Lo dovevo leggere per gli studi, e quindi penso che ne abbia ottenuto di più in questa moda che se l’avessi letto da solo. È stato anche la prima letteratura medioevale che abbia mai letto, quindi non era cosa mi aspetto solitamente.
E chi avesse voluto conoscere Amore, fare lo potea mirando lo tremare degli occhi miei.
Non amavo tanto la media mista di prosa e di metrum entrambi, specificamente la prosa esegetica, in quanto toglie tanta emozione e tanta bellezza dalla poesia secondo io.
Però mi è piaciuto assai: la storia era carina e la filosofia dell’amore e della letteratura rafforzato con ragione e Caritas è stato abbastanza interessante. Anche la lingua era bella, particolarmente nelle canzone, dove si può sentire i sentimenti dell’autore. Dante seppe come manipulare la lingua per creare un’opera propria universale—la folla dell’amore, l’ossessione, e il lutto sono temi integrali del libello—senza creando una trama coerente. È come un’antologia dei pensieri e sentimenti, molto astratto però viscerale; una raccolta dei momenti formativi dell’autore scritti nell’oscuro ma che dà la luce sulle cose segrete che teniamo nel cuore.
Originally I picked up this book because of how it inspired the plot for La Traviata, one of my favourite operas.
Romance (at least of this kind) is not my preferred genre, so it was hard to really fall in love with the novel. Although, there were some aspects of the story that I found compelling, not the least of which was the dignity in which Marguerite, a sex worker, was presented in a 19th century setting.
I also feel like there was a subliminal commentary on the stringent morality of the contemporary French society. Dumas fils explores whether morality can be reduced to something physical, such as one’s condition in life, and whether one even has the right to condemn another (“when have we become more strict than even Christ?”).
I found the characters quite charming, especially Marguerite, but found the language itself to have been somewhat lacklustre. Occasionally—especially in the series of letters near the end—the literature shines through.
We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an ordeal.
Overall not my favourite, but I still got something worthwhile out of it.
I was incredibly and immensely affected by this book; Jeanne’s pain became my own.
Yes, it was the end of expectation and she had nothing to do today or tomorrow or ever again.
Maupassant’s highly emotional style of writing demands that the reader empathize with Jeanne’s outbursts of joy and (more often) her deep sorrow; as well as brief yet visceral moments of rage. I loved how the changing of the seasons and the resilience of natural processes posed as a backdrop for a life decimated by a cruel fate; and how the constancy of the peasants served to put all Jeanne’s problems into perspective.
This is definitely one of the more depressing books that I’ve read, in that the bleak condition of Jeanne’s life is so universal. I could not help comparing my own life with hers, and it put me in such a dour mood for the whole week. We are all her: grieving broken dreams and memories of a joyous past we will never experience again.
Overall an excellent read, highly emotive and introspective. I recommend it for people who have loved books like Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary.
Mrs. Dalloway follows a small cast of characters as they go about their summer day in 1923. Virginia Woolf’s meandering style of writing really captures the wandering monologues of her characters, painting them in a dreamy and feathery light, and creating a snapshot of English society after the First World War. Each of the characters were brilliantly contrived with their own diverse psychologies and convictions. However, Woolf’s brilliance lies in the moments where she moves from one stream of consciousness to another, executed as masterfully and seamlessly as one would weave fabric together to create an intricately detailed tapestry.
Did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? But that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived…
I loved the way the themes and ideas that united each of the characters—the individuality of the mortal soul against the “proportion” of English society—were expressed: in small moments, a little thought here or there, a distraction; while occasionally exploding in a soliloquy dripping with the poetics of the English language. I also found Woolf’s contemplation of death wildly fascinating.
I only give the story four out of five stars, not by fault of the author, but because it lacks that nameless thing that I usually gravitate towards in literature (Drama? Angst?). I did, however, find the characters of Septimus and Lucrezia fantastic. I could read volumes about their history, their dynamic, their psychologies.
Overall, a great read! Especially for book clubs or group reads, where a little discussion is involved.
I had heard both amazing and awful things about this book, so I had to at least try to read it; I’m an empiricist.
I adored this book. At once simplistic yet poetic, Aciman’s writing conveys the complex emotions of first love (or is it something more spiritual?). First glances, growing desire, to denial, shame, guilt, followed by acceptance, friendship, romance, and all the transitional thoughts and feelings in between were rendered with such perfect clarity that I could have mistaken them for my own. Maybe they were, and this story put into words what I had never been able to do myself.
He was my secret conduit to myself—like a catalyst that allows us to become who we are, the foreign body, the pacer, the graft, the patch that sends all the right impulses, the steel pin that keeps a soldier’s bone together, the other man’s heart that makes us more us than we were before the transplant.
I’ve read a lot of literary books, but Aciman’s light and airy narration is my personal favourite. Thorough psychological descriptions and minimal dialogue propel the story very well, and subtle wordplay and recurring afterthoughts create layers of meaning in every sentence. Even his descriptions of place—the Villa, Rome—are rendered in such a dreamy light that I pictured everything as if in a watercolour.
The Italy that Aciman presents to us is also beautiful in itself. I loved how real it was: this isn’t a tourist-washed view of the country, where people go about singing Pavarotti in the unrealistically clean and well-maintained streets of Rome. This is an Italy that is lived in, yet still beautiful, where people speak their dialects and cast judgement over a game of briscola in the languorous heat of summer. La Società dei Magnaccioni was a nice Roman touch.
Once again, I love the theme of nostalgia and ephemerality that sets the tone in the very beginning and punctuates the story beautifully at the end. Something about brief experiences in our youth that will come to shape the rest of our lives, like the tart taste of lemon that stays on your tongue… delicious.
I cannot recommend this book enough, especially to queer men. The more I think about this book, the more I can say it’s my favourite out of all I’ve read.
Moderate: Adult/minor relationship and Sexual content
Minor: Terminal illness
While Elio and Oliver’s relationship falls under the adult/minor umbrella, it wasn’t predatory or manipulative, and it was completely consensual. The author presented it in such a way that wasn’t uncomfortable or graphic at all. While I’m still unsure as to how I feel about this aspect, I definitely wasn’t triggered in a way that affected how I experienced the core of the story.
I don’t even know where to start. This story left me breathless.
Carr’s masterpiece follows a young veteran in his early 20s as he is commissioned to restore a mural in a countryside church. The year is 1920.
Perhaps it was because I had undergone a very similar experience this summer that I loved this story. The narrator had put into words all those thoughts and feelings I had but couldn’t describe. Carr speaks to the idea of gathering happiness as it blossoms, the decadence of the experiences we are blessed with in our early adulthood, and the almost tragic ephemerality of it all that leaves you bereft when it ends. This story drips with nostalgia and the grief of those bygone summers, but also the gladness in the fact that it happened. I think of Ronsard’s Mignonne allons voir si la rose. (“Gather your youth!”)
This is one of those stories that doesn’t progress very far by way of plot. It’s more of a reflection, a memory. Only minor events took place throughout the story, but these events had left an immense impact on the narrator’s life, and it seems, mine as well.
“Am I making too much of this? Perhaps. But there are times when man and earth are one, when the pulse of living beats strong, when life is brimming with promise and the future stretches confidently ahead like that road to the hills. Well, I was young…”
Coming from Turgenev’s dreamy prose as my last read, Carr’s language felt quite blunt, especially in describing the countryside in all its beauty. Maybe I would have liked a much more poetic, dreamlike atmosphere in that regard. But Carr curated a few moments of rich literature, especially near the end of the story, and these moments were thus made all the more poignant. I especially loved where the narrator would describe his connection with the unnamed Medieval painter as he restores the covered mural.
Overall, it was a fantastic read. Maybe it’s just because of the timing in my own life, but this is definitely one of the best books I’ve ever had the opportunity to experience. I’m devastated that I have to return it to the library — a weirdly fitting end for such a book.
It usually takes me longer than a day to finish a book, but Turgenev’s First Love was exceptionally short and rather quick paced.
First Love follows a certain Vladimir Petrovich as he recounts the story of his first love, a princess Zinaida, set within the backdrop of the peaceful Russian countryside. While it opens almost like a pastoral comedy — playful and bucolic — it eventually takes on a darker atmosphere as Vladimir begins to lose his child’s innocence and instead be exposed to a violent, jealous love as expressed by the adults.
I cannot even begin to convey the feelings with which I left her. I never wish to experience them again, but I should count it a misfortune to never have had them at all.
While Turgenev does an exceptional job at describing those universal emotions —passion, ecstasy— we feel when affronted with love in our youth, I found that at some points the story felt somewhat unrealistic. But I believe this is the point — the story is being told as a memory, tainted with nostalgia and a subconscious longing for youth. In contrast, the story is especially realistic in that outside of what Vladimir sees and hears, the reader is left in absolute ignorance. This isn’t a story about Vladimir. Instead we are transported through his own experience, his own mind.
I love reading books that take place in the countryside, especially ones that explore themes of nostalgia and longing, and Turgenev’s description of the dynamic natural setting makes it feel as though the bees and the butterflies are characters of their own, not influencing anything but instead watching the events unfold.
The real gem of this story is the fleetingness of it all, perfectly captured by Turgenev’s simple yet constitutive descriptions of the setting. It’s a short story, a brief yet pivotal moment in Vladimir’s life, bound to end just as abruptly as it began, yet exist forever in his memory. A young person’s life changes just as quickly as Turgenev’s dynamic countryside, painted in wide strokes of ephemerality. It’s these short moments, and short stories, that stay with us long after they end.
The Red and the Black documents the meteoric rise and even faster fall of Julien Sorel, a carpenter’s son-turned-bourgeois before the vivid backdrop — political, societal, and cultural — of nineteenth-century France. Most synopses of the book comment on the drama of Sorel’s brief yet passionate life, or the accuracy (and inaccuracy) of the France that surrounds him.
I truly believe there is something to be said regarding the human condition that Stendhal’s portrait of Sorel brings to life: What drives us? What is virtue and what is vice? Religion? Jealousy? Power - true power? Stendhal’s characters, each riddled with more flaws than strengths, serve to provide various answers to these questions. The people in these stories are very real, in the sense that I can relate to their psychologies and strange emotions a lot more personally than I would those in other contemporary novels. Here, humanity’s foolish weakness, and the weakness of foolishness, is given a stark spotlight. The eloquent description of the complicated mess and almost comic tragedy of human nature, especially when love is thrown in the mix, is the reason I give it a five star rating.
“What advantages Fate has given me—celebrity, wealth, youth! Alas! I’ve been given everything, except happiness.”
As a related point, I would like to highlight the brilliance of both the characters of Madame de Rênal and that of Mathilde. They are each other’s perfect foil; I’ve gained personal insight from them both. While one can argue that they are just two women obsessed with Sorel, I believe that their evocative and very real personalities make them two of the most beautifully contrived characters I’ve ever encountered in literature, which is especially surprising given that they were women written by a man in 1830.
The plot itself remains quite slow through the middle portion of the book. Some passages were also difficult to trudge through, since they contained various historical references I was unfamiliar with. Fortunately my edition (modern library) contained footnotes at the back of the book for clarification. I wouldn’t recommend this book to people who enjoy a quick reading pace and constant action. In any case, I still believe it is well worth the read. This review hardly does it justice.
This was the first book I’ve read cover to cover in Italian. I had read it more to test my understanding of the language than to analyze the literature, and so there was definitely some nuance and metaphor that went over my head.
From what I was able to grasp, I thoroughly enjoyed the themes of this novel. Verga paints a complex picture of happiness and how elusive it may be. This book reminds me heavily of Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina in this particular regard, and thus I highly recommend it to those who seek out these tropes.
Once again, this review is very brief owing to my focus on the language rather than the literature.
I loved many things about this book, not least of which was the rich poetic language peppered with various allusions used by Wilde to describe settings, people, and psychologies, as well as the overarching philosophy of the book regarding the soul, vanity, and individuality.