle, warm tone of the book. The highlight for me was definitely the plethora of fun, interesting facts I picked up along the way (like how porcupines have evolved to have a coating of antibacterial oil on their quills, to reduce the risk of infection when they accidentally cut themselves on them). By imparting knowledge in small, bitesize chunks, and finding ways to make it applicable to our everyday lives, it’s the kind of read that educates stealthily, focussing on genuine interest and readability, and successfully avoiding the dreaded feel of a school lesson.

I appreciated the way Shah brought everything together at the end, by highlighting the sad reality that many species referenced throughout the book are currently at risk of extinction, and why it’s critical that we redress the balance of our lives to reconnect with simpler, kinder, and more natural ways of being. After all, ‘caring for nature is self-care for us all.’

Thank you to the publisher for an advanced copy via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.

You can pre-order a copy of Wisdom from a Humble Jellyfish by clicking here.

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In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado | Book Review

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

Published by Serpent’s Tail, 2020

My rating:

[image error]This account of Machado’s experiences within an abusive same-sex relationship is at once painfully honest and uniquely indefinable. In documenting the reality of her emotional trauma, and the frustration she felt at the lack of representation for queer domestic abuse, her approach is unflinching. In terms of structure and style, she challenges our expectations, shifting the boundary lines of what defines a memoir.

The book forgoes traditional chapters and linearity, opting instead to lay bare memories and musing in a series of short vignettes. Not only is this reflective of the unpredictable way that memories return to us, and the disorientating bewilderment of her lived experiences, but it ties into the recurring motif of attempting to cultivate the eponymous ‘Dream House’ with the supposed ideal partner: these are the moments that make a life; the bricks that build a home.

There are also footnotes littered throughout, highlighting the many symbolic and narrative parallels between her life and folk tale conventions. These traditional (and often cautionary) tales were written to reflect the universality of human experience. By aligning her own life with these widely accepted and morally relatable stories, she attempts to place the reality of queer domestic abuse within the literary canon; a space from which is has been routinely excluded.

There is, in fact, a trio of criminally overlooked social taboos being challenged here: the aforementioned queer domestic abuse; the impact of emotional versus physical abuse; and the uncomfortable reality that women are capable of inflicting suffering. Machado is able to present the nuances of these complex issues in a memoir as intimate and personal as it is outward looking. It’s not always an easy read, the content understandably upsetting at times, but there’s a self-awareness and a beauty to Machado’s writing that counters the darkness of her experiences with a sense of much-needed hope.

On that front, the use of perspective is also worth note. Machado switches on the fly between first and second person, choosing at certain points to address her past self directly. This instantly creates a sense of distance as she discusses certain moments in her life. Is this a deliberate disassociation, necessary to confront trauma from an objective viewpoint? Or is this emblematic of some kind of renewal, establishing the idea that Machado is no longer the same person she once was? Either way, it’s interesting and well-handled; one of several meta reminders that Machado is well aware of her role as a writer and a documenter.

As anxiety inducing as it is eye-opening, and as playful as it is readable, this is a woefully necessary book that I hope falls into the hands of those who need it most.

You can pick up a copy of In the Dream House from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Book to Film | In the Tall Grass

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In the Tall Grass’s book cover (left), and film poster (right).

I finally got around to reading Stephen King and Joe Hill’s supernatural horror novella, In the Tall Grass, and since it was a quick read, I decided to watch the recent film adaptation on the same night, making comparisons between the two all the more interesting.

Both versions follow the exact same setup. In fact, the opening 20 minutes of the film are a beat-for-beat recreation of the novella’s first section, dialogue and all. Adult siblings Cal and Becky pull over for a rest stop by the side of an old church. On the other side of the road, a field of impossibly tall grass spreads to the horizon. From it, they hear a young boy pleading for help, and his mother, begging them to stay away. Against the mother’s warnings, the two venture into the grass to try and help; a decision they will quickly regret.

First to point out is how loyal the film is to the overall tone of the original story; both creating a sense of dread and unease that is deliberately disorientating. It’s clear that director Vincenzo Natali (who also adapted the screenplay from the King/Hill story) has great artistic flair. Writing-wise, he makes a decent attempt to flesh out the plot to accommodate the longer running time (adding a new major character and building on concepts of time displacement only hinted at in the novella) without contradicting anything from the source material. Sadly, it feels a little overstretched, if anything. My main gripe with the novella was its lack of cohesion, with the story feeling like a series of horrifying vignettes rather than a fully developed narrative. For all its effort to delve a little deeper, the film can never quite shake the same feeling.

Where the film really excels, however, is its visuals. Natali makes excellent use of what could have been a very restrictive setting and colour palette, with some gorgeous shots and surprisingly clever cinematography. The performances on the other hand are a little uneven. The cast all have their decent turns, but some awkward dialogue contributes to more than a few unintentionally camp, hammy moments.

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The film’s principal cast, from left to right: Laysla De Oliveira, Patrick Wilson, Harrison Gilbertson, Will Buie Jr., & Avery Whitted.

All-in-all, I’d say the screen version of In the Tall Grass is a very solid adaptation, making every effort to enhance what was set down on the page, tweaking and expanding where necessary to suit the visual medium. The trouble is, the core narrative being built from was never quite strong enough to make either wholly satisfying. Both versions (the novella, in particular), focus more on evoking a nightmarish atmosphere than laying out a cohesive story arc, as we stumble from one disturbing tableau to another, with little being explored beyond face value. As such, neither are prime examples of what the genre can do, but if you want to spend an hour or two with some entertaining and unashamedly strange, dark, mind-bending ideas, you could do worse than the book or the film version of In the Tall Grass.

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Long Bright River by Liz Moore | Book Review

Long Bright River by Liz Moore

Published by Hutchinson, 2020

My rating:

[image error]The initial setup for Liz Moore’s Long Bright River is almost classic crime/thriller territory, as we’re introduced to a police officer concerned that her missing sister (a drug addict and prostitute) will emerge as the next victim in a string of killings against similarly vulnerable women. Her personal investment in the case will push her prided professionalism to its limit, as she seeks to find her sister before the killer can. While the novel does have all the gripping intensity and intrigue of a good mystery romp, it opts (initially, at least) for a very different stylistic approach.

The first 300 or so pages are a real slow burn, with Moore taking the time to establish the community her characters inhabit; one that has been ravaged by the opioid crisis, corruption, and the dangerous feeling that everyone has become desensitised and complacent in the face of such injustice. Despite the somewhat restrained plot progression, the book always reads swiftly, largely because of how well Moore establishes her characters and the hardships they face. She captures with real grit and poignancy just how devastating the opioid crisis has been in the US, examining not only the myriad ways it impacts individuals, but the ripple effect it has throughout families and communities, from one generation to the next. But if Moore is unflinching in her portrayal of addiction, she is never judgemental of her characters – a balancing act that takes real writerly skill.

In her more nuanced approach, Moore is also able to tackle some other big themes, particularly the struggle of single, working mothers, and the many sacrifices they are forced to make. The more she is drawn into the case, and the seedy underbelly of the town, the more our heroine must wrestle with the guilt of seeing less of her young son. He, in turn, shows increasing signs of separation anxiety, which I thought was handled really well. Indeed, where many authors struggle to write believable, three-dimensional child characters, Moore excelled. My heart broke for young Thomas on several occasions.

If the book is slower and more contemplative at first, it hits breakneck speed and doesn’t relent for the last 100 pages or so (the novel clocking in at around 450 pages in all). The plot itself moves to the fore, in a rapid sequence of twists and revelations – some big, some small; some I predicted, some I didn’t. I can see this sudden and drastic tonal shift being a little jarring for some, but by then I was so invested that I just allowed the pace to carry me through to the end. It was here, however, that I hit the novel’s only other slight stumbling block. I felt Moore erred towards the kind of conclusion that wraps up every single plot thread a little too neatly, and in very quick succession, akin to ticking off a checklist to ensure there are no loose ends. In a book that’s all about how messy life can get, I wouldn’t have opposed a little more ambiguity where certain characters and events were concerned.

This is a hugely readable novel overall; one that thrills as a piece of entertainment as much as it shines a light on a very real problem within society. It shows the kind of thematic depth crime books are capable of, and why genre fiction should not be automatically dismissed when it comes to literary awards. With that in mind, this is one that has had a bit of buzz as a possible longlist entry for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction (within my bookish circles, anyway), and I’d be more than happy to see it make the cut.

You can pick up a copy of Long Bright River from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Hieu Minh Nguyen & Jo Walton | Mini Reviews

Not Here by Hieu Minh Nguyen

Published by Coffee House Press, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Written by a queer Vietnamese American, the poems in this collection are largely concerned with identity, trauma, and the painful journey towards acceptance – particularly when you feel othered by those who should love you most. There are a few absolute gems in here, particularly the final poem, Notes on Staying, but Nguyen’s poetic voice and array of styles didn’t always click with me, sadly.

You can pick up a copy of Not Here from Book Depository by clicking here.

A Burden Shared by Jo Walton

Published by Tor Books, 2017

My rating:

[image error]I love the concept of this short from Tor Books. Set in the near future, the successful development of pain transference allows people to literally carry the burden of someone else’s sickness on their behalf. We follow a mother who has spent the majority of her adult daughter’s lifetime shouldering the excruciating pain of her degenerative joint condition, allowing her to focus on establishing her own life and career. With impressive brevity, Walton is able to comment on both the selflessness and the folly of her heroine’s actions, the story reading in some ways like a cautionary tale about the dangers of ignoring your own health and happiness for the benefit of others.

This functions well as a short story, but even so I would have liked a little more emotional depth. It cut off very abruptly, just as the potential for some excellent character development was presented. Still, I was impressed by how many layers of a complex moral and medical issue Walton was able to touch on within the scope of such a small word count.

You can read A Burden Shared for free online by clicking here.

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