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veeronald's reviews
119 reviews
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie: A Flavia de Luce Mystery by Alan Bradley
2.0
Much of this book troubled me. It seemed bloated with irrelevant details, and half of it could have easily been done away with, what with the endless inner ramblings and imaginative monologues of Flavia de Luce about the have beens and what could have been. Amusing, also, that a story taking place in the 1950s could be so bogged down by historical dead ends.
The characters, however, offered a temporary relief from the rambling plot line. Flavia herself, with her unstoppable intellect and curiosity, I highly cherished. Aside from a few quirky, if not awkwardly portrayed interactions with the other characters of the novel, most of the characters passed as placidly delightful.
I did also very much enjoy the use of chemistry, even though it seemed to sit atop the plot and other occurrences as stand-alone instructions. At least I now know how to kill someone with carbon tetrachloride.
The style of this novel is supposedly reminiscent of the Golden Age of crime writing, which only leaves me to turn elsewhere. If old-fashioned mysteries are what you enjoy, paired with an idealistic young protagonist, I can only assume you'll find some pleasure in this series. This book has reminded that I do not like novels for younger audiences, nor mystery/crime novels. So, in some regard, I guess this novel succeeded at being just like any other book similar to it.
The characters, however, offered a temporary relief from the rambling plot line. Flavia herself, with her unstoppable intellect and curiosity, I highly cherished. Aside from a few quirky, if not awkwardly portrayed interactions with the other characters of the novel, most of the characters passed as placidly delightful.
I did also very much enjoy the use of chemistry, even though it seemed to sit atop the plot and other occurrences as stand-alone instructions. At least I now know how to kill someone with carbon tetrachloride.
The style of this novel is supposedly reminiscent of the Golden Age of crime writing, which only leaves me to turn elsewhere. If old-fashioned mysteries are what you enjoy, paired with an idealistic young protagonist, I can only assume you'll find some pleasure in this series. This book has reminded that I do not like novels for younger audiences, nor mystery/crime novels. So, in some regard, I guess this novel succeeded at being just like any other book similar to it.
The Late Poetry of the Lake Poets: Romanticism Revised by Tim Fulford
I've been reading these essays, over and over again, for the past few months. They're beautiful, brilliant, and re-ignite the imaginative beauty of the Lake Poets. These are ideas I'll be revisiting throughout the next few months and beyond.
The tone is open and inquisitive, building intelligent dialogue with the poets, poetry and culture. Although Fulford only focuses on three poets (Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth), he weaves other major and minor poets in the conversation throughout the three distinct parts of this book of essays. Fulford has selected certain works from each poet to discuss in relation to the poet's life, but does also focus on the development of the poets themselves, as seen through their work. He challenges the often detrimental perspective of looking at the poets (of any time period, really) as creators of a single aesthetic, looking instead at how they shaped and were being shaped by their careers and all that's attached to that concept. His analysis is wide-ranging, from grammatical or syntactical, to historical, to simply being aware of the presence of commercial constraints, art, seeing, and the weight of the heritage these poets held on their shoulders, even if from their own earlier works.
I've been mulling over Wordsworth in particular as of late, and don't remember much from Southey or Coleridge, aside from them being beautiful and in-depth and thought-provoking - as seen through the many underlined sentences and furious scribbles in the margins. I just love this book.
The tone is open and inquisitive, building intelligent dialogue with the poets, poetry and culture. Although Fulford only focuses on three poets (Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth), he weaves other major and minor poets in the conversation throughout the three distinct parts of this book of essays. Fulford has selected certain works from each poet to discuss in relation to the poet's life, but does also focus on the development of the poets themselves, as seen through their work. He challenges the often detrimental perspective of looking at the poets (of any time period, really) as creators of a single aesthetic, looking instead at how they shaped and were being shaped by their careers and all that's attached to that concept. His analysis is wide-ranging, from grammatical or syntactical, to historical, to simply being aware of the presence of commercial constraints, art, seeing, and the weight of the heritage these poets held on their shoulders, even if from their own earlier works.
I've been mulling over Wordsworth in particular as of late, and don't remember much from Southey or Coleridge, aside from them being beautiful and in-depth and thought-provoking - as seen through the many underlined sentences and furious scribbles in the margins. I just love this book.
The First Person and Other Stories by Ali Smith
4.0
I know I've reviewed this book before, but some of my reviews seem to be disappearing. I read this several months ago, and can remember little of it, other than my affinity to its cool writing brushing against my mind, and the small epiphanies it sprouted.
These stories are beautiful, but grow weaker from the first and most prominently sublime story, True Short Story.
These stories are beautiful, but grow weaker from the first and most prominently sublime story, True Short Story.
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
3.0
This novel is a sweet, sentimental, nature-filled story about the Magic of nature. But that seems to be as far as it ever goes: the plot is singular, the characters progressively dull, the animals and children overly innocent (why do ALL of the animals have to be orphaned and/or newborns?). If this book ended midway, I think I'd be more pleased. Nothing beyond is surprising or revelatory - the book simply dwindles into the reader's expectations and ends nicely and quite placidly.
About halfway through, the protagonist is almost entirely forgotten about (in place of an entitled lord and passing interest in various animals), the plot seemed to ramble on into a muddied brown pool, and everything becomes at once sentimental, repetitive, and didactic. Suddenly, the realism of the book veers into pseudo-psychology, where the Magical power of thought and words turns into several sermons about the power of a type of prayer, of wishful thinking.
Yes, I know, this book was written a century ago, but it veers far too close to religious appeals for bodily healing and transformation, and a far-outdated idea of nature (where it is at once revered for its "wildness", and yet anthropomorphized, even named solely for human use). Even though the characters seem to reject institutionalized religion, claiming to have not stepped into a church in years, their eulogy-esque chanting in the sacred halls of the gardens appears to replace one fixed belief with another.
This book becomes disappointing, even sloppy, which is entirely unfortunate given its very sweet beginning.
About halfway through, the protagonist is almost entirely forgotten about (in place of an entitled lord and passing interest in various animals), the plot seemed to ramble on into a muddied brown pool, and everything becomes at once sentimental, repetitive, and didactic. Suddenly, the realism of the book veers into pseudo-psychology, where the Magical power of thought and words turns into several sermons about the power of a type of prayer, of wishful thinking.
Yes, I know, this book was written a century ago, but it veers far too close to religious appeals for bodily healing and transformation, and a far-outdated idea of nature (where it is at once revered for its "wildness", and yet anthropomorphized, even named solely for human use). Even though the characters seem to reject institutionalized religion, claiming to have not stepped into a church in years, their eulogy-esque chanting in the sacred halls of the gardens appears to replace one fixed belief with another.
This book becomes disappointing, even sloppy, which is entirely unfortunate given its very sweet beginning.