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Crisis looms when Elliot’s still strangely oblivious father heads for the bathroom-but, as observers sharp enough to have picked up some subtle visual clues will understand, Magellan isn’t the only exotic animal in the house, and the old man has good reason to be more surprised than shocked to find himself sharing the tub with an interloper. He stashes his diminutive new buddy amid frozen seafood in the fridge overnight, then leaves him splashing around in a tub of extra-cold water the next day. Using a hose, a backyard wading pool and an overpowered air conditioner, he sets up a rink in his bedroom. Rather than hit the gift shop, though, he pops a live one he dubs “Magellan” into his backpack. Boy and Antarctic bird bond in a tongue-in-cheek tale keyed by artful misdirection.ĭrawn to an aquarium’s penguin exhibit because the birds resemble his own tuxedo-wearing self, young Elliot secures permission from his (seemingly) distracted single dad to get a penguin. I shouted at her so many times I lost count of it. Geezzzz… I swear I’ve tried to keep it cool but I failed miserably. I just didn’t want to get involved in that freaking horrible mess. I heard when the ring of the alarm bell went on, telling me to get the hell out of the story, but my instincts were deaf.ĭon’t take me wrong, I wanted to read it. Before I even reached the middle it escalated for an extra#hard#extra#difficult#ohnoshitlevel. Normally, when it happens, I put myself in the heroine’s shoes.įrom the start, I knew it would be a difficult read.I just didn’t realize how much. I think and think and I cannot find why or what triggers this magic portal open to me. Some were brilliant, 5 reads.Īnd then there are the others, where I cross an invisible line and stop being a reader to become a character. I am pointing this out because I’ve read stories where I am totally engrossed by, yet they keep me on my seat, contained and hypnotized, like watching a movie. It is funny how a story can pull me totally in, as if what is happening there is my own business, when in fact, it is not. With over 150 books read in 2016, A Love Letter to Whiskey is one of my Top 5. *****5 Stars for all the hell it put me through.***** A Love Letter to Whiskey by Kandi Steiner After taking more than the recommended dosage, Li Lan’s spirit leaves her near-lifeless body and enters the land of the dead and the near-dead, where she finds that most ghosts are pretty rude and uncivil. Her amah takes Li Lan to a medium, who supplies her with potions. The dreams, which haven’t exactly been conducive to a good night’s sleep, take a toll on Li Lan’s health, and she finally admits to her amah that she’s being visited by ghosts. He also informs Li Lan that his cousin, Tian Bai, the current heir-to whom she’s attracted-murdered him. Actually, the dreams are more nightmares since Lim Tian Ching is pretty creepy and persistent in his pursuit of Li Lan. Marriage to a dead man isn’t exactly what Li Lan had in mind when she dreamed of her future, but after a visit to the Lim mansion, she does, indeed, dream of the dead son. But she’s still shocked and disturbed when her father asks her if she’ll consent to become a ghost bride to the dead son of Malacca’s wealthiest family, the Lims. Young Li Lan’s family was once rich and respected, but since her mother succumbed to smallpox when she was 4, her father, scarred from his own near-fatal struggle with the illness, has squandered the family fortune in a haze of opium. A young woman risks giving up the ghost as she roams the afterlife in Choo’s fascinating debut set in 1893 colonial Malaya. Politics as much as art absorbed the emigres.Īctivists sought to overthrow the Bolshevik regime from afar, while double agents plotted espionage and assassination from both sides. Nijinsky, Diaghilev, Bunin, Chagall, and Stravinsky joined Picasso, Hemingway, James Joyce, and Gertrude Stein in the creative crucible of the annees folles. Talented intellectuals, artists, poets, philosophers, and writers eked out a living at menial jobs, while others found great success. There, former princes could be seen driving taxicabs, while their wives found work in the fashion houses, where their unique Russian style inspired designers such as Coco Chanel. Paris was no longer an amusement, but a refuge. Leaving with only the clothes on their backs, many came to France’s glittering capital. From the time of Peter the Great, Paris was the playground of the Tsarist aristocracy.īut the fall of the Romanov dynasty in 1917 forced Russians of all types to flee their homeland. Much like her fellow Post-Boom author Esquivel, Allende's literature, and in particular her perspectives on gender, have generated debate among those exploring her textual universe. Isabel Allende is one of the writers most associated with the Post-Boom and Eva Luna, her third novel, contains many of the common elements of that wave of Spanish American literature. As part of the broader examination of the gender critique presented in Spanish American narratives of selfhood that is elucidated throughout Gender and the Self in Latin American Literature. This chapter explores Allende's work for its thematic interest and deployment of tropes borrowed from relevant mythical and fairy tale narratives, again examining their role in relation to matters of the construction of gendered identities. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep." Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime for poets. "I was not surprised by the portrait of myself," Circe says, "the proud witch undone before the hero's sword, kneeling and begging for mercy. But Odysseus, with the help of the god Hermes, tricks Circe and makes her beg for mercy before becoming her lover. Circe entraps his remaining men and turns them into pigs. Circe is referring to Homer's version of the story, in which Odysseus arrives on her island sea-battered and mourning for his men killed by the cruel Laestrygonians. "Later, years later, I would hear a song made of our meeting," says the hero of Madeleine Miller's Circe, of her romance with the mortal Odysseus. Your purchase helps support NPR programming. Close overlay Buy Featured Book Title Circe Author Madeline Miller Lale has been appointed to be one of the camp’s tattooists. At the gates of the camp, Jews and gypsies from all over Europe are listed in the Nazi records and their arms are tattooed in green ink. In April 1942, the rate of transports arriving in Auschwitz is accelerating. As fate would have it, Lale’s experiences at the camp are not as horrendous as those of his fellow Jews. “Just do as you’re told, you’ll be fine,” Lale says to a newfound friend. While his fellow travelers are traumatized by the journey, Lale has adopted a “wait and see” attitude, which doesn’t change even when he marches under a gate with the words ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ wrought from the metal. In the opening pages of The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris (Zaffre, January 2018), Lale Sokolov is standing in a crowded cattle train on his way to an unknown destination. However, after the point that the horse enters the show, the episode slows right down and drags out tediously. Vadim offers up a promisingly decadent opening with his then wife Jane Fonda lording over various cruelties and pleasures. The first segment of the film, Roger Vadim’s Metzengerstein, is unfortunately the worst. Among the more interesting copies was this continental production that united the talents of three top Euro directors of the era – Roger Vadim, the French director of And God Created Woman (1956), Blood and Roses (1960) and Barbarella (1968) Louis Malle, then renowned for Les Amants (1958) and Elevator to the Scaffold/Frantic (1958) and Federico Fellini, Italy’s hottest new talent with the likes of La Dolce Vita (1960) and 8½ (1963). With the success of Roger Corman’s Edgar Allan Poe films in the early 1960s, beginning with The House of Usher (1960), others soon climbed on the Poe bandwagon. Africans, less esteemed than ever, seemed to me the most lied-to people on earth - manipulated by their governments, burned by foreign experts, befooled by charities, and cheated at every turn. Exasperated white farmers said, "It all went tits-up!" Africa is materially more decrepit than it was when I first knew it - hungrier, poorer, less educated, more pessimistic, more corrupt, and you can’t tell the politicians from the witch doctors. No massacres or earthquakes, but terrific heat and the roads were terrible, the trains were derelict, forget the telephones. I was mistaken in so much - delayed, shot at, howled at, and robbed. To skip ahead, I am writing this a year later, just back from Africa, having taken my long safari and been reminded that all travel is a lesson in self-preservation. There I had lived and worked, happily, almost forty years ago, in the heart of the greenest continent. Feeling that the place was so large it contained many untold tales and some hope and comedy and sweetness, too - feeling that there was more to Africa than misery and terror - I aimed to reinsert myself in the bundu, as we used to call the bush, and to wander the antique hinterland. It made me want to go there, though not for the horror, the hot spots, the massacre-and-earthquake stories you read in the newspaper I wanted the pleasure of being in Africa again. Dark Star Safari: Overland From Cairo To Cape TownĪll news out of Africa is bad. |