versmonesprit's reviews
217 reviews

There are some books that are great in content, but not good as books. Simon May’s Love is one of them. It’s jam-packed with information, knowledge, and reflection, and though you learn a lot, you don’t necessarily have a nice time reading it. That’s because May tends to go in circles, and even off-topic. Everything is reiterated over and over again, and at the end, despite having gone on for hundreds of pages, the final chapter says them all. I think the book would have benefitted from editing and restructuring to make it more concise and self-relevant.

It’s hard to talk about Lonesome Traveler, both because there’s a lot to be said, and because it has left me speechless.

It’s easy to see I didn’t find it perfectly perfect — it’s a fluctuating work, in tone and rhythm as in quality. Kerouac presents his life working and/or travelling in North America, to North Africa, to France, and finally briefly to England. Like the sceneries, the vehicles change as well, varying from trains to ship even to mules. Through such variety, it offers a certain freshness. Individually, though, these life and book chapters vary in accessibility and artistry. Some lack both, some offer one or the other, and some still achieve both.

Kerouac’s prose can get exhausting and even indecipherable at times, creating an insurmountable barrier between the reader and the work. But once you push through these parts, you’re met with nothing short of genius: a narration that is by all means jazz. I lost count of how many sentences or phrase turns I stopped and reread innumerable times, because they’re so delectable to say, to read, to hear, and to the soul. It’s a fully fledged experience to read these feverish, breathless passages — like how The Railroad Earth’s rhythm is vastly reminiscent of the sounds of trains chugging and rushing by. They are addictive, they stay with you and make you yearn for more. In a way, they’re the way Kerouac transmits his own brand of madness.

And as such I understand why so many people have felt the way they have about On the Road, because I feel it for Lonesome Traveler. Will my soul ever rest easy again, or will something inside me burn and yearn forever and ever?

Narnia is an interesting series to read as an adult, because you end up with questions you never had before.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: this is a children’s book, and it’s going to be written differently than books for adults. That’s not my issue here, in fact I strangely enjoy the self-aware narration as it’s genuinely like being told a story. It’s nostalgic. I don’t also mind too much how rushed the events and resolutions are for this reason. 

No, my issues are with the logic of the series and with character development. First, I’m confused as to the time relation between our world and Narnia, because no matter how I try to calculate it, it’s impossible for hours in Narnia to equal to seconds in our world, and for the ‘children’ to still emerge within the same hour after spending what, a decade in Narnia? And again with the ending, I can’t shake off how weirded out I am by the fact that they were adults in Narnia, old enough to be courted by suitors, and they’re once again the same children in our world. How can that ever work out for them in their lives now that they’re children who have already been not just adults but monarchs? And yes, it’s also weird.

As for character development, I don’t only find it rushed, but also unconvincing. Tumnus is suddenly good because at the last moment he decided not to collaborate with the evil Witch? And Edmund, not only a bully but the very same evil the Witch is that he feels the same horror as she does when they so much as hear Aslan’s name, suddenly has his redemption because he simply realises the Witch is evil? It of course goes well with the very overt Christian themes and messages of the book, that redemption for sinners goes through the recognition of the sin, and repentance. I just am not convinced of such a big change in such a small space, and I find that it over-simplifies matters of good vs evil by making evil so easily curable.

Anyway, despite these sentiments, I enjoyed being back to Narnia. Lewis is so amazing at evoking images and fully fledged feelings, Narnia comes alive around you. Though the book is admittedly best enjoyed at night before bed, like a calm fairytale to sink into.

The Narnia series were intended for children, so I can’t fault it too much — and by children’s books standards, The Magician’s Nephew is among the good ones.

Reading it as an adult offers up a few ‘advantages’. First of these is naturally the cozy nostalgia. Narnia is as beautiful as you remember, and Aslan is still a wise figure who will give so much peace to your heart. Next, it’s fun to see the parallels between Lewis and Tolkien’s fantasy works! And finally, it’s interesting to see how openly theological and a bit moralising the Narnia stories are. But to the question “Is Christian fantasy possible?” both Lewis and Tolkien’s works are a resounding ‘yes’ — since they’re for children, this theme is far more apparent in Narnia, but it’s approached sweetly.

I’d recommend this prequel as a chronological starting point even if you’re not at all familiar with the series. But for those who are familiar, this one will give a backstory to most things — however I must say it also complicates some of the things present in the ‘original’ series, leading to some confusion at times. It is a good book within itself, but not quiet the best prequel possible.

Normally I do not give 0.25 to books that have bits I like. And there are a few poems that were almost alright, and one that was spectacular, but overall reading this made me want to scream and cry in anger from how horrendous they were. These are nonsensical to the point of being cringy, the line breaks completely ruin the rhythm, and there is no actual poetic quality.

That one spectacular poem is called R*pe Joke. It moved me to genuine tears. In it, Lockwood writes “The r*pe joke is if you write a poem called R*pe Joke, you’re asking for it to become the only thing people remember about you.” The point she’s making is of course heartbreaking. But poetry-wise, I think it might be because it’s her only flawless work. It’s the only one that doesn’t become stupid, it’s the only one that can drive the emotions home. If every poem she wrote was like it, this book would be a tour de force. As it is, it’s nothing more than a frustrating waste of time.

R*pe Joke is available online to read, and I highly recommend everyone do.

It honestly upsets me to be rating this book so low, both because I expected to love it, and because the author, Ananda Devi, seems to be a wonderful person.

That said, perhaps the worst thing poetry can do to someone is to make them feel nothing, and that was unfortunately my case. This edition does something I love: it includes the originals alongside the translations, which helped me experience the poems as they were intended, and to review the translation too. The French originals rarely resonated with me, and the translations were nothing short of horrendous due to all the errors and the intentional alterations made to the poems.

The translation left me shocked and horrified. The order of the lines was switched at times, certain words were omitted altogether, others were mistranslated (the simplest example being the translation saying ‘the’ where Devi wrote ‘my’, and vice versa), and there were even words added into the translation that were not in the French original! Almost every poem was rewritten, which to me is an unacceptable thing to do!

This edition also includes an email interview with the author, conducted by the translator, and a section written on Devi’s poetry by a scholar from Hyderabad. Unfortunately I did not find these of much more interest either because I did not like Devi’s poetry, at all.

[DRC provided by NetGalley and HarperCollins Publishers India.]

J’hésite, car c’est plutôt possible que c’est ma personnalité qui a causé mon impression plus ou moins négative : je n’ai pas beaucoup d’intérêt pour la lecture d’amour, cela même me semble fastidieuse. Musset et Sand les deux me semblaient insupportables avec leur immaturité et leur penchant pour drame excessif. Quand même, je ne regrette pas l’avoir lu — j’adorais tellement les passages poétiques sur un tel amour turbulent !

Peut-être ça sera mieux de ne pas faire une lecture continuée, mais de lire une lettre de temps en temps. Je suis convaincue également que ceux qui ont un intérêt particulier dans l’époque lui trouveront beaucoup plus attirant !

À vous de décider si ça vous plaira.

More than a book about teenage love, Lie with Me is a book about distance — the distance that separates the two lovers, the distance one tries to put between himself and his identity, the distance that eventually keeps them apart and that they cannot overcome — about shame and fear, about the chains one imposes upon oneself even after the societal ones are shed. Ultimately, it’s a book about having had and having lost, having had and having clung, having had and never having been able to completely leave behind. It’s a book that will make you sob even after you’d think there can’t possibly be more tears to cry.

Aside from the unnecessary and irritating title change, the rest of the translation seems very well done. The issue is that this sort of storytelling, despite having an undeniable tempo in every language, does not work in English. It is so inalienable from its original language, that it places this book among ones that cannot be translated no matter what. I do wish to reread in French to get the full experience, but before that I need to put back my heart shattered into a million pieces. 

A tour-de-force of an essay, In Praise of Shadows is a great monument, a monolith that flows and is so contained within itself that it’s impossible to take away parts from it and present them, but what Tanizaki does here is to talk of shadows — in architecture, in food, in theatre, and even in literature. He contrasts Western thinking to Japanese thinking when it comes to brightness versus dimness and darkness, and this is the base for the essay. He contemplates shadows in such unexpected and ingenious ways that he practically teaches the reader how to look and how to see. This should be mandatory reading in every architecture and history of art module, and that also means absolutely everyone should read it, especially if you want to find out what is so appealing about Japanese culture. Everyone who has hated the excessive whiteness and illumination: you will be at home in this well-supported, earnest, and at times humorous essay.

Nothing like bits of wisdom and musings from a mediaeval monk to put in perspective just how timeless  and unchanging human experience can be!

There’s also something that touches the heart about reading the musings of someone from the distant past, to see thoughts survive the person, to chuckle or nod along to words that have transcended time and place. I read this in one go, but I’d recommend going fragment by fragment, taking your time. Their effect shows fully when you do that.