Okay, I know I promised to myself that the first review would be the one for “A Song of Ice and Fire” series, but that would take a level of emotional implication of which I am incapable at the moment. I am far too chilled, too lazy, too liberated from any source of stress (finals are officially OVER!), but it will arrive one of these days. For now, an intellectual review of “The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories” by Angela Carter will need to suffice. This is a very short book, a collection of short stories, which I read in exactly one week (alas, only last Friday I hugged the immense tome of “A Dance With Dragons” farewell, while my tears crept down my face), but the reason why it took me 7 days to read 128 pages (albeit written in a painfully small font) was because these stories were like nothing I’ve ever read, true studies of folklore, feminist literature, supernatural and horror. And when I plan to use Skippy and Skipette (if you are unfamiliar with the names of the couple of neurons inhabiting and controlling my brain, you cause me great displeasure), I actually use them, so yeah, this was an in-depth read. I hope you enjoy my review of this tour de force.
Tis an uncertain world we live in, but there is and always will be one eternal, ultimate and undeniable truth: HBO know how to make TV series. A Game of Thrones is by far the best series I’ve seen in a long time, and it is right up there with Rome when it comes to my all time favourites. It is a gem, a gift from the gods bestowed upon us worthless and undeserving mortals.
Ah, the simplicity of the world manages to astound me yet again. After having read one of the greatest works of art in modern literature, “Shalimar the Clown” by Salman Rushdie, I knew that not many books will come close to offering the experience of this romantic, enchanting, heart-breaking masterpiece, one which I will review very soon (I need the right mood for it). But I had no idea that I would waste two weeks on one of the most tedious, most boring and pointless books in existence: the final part of the much hypes, overly discussed Millennium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson. I was extremely pissed off during the reading of this useless brick, but I will take advantage of this post to review all three books, mostly because I don’t want it to be a series of insults. There are good aspects as well. Therefore, sit back and enjoy my commentary of a trilogy you really do not need to read. I will try to be as specific as possible, so you get the main points of interest without all the immense amount of FILLERS that a vast portion of the world’s population consider to be good literature.
If my last post can be best described as a sponge of misery basked in a sea of anger, than this post will probably be the complete opposite. Well, maybe not complete, but still. A little more on the positive side of things. After all, it’s a Saturday right? That means that the Lab of Death is 2 whole days away, and there are no exams next week! Yay!
To all the people who like this book, I apologize. The following review is not a positive one. It is not entirely negative either, but, well, there will be little praise and quite a lot of criticism. Sorry, but this book has made me realize that I am mostly a SciFi watcher, not a reader, and that the next SciFi book I will read will have either aliens, mutants or weird space sex.
If there is one good thing that university has brought me (besides awesome friends), it is the time and the lack of willpower to do anything even remotely related to actual schoolwork, that have allowed me to dedicate an important amount of my time to reading. And in these three years I have read quite a bit, and I do not mean cheap, irrelevant young adult. I love all the books I’ve read (except Man in the High Castle, which will receive a scathing review soon, I promise), but from time to time, a true jewel rises. A masterpiece, something that touches me beyond words, beyond tears. Something that contains more knowledge, life lessons and truths than all the effing courses in the world. Ines Del Alma Mia, by the wonderful Isabel Allende is one of those books, and it stands on the pedestal of my favourite books of all time, alongside the works of Marquez, Zafon, Pamuk, Tolkien and Rushdie. And this, is my review of it.
Or “TV is seriously humiliating Hollywood!”
We all know that the Summer of 2010 was one of the weakest and most worthless when it comes to movies. Christopher Nolan saved the cinema and probably the entire artistic universe with Inception, a movie whose ass should be kissed for at least 10 more years. In my opinion, it’s THAT good. But it truly is sad to not be able to see anything else that is notable and worthy for 2 whole months. I mean, sure, I did go, and I did spend money on all kinds of crap (including Tom Cruise crap, and I still hate myself for it), and even though some films were okay (more like okay-ish), I still had to work hard to convince my friends (and, sadly, myself) to go see stuff. And no, I have not seen Toy Story 3, because I despise the franchise. Say whatever you want, I just can’t be a fan. I am sick of badly made 3D, of over-priced tickets, of cinematic rape. The Last Airbender can go and die, I’ve seen the anime and it is splendid. It should be best to just ignore the fact that the movie has ever been made. The Prince of Persia was okay only due to Gemma Aterton. Salt was horrendously boring and lame and I despise Angelina Jolie’s anorexia and the predictability of her role. Iron Man 2 I liked, but considering the fact that I worship anything Downey Jr touches, this should not surprise anyone. The A-Team was again, just okay, and the Expendables I missed, unfortunately, and I had been looking forward to see it with my dad for old times’ sake (I grew up watching corny action movies with my dad, by the way, and sometimes I miss the senseless violence, cheap jokes and quick, unsatisfying sex scenes that I wasn’t allowed to watch anyway because I was around 8-10 years old).
Some years ago (I think I was in the 11th grade), I found a book in my favourite bookstore which bore a name and a cover suggesting that it hailed from the fantasy genre, one of my favourite genres, to be precise. It was “The Knight” by Gene Wolfe. I had never heard of the author before, mostly because of the fact that the bookstore system in my country is still developing. Books in English (the only language I read in willingly) are becoming more and more every year, and we are on the right track. Anyway, I got this book while I was basically a huge fan of fantasy literature. I still am, but my tastes have evolved in terms of range, quality, detail and genre. But this book, The Knight is special to me because it is one of the two books I could not finish when I began and it took me 2 years to pick it up again and re-read it. It was a great experience and I’ll explain why.
