84 Charing Cross Road has a similar feel to it to The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, only this book is the real deal. 84 Charing Cross Road depicts real letters and real events and was written many years before.
Monday 31 August 2009
84 Charring Cross Road by Helene Hanff
84 Charing Cross Road has a similar feel to it to The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, only this book is the real deal. 84 Charing Cross Road depicts real letters and real events and was written many years before.
Sunday 30 August 2009
Sunday Salon - fabulous books this week.
Saturday 29 August 2009
R.I.P Challenge!
Readers Imbibing Peril, that is what it is all about. I hope you’ll consider joining us on this more eerie road less traveled.
Walk this way.
1. Have fun reading.
As I do each and every year, there are multiple levels of participation that allow you to be a part of R.I.P. IV without adding the burden of another commitment to your already busy lives.
R.I.P. IV officially runs from September 1st through October 31st. But lets go ahead and break the rules. Lets start today!!!
Friday 28 August 2009
Friday Finds
I have really missed writing this post as it is definitely one of my favourites. I love to share with you the wonderful books I find each week and I have been missing for two Fridays!
Here are myfinds.
1) The Garden of Eve by K.L. Going. I found this over at Carrie's YA.
Here is the blurb from Amazon.
'Evie reluctantly moves with her widowed father to Beaumont, New York, where he has bought an apple orchard, dismissing rumors that the town is cursed and the trees haven't borne fruit in decades. Evie doesn't believe in things like curses and fairy tales anymore--if fairy tales were real, her mom would still be alive. But odd things happen in Beaumont. Evie meets a boy who claims to be dead and receives a mysterious seed as an eleventh-birthday gift. Once planted, the seed grows into a tree overnight, but only Evie and the dead boy can see it--or go where it leads. The Garden of Eve mixes spine-tingling chills with a deeply resonating story that beautifully explores grief, healing, and growth. '
Carrie reviewed this book and had me quite moved by it. Here is a passage from her review.
'This is a really beautiful story about a father and daughter trying to find their way through a profound loss. Anyone who has ever lost someone close to them will appreciate the emotions that Evie experiences throughout this book. '
2) Long Night Dance by Betsy James
I found this one over at Teddyree's site The Eclectic Reader. It is a YA book which is the first part of a series.
Fifteen-year-old Kat is more her father's housekeeper than his daughter. Like all Upslope women, Kat must stay close to the hearth, far away from Downshore and its savage people. She must be respectable-and that means covering her wild red hair, finding a husband to take care of, and never singing, swimming, or dancing.
But Kat knows there must be more. She can feel it in her heart. She can hear the drums beating, drawing her to the forbidden beach. When Kat can no longer resist the call, she discovers what she thinks is a fatally injured seal washed up on the shore. Instead, what she has found is a Rig-one of a charmed race of mythical seal people. The only way to save this mysterious man is to defy her father and her community and seek aid in Downshore. But does Kat have the strength to stand on her own?
This was described on Amazon as 'One of those books that you read and then spend the rest of your life trying to find again.'
3) The Rapture of Canaan by Sheri ReynoldsThis was mentioned by Diane over at Bibliophile By The Sea in connection with another book and took my attention. It was one of Oprah's book club picks back in 1997 and is a coming of age book.
Here is the blurb from Amazon.
'For 14-year-old Ninah Huff, growing up in the extended family community of the Church of Fire and Brimstone and God's Almighty Baptizing Wind has meant working on the communal tobacco farm, receiving harsh punishments for unintended acts, being different from schoolmates, and enjoying a few simple pleasures. Foremost among the pleasures have been the company and stories of Nanna, whose husband, Grandpa Herman, founded the church after surviving wartime combat and unilaterally controlled its finances, doctrines, and daily life. Then comes a pleasures surpassing all others in the person of 15-year-old James. Designated prayer partners, Ninah and James share rebellious ideas, tentative touches, and more (after beseeching Jesus to speak to each of them through the other), leaving Ninah pregnant and touching off events that shake the community and its faith.
The Rapture of Canaan is a book about miracles, and in writing it, Reynolds has performed something of a miracle herself. Although the church's beliefs and practices may seem extreme (sleeping in an open grave, mortifying the flesh with barbed wire), its members are complex and profoundly sympathetic as they wrestle with the contradictions of Fire and Brimstone's theology, the temptations of the outside world, and the frailties of the human heart. '
4) Manhattan When I Was Young by Mary Cantwell.
I found this book mentioned at the back of a book I have just finished reading and thought I would definitely enjoy it.
Here is the blurb from Amazon.
An easy-to-read autobiographical account of a fashion-magazine writer in the 1950s. Fresh out of college, Cantwell arrived in Greenwich Village and shared an apartment with a friend. Despite all the flair of metropolitan life, experiences with high-style department stores, exclusive little shops, theaters, parties, restaurant outings, and even a romance and marriage, she became increasingly depressed. Her close ties to a lovingly encouraging father were broken by his early death. She details the passage of years by describing the flats, houses, and apartments she lived in and the jobs lost and gained in her career pursuit. Despite Cantwell's lifelong involvement with psychoanalysis, her account is enlivened with the cheerful glamor of little black dresses, Steuben glassware, ethnic neighborhoods, and the whole ambiance of the city, presenting anew the eternal charm of the Big Apple for the young.
I love reading about New York and the 50's and 60's have always interested me, so I will definitely look out for this one.
Well that is my Friday Finds for this week. What did you find?
Thursday 27 August 2009
The Shack by WM Paul Young
Wednesday 26 August 2009
Library Loot
Two of them I have already finished and a I have started a third.
2) 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff. Blaming Nymeth again for this one. Her fabulous review made me want to read this book of letters. I read it in one sitting and thought it was fabulous.
3) Nana Volume 1 and Volume 2 - Japanese graphic books that need to be read from the back, from right to left and in no way confusing at all!
3) Flyte by Angie Sage - loved Magyk and reviewed it here, so had to read the second one.
4) My Story - Indian Mutiny by Pratima Mitchell and Mayflower by Kathryn Lasky. There is a huge selection of these books written in diary format for teenagers, detailing different people's lives in different periods. There is a selection for girls and boys. I reaed the Indian Mutiny one as someone had already put a hold on it, so it could not be reviewed.
5) The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness. Nymeth get the blame for the third time. I have just started this one.
6) The Icarus Girl by Helen Oyeyemi - Helen's recent book White is For Witching recently featured in my Friday Finds, so I was pleased to find her first book in the library.
7) Sharp North by Patrick Cave featured on my Friday Finds awhile back.
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Life As We Knew It by Susan Pfeiffer
Monday 24 August 2009
Monday Mailbox
I have been really bad whilst I have been on holiday and I actually came back with 25 books! In my defense, only five of them were brand new and they were priced at £1.99. The rest were from charity shops each at 50p or 3 for £1 and there was a charity shop three doors from where I was staying which had a turnover of about a hundred books a day. So when hubby visited the fishing shop next door, I just had to visit the charity shop.
Here are the five brand new ones I bought.
1) The Witch Hunter by Bernard Knight, set in Exeter in the 1100's. There were a selection of these books from the Crowner John mysteries and they all looked good, but this one caught my eye because it was about witches.
2)Lorna Doone by R.D. Blackmore - must have been all that Devon sea air that may me buy this, Exmoor period romance.
3) Ferney by James Long -When Mike and Gally move to a new cottage in Somerset, it’s to make a new start. But the relationship comes under strain when Gally forms an increasingly close attachment to an old countryman, Ferney, who seems to know everything about her.
4) The Observations by Jane Harris. I completely blame Nymeth for this one! She did a Sunday Salon post last month which you can find here, which detailed Victoriana books she coveted. I ended up writing most of the list down in my little book and this was one of them that I managed to find.
5) Road to Paradise by Paullina Simons. When I first got married, I used to read a lot of books by Paullina Simons and they still stick in my head. If you have not read Tully, Red Leaves and Eleven Hours then I would highly recommend them. In recent months, I have been tracking down the ones I haven't read and this is one of them.
The books above are my charity shop finds.
1) Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier - I have been wanting to read this for awhile since doing the Southern Reading Challenge.
2) The Whole Day Through by Patrick Gale.
3) Who Has Seen The Wind by W.O. Mitchell, a huge bestseller when it was released in Canada and thought to be his best book ever.
4) Molly Fox's Birthday by Deidre Madden
5)Gilead by Marilynne Robinson - I recently read Housekeeping and didn't enjoy it, but everyone told me that I really needed to read this one as it was her best, so when I found it I bought it.
6) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junor Diaz - winner of the Pulitzer prize for Fiction in 2008.
7) The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing - The Golden Notebook is the story of writer Anna Wulf, the four notebooks in which she keeps the record of her life, and her attempt to tie them all together in a fifth, gold-colored notebook. This was published in 1962 and has recently been republished, which I would imagine is in connection with Doris receiving the Pulitzer Prize for Literature in 2007. The copy I purchased is an original hardback from 1962, so I believe it is a first edition. Some times these charity shops have no idea what they are selling!
8) The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff - shortlisted for the Orange Prize for New Writers. On the very morning Willie Upton slinks home to Templeton, New York (after a calamitous affair with her archeology professor), the 50-foot-long body of a monster floats from the depths of the town's lake. This unsettling coincidence sets the stage for one of the most original debut novels since The Time Traveler’s Wife.
Sunday 23 August 2009
And the Winner Is?
Westward Ho!
I was going to do this post as a Sunday Salon, but realised as I uploaded the photos that it wouldn't be a post completely about books, so I thought I would show you some of my holiday snaps instead. So be warned, this post is photo heavy!
We spent all last week in a town called Westward Ho! in Devon. The town is named after the book Westward Ho! which was written by Charles Kingsley, who also wrote The Water Babies. I spent my whole week, trying to search out a copy of Westward Ho! only to be told by its residents, 'Good Luck! ' The owners of the publishing rights of the book refuse to have it reprinted, so the only copies available are the original ones and the best place to try would be Ebay! I was gutted.
The sea views in Westward Ho! were amazing, I just love to watch the sea when the tide is in and it is hitting the rocks. My girls got soaked every time. We managed to spend one day on the beach, as the weather was pants. The day we spent on the beach, was short lived, as the tide came in really quick. It moved up the beach within fifteen minutes and I have never seen so many people move so fast. It was a little scary!
Saturday 22 August 2009
I'm Back from my holiday!
I am back from my holiday and raring to go. We have been in Devon all week with the family and I can't believe how I missed you guys. There was no internet access and I did cold turkey. However, I bought some fabulous books, took some beautiful pictures and actually finished three books, which I can't wait to share with you all.
I will be spending the day washing,ironing, shopping and hopefully catching up on google reader, which I dare not open yet!
Blogging will resume properly tomorrow with the competition winner and Sunday Salon.
Have a great weekend everyone!
Thursday 13 August 2009
Blog Break!
Just to let you know that I will be taking a blogging break for one whole week and I will be back blogging on Sunday 23rd August. I shall miss you all and it will be strange not talking to everyone nearly every day. I haven't left any posts on purpose, so you can have a week of peace without me.
Just to remind you, I still have the Miranda Innes competition running, which has a link in my side bar. It will finish on Saturday 23rd August at midnight and I will announce the winner during my Sunday Salon post. Remember it is international and anyone can enter.
Take care everyone and I will speak to you all next week.
PS - Could you all try and not write too many posts, so I don't have too much to catch up on when I return.LOL! I wonder if my google reader will top 1000 by Saturday.
Magyk by Angie Sage
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Miranda Innes Exclusive and Competition
To commemorate such a wonderful occasion, there is a Miranda Innes giveaway at the end of the post.
So just for you, here is the first chapter of Miranda's book. It is so hot off the press, it still doesn't have a title.
Chapter one. The Beatific and the Beastly.
There is such a thing as a seven-year itch. It hit us like chicken pox in May 2004 after seven years and four months in the wild AndalucÃan campo. Dan and I had been living together in a rambling finca with courtyards and fountains, lavender hilltops rippling to the distant horizon and the jagged limestone pinnacles of El Torcal glowing scarlet at sunset. Dan Pearce is a cartoonist and painter, whose graphic novel, ‘Depression, a Beginner’s Guide’ had yet to romp its way to the bookstalls, despite the lifetime’s intimate research that went into it.
He and I met on the very day that I had bought the ruined farmhouse in AndalucÃa, and we fell in love immediately. He moved out to Spain with me and – as comparative strangers - we lived on a building site for those seven relationship-testing years.
We survived the six-foot snake roosting beneath the sofa; Minnie our oversexed Boxer made off with a silver coated wolf and disappeared for two days; we wondered – quite apprehensively – what feline trio had left pug marks as big as tennis balls in the soft mud round the spring. I tried unsuccessfully to lure a gecko out of my printer which he considered a pretty des. res. Our eccentric neighbours, Giorgio and Martina had a fourth child, Neroli. An itinerant Spanish pony fell into their swimming pool, and was rescued by Martina waist-deep in water, but not before it had copiously emptied its bowels.
We had seen 2000 glamorous sunsets and possibly two sunrises. From the manic bipolar experience of buying, demolishing, building and finishing we had reached a serene plateau of routine.
Despite the town hall functionary giving us cast iron assurances sworn on the memory of her mother - that no one could possibly get permission to build on our hill - the bun-shaped baker built four hideous holiday homes (he was after all a mate of the local mayor) in the fields below us with Grandmother’s Footstep’s stealth. Senor Arrabal our neighbour - ancient, mute, and once a bareback rider started building a bungalow to adorn our West view. Domenico the policeman planted olive trees and fenced his land prior to building a casita above us.
We were fretting about finding ourselves in the middle of a holiday village when Dan had a phone call. It was his sister Kitty, advising him that their 84-year-old mother was ill with some kind of gastric upset, and that perhaps he should fly home to see her. Fortunately he did, because a week later she was dead.
She was a strong, grand widow in the style of a Lorca materfamilias – reticent, reserved, perfectionist. Her death, which she must have foreseen, was choreographed in such a way as to have her entire family present while causing the least bother possible to anyone. She waited until she felt confident that all her children were all right, safely settled in respectable relationships, and then she just left in midsentence. No fuss, no drama, no conflict. The will was clear, there was no ambiguity, no unkind message camouflaged in the legal jargon.
She died in November 2003, and we spent a sunny frost-sparkling Christmas at her home, an Old Vicarage in Suffolk, delaying the daunting prospect of sorting out the unbelievable mountains of stuff that she and her husband David had accumulated during their fifty years there. There were plan chests full of his father’s sketch books, and crates of photos and prints dating from her photographic career, torn and faded, peopled with mysterious unidentifiable figures and recording tantalizing moments of unexplained joy – a secret history that will never now be unraveled. There were Gimson bedroom suites, De Morgan tiles, Paul Nash pastels – wherever you looked, there were priceless things jammed into drawers and boxes, teetering on windowsills and shoved under beds. Paintings and architectural salvage, Persian rugs and Adam fireplaces bought for the price of a pint, the overwhelming hoard of a lifetime’s beady vigilance at auctions and junk shops. The books alone required three experts for valuation.
Few people are equal to this kind of exhausting emotional assault course. Dan certainly was not, and he settled into a depression so dark that it seemed as though daylight would never come. He regretted all the conversations he had not had with his mother, all the questions he had not asked. He mooned around aimlessly, waiting for her to come and tell him what to do next. To my relief, she did not oblige. Christmas passed, my sons came briefly to the Old Vicarage and we felt like trespassers, then Dan and I returned to Spain.
Winter lingered. In the spring of 2004 there was more rain than anyone remembered ever; great gushing channels whisked the track away overnight, and day after day dawned grey and cold. We had to buy twice as much firewood as usual. Whereas previously swimming in April had been the norm, throughout that May we had winter duvets, log fires, radiators and an electric blanket.
Within our rattling, draughty house, the air was thick with despair. Dan sank into a fetid, toxic torpor: insomniac all night, sleeping in a heap all day, weeping at frequent intervals. He was grief and pain concentrated. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. There was no tunnel. We were buried alive. He gave up smoking, recklessly jettisoning the comforting fug that had insulated him from the prickly demands of the real world for the past thirty years.
After six months, when I thought he might just die from apathy, might just give up bothering to breathe, he scrambled back onto the shore of life, as weak as a day old kitten.
Unbelievably, what was ostensibly causing his grief besides the loss of his mother was his imminent wealth. Most people find this kind of thing bearable, some even grit their teeth and force themselves to enjoy an infusion of extra cash. Not Dan. He was racked with something which wasn’t pleasure, and set about divesting himself of as much as possible as quickly as he could. Before a single penny had crossed his palm, he had managed to sink 4K in the coolest Mac desktop. He should have had a bulk discount – he bought computers for everyone.
Night and day he fretted about how he was going to get rid of his inheritance, and for a while he thought that Pepe had the solution – our log provider had a piece of land to sell. The plan was to build the perfect uncompromisingly modern house, incorporating all the lessons (principally about the necessity for a functional heating system) we had learned in our seven years in Spain. Building houses is like writing books in one way – as soon as you finish either, you perceive finally how you should have done it. I said as long as Pepe’s land was flat and had mature trees, I would go along with it.
Despite the fact that the naked, treeless patch of shale was perched high on a narrow windswept ridge with dizzy precipices to east and west, Dan thought it ideal for building. I said nothing – it was his money, and I was scarcely in a position to be picky about ludicrous investments having chucked all my cash from the sale of my London house into an ‘investment’ in Marrakech. (If anything can make you old and poor before your time, it is buying and attempting to run property in Marrakech. The problems that barnacle such a project are of a baroque complexity that will leave you winded. As necessary exorcism I wrote a book about it. Over the years I had learned not to voice my worries, tiring eventually of Dan’s mantra: ‘Well, you bought it.’ Yes, I bought it.)
But that cold, grey day, leaning against the gale on that bare escarpment I was so pleased to see his eyes deglaze, signs of life suffuse the grey pallor of his face, and to hear him talk again that I dismissed my doubts.
We were on the point of signing things and handing over money, when Dan had a chance conversation with Giorgio who by coincidence had had the same piece of land on his books for a while - for rather less than half what we were being invited to pay by the log man. The price hike was not what decided Dan against the site, it was the fact - which Pepe had omitted to tell us - that it was illegal to build less than 20 metres from the boundary, which would have meant cantilevering a winkle-like building above the 500 foot drop. Even Dan had to admit that this was bad feng shui.
I disguised my relief in a busy fuss about organizing a holiday in Italy. Since moving to Spain we had not had a holiday – we had yet to walk insouciantly away from our responsibilities, abandon the dogs to friends, and leave our troubles behind. This is what we decided to do on the spur of the moment that May: a week in a converted chapel in Le Marche, another in a flat in Tuscany, flight tickets sorted, and a secret appointment with an estate agent that I hoped to pass off as chauffeured sight seeing.
Italy had begun to edge out Spain in my affections, mainly due to Angelo Cicalini. I had met him when I was the garden editor for Country Living, at an exhibition of Italian gardens organized by the Italian tourist board in the Savoy Hotel. Grand events where everyone knows everyone else always reduce me to panicky gibbering, and this one was graced by the garden glitterati in full braying mode. So I lurked inconspicuously in a corner planning my escape and hoping to avoid notice by the loud and the double-barrelled.
My plan was foiled - when the speeches began my exit was blocked by a short, spherical man, almost entirely bald, but with impressive broom-like whiskers, who looked as out of place as I felt.
‘Do you have a book? playing cards? Sudoku?’ He whispered in a strong Italian accent, as the formidable pewter-haired Contessa in charge began a litany of gratitude that looked set to take all afternoon.
‘Italians always have to make the speech. This will be worse than High Mass with the Pope. This is the benediction. Then we have a sermon, then confession, then she will take your money. They always take your money. Come, we start a revolution.’ And grabbing my hand, he tiptoed theatrically out of the ballroom, and burst, guffawing, out into the watery sunshine on the embankment.
‘I cannot stand Italian speeches – for such a leetle event, it is worse than the Oscars – they have to thank everybody. Come with me. There is a café here, with proper coffee.’ Feeling like a naughty truant, I drank several powerful cappuccinos, getting a ticking off with each one for being naff (wrong time of day for cappuccino), and listened to Angelo’s story.
‘I have no business at this press do. I am food, not gardens. But I come for the olive oil – it is the best. Taggiasche olives. From Liguria. Very low acid.’ He brandished his estate-bottled freebie, which had come with a cute pair of olive wood salad servers.
A clever boy, plainly always interested in food, he was born, third child in a farming family in the South. Desperate to escape from the poverty and narrowness of their lives, he had apprenticed himself at the age of fourteen to a local chef and worked his way, learning as he went, to become a well-respected chef and then a restaurant critic.
I’m always drawn to misfits, and found his tragicomic brio irresistible.
His wife had run off with a footballer many years previously:
‘She kidnap Maria Christina, our daughter. I can be friends with her now, she is grown up, but for years I could not find her. I lost her as a child. This break my heart.’
The experience had made him very cautious with relationships.
He was cautious too about returning home.
‘Italy is like a lovely woman (pron. gooman) who becomes a drug addict. I love her, but she destroys herself with the politics, with the scandal, with the corruption.’
However Angelo’s natural ebullience would not be thwarted - try as he might to be negative, he could not help but rhapsodise about the country he had abandoned, and indulge in lyrical descriptions of the South where his family continued to farm. Walking the two miles to school with his brother and sister (I think he claimed to be barefoot for extra romance but I may be wrong) harvesting olives and oranges and vegetables at dawn before the heat became too intense, occasional family picnics with his sixteen cousins by the sea – he described an almost unbelievably different world. His mother had never traveled further than three kilometres from the village of her birth.
He came to visit us in Spain for a weekend that winter, and we explored the
prawn and sherry dives of Malaga, weaving out to the docks to admire the huge liners and the sunset over the sea.
‘I make a confession.’ He whispered conspiratorially as he lurched on a low wall by the water’s edge.
‘I sell my apartment last month. Now I buy a place in Tuscany. Firenze. She call me. With fear and joy in my heart, I go.’ There should have been an orchestra, so tremulous and ecstatic was this little oratorio of his, culminating with hands clasped in the prayer position. I snorted.
Following his visit, without really intending to, I sat down and read all those books about upping sticks and moving to Tuscany or Umbria, Venice or Liguria. Descriptions of medieval festivals and village feasts, marriages, gardens, vineyards and allotments, mushroom hunts and archery, palaces and damp stone cantinas became dream default. Scores of paintings with optional virgins sprang to mind, backgrounds depicting distant blue hills, sunlit valleys, lovingly tilled soil.
Spain began to suffer in this increasingly manic Compare and Contrast.
What were the Spaniards doing during the renaissance when the Italians were changing the course of art history, I wanted to know? Indignantly I asked myself, what did the Spaniards do with all the booty they plundered in South America apart from dress up larger than life size Holy Virgin Barbie dolls, decorating their graven images in gold and diamonds, and tear down the graceful and ingenious legacy of the Moors to replace it with a new dark age? What towering, influential painters and playwrights, sculptors or architects, chefs or designers emerged from this parched land of religious mania and enthusiastic torture? What was the point of learning the subjunctive when the most gripping conversation to be had locally consisted of agreement that there had been a lot of rain?
Dan humoured me in my Italian infatuation.
‘Our home is in Spain’, he said kindly, ‘but we can always go to Italy for holidays.’
There you go, one exclusive for you and it is just as entertaining as Miranda's other books.
So how could I resist, not having a giveaway to go with such an exclusive. I have another copy of Getting to Manana, which has been gently used and I am happy to give it away in a competition. If you are interested in the review of the book, you will find the review here.
If you would like to win one of my copies of Getting to Manana all you have to is the following.
For 1 entry - leave a comment.
For 2 entries - become a new follower.
For 3 entries - that is for people who are already followers. So if you are already one of my 97 followers,you get 3 entries!
The competition closes Saturday 23rd August at midnight GMT. The competition is an international one. I will announce the winner on Sunday 24th August during my Sunday Salon post.
TTFN!
Tuesday 11 August 2009
The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry
Pages - 390
Published by Harper Collins in 2009
Challenges - 100+
First paragraph: My name is Towner Whitney. No that's not exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time.
Now if you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that I was struggling with this book. I didn't believe it was the book's fault, I actually thought it was something to do with my state of mind at the time. I had been desperate to read this book since I first saw it advertised and I may have built it up more than it actually was. I think I may have even fabricated what it was actually about it, but the story seemed a little different to how I remember raving about it! After reading a couple of other reviews, readers have recommended keep going past page 80 and now that I think about that is exactly where the story started to take off. So it wasn't me, it was the book!
This is the story of Towner Whitney. Towner comes from a long line of women who can read the future by reading the patterns in lace. Towner turns her back on her history by leaving Salem and vowing never to return and never to read lace again, after her world crashes around her at fifteen.
Yet Towner realises it would be impossible to stay away for ever, especially when her great aunt Eva disappears. Towner becomes frantic and returns to help the search, she is then pulled back into her past she has spent so many years trying to forget. Towner feels trapped, but which way will she run.
There is a lot more to this story than the brief description I have given you, but I really don't want to give away any spoilers and there are lots of twists and turns in the story that I really wasn't expecting. So this is just so difficult to review. Everytime I want to say something about it I have to stop myself as I will give secrets away.
I loved reading about Salem, I know I have a spooky fascination with the town and all that happened there and I devour quickly any books connected with Salem and the witches. What bothers me with my obsession with Salem, is now having the knowledge that women are still treated in this manner in some areas of the world and I feel sad that society has not moved on.
Towner is a very complex character who has a lot of issues. I am not sure if I liked her or not. I definitely didn't like her to begin with, but by the end of the book, I sat back and thought OK, now I understand her motives. She behaved the way she did as she had suffered so much during her younger years. I just found that you didn't get to know the real Towner until the end of the story and that is quite difficult when it is the main character, but it fits with the tangled roots of the story.
I found the book dealt with a lot of serious issues that I really wasn't expecting and it opened my eyes a little. There is so much in it, that all seems to come to a head at the end, where you will find yourself looking back at the book and seeing where the clues were hidden. I almost feel like I should read the book again, so I can understand it better.
So I would say this book is a little bit of a slow burner, that ignites furiously by the end. If you can get past the first 80 pages you will really enjoy it.
Monday 10 August 2009
Monday Mailbox
Do you like Postman Pat? How many episodes of that have I sat through over the years, with my girlies when they were young.
Anyway back to my mail this week.
Another one came through the post this week, the rest I picked up around the charity shops and at the boot sale.
1) Looking for Alaska by John Green. I won this book recently over at Michelle's site Fluttering Butterflies.
2) The Diary of Anne Frank. This is one of those books I am ashamed to say I have never read. I feel really bad about that as I do think it is a book that should be read.
3) One For the Money - Janet Evanovich - I bought this because I wanted to know what everyone was going on about. You know I hate to be left out of things!
4) Last Chance - Sarah Dessen - again I hate to be left out of things and Sarah Dessen is creating a lot of attention recently.
5) Geurnica by Dave Boling. This one seems to have mixed reviews and it has only just come out in paperback. Here is a little snippet of what it is about.
'An atrocity that occurred in 1937 was the bombing of the Basque town Guernica as a way for the German's to test their modern warfare techniques and Franco to stamp his authority on the famously stubborn Basque people. `Guernica' follows a Basque family over three generations in the lead up, during and after the bombing that left many dead and many more injured. '
6) The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper - this is the 5 books of the series all in one book. Here is a snippet of information about the series.
Originally published in the 1960s and 1970s. The series is written as contemporary fantasy and depicts the struggle between the forces of good, called The Light, and the forces of evil, known as The Dark. The series is based on the Arthurian myths, with many connections to Celtic and Norse legend and is written primarily for older children and young adults.
7)100 Shades of White by Preethi Nair -Is about a mother who tells a lie to protect her children and that lie comes back years later to destroy the very people it was meant to protect. Nalini, has a carefree life in India until her husband sends for her and his two small children to come and join him in London. Uprooted, he abandons them ruthlessly and leaves them with nothing. In order to protect the children's' sense of self worth, Nalini tells them that their father died heroically in an accident and whole realities are build on this one lie as their fight for survival begins.
8)The Shaman's Last Apprentice by Rebekah Shamen - The Shaman's Last Apprentice is a true story that chronicles the extraordinary odyssey of one woman's magical journey into the heart of the Amazonian Rainforest.
So they are my books that I bought this week. What did you get? Do you have any of the above books? Have you read any of them?
Sunday 9 August 2009
Sunday Salon - I finally get it!
I have been up and about early this morning, as Sunday is the best day for visiting the local boot sales and I love to go to see what books I can find. I am a little bit stiff and sore, as we spent the day at the beach yesterday and I ended up with sunburn. I had suncream on as I always do, but I still got burnt!
Today I want to tell you about my happiness at finally falling into the graphic novel phenomenon that completely passed me before.
I happened to be in my local library last week, perusing the Young Adult section, which is all my first port of call, whilst in there. The looks I get from the librarians always makes me giggle. Why would a married woman,with children be reading YA? They obviously haven't read any!
Anyway, as I was browsing I came across this.
Now I have been desperate to read Coraline since the film came out, but I have never seen it in the library, so I was really pleased to find this graphic version. It just jumped out at me, willing me to take it home and read it. It was daring me to read a graphic novel! So not to be defeated, I picked it up and took it home.
I got comfy on my sofa and settled to read it. Within the hour, I had finished it and loved every word of it. It was absolutely fabulous. The story of Coraline is very dark and I think this version of the book makes it even darker. The graphics are a little gory, but I loved it.
So that is all from me today, but do leave a comment if you have read a brilliant graphic book that you think I would enjoy.
Saturday 8 August 2009
Saturday Scrapping/ And Am I The Only Looney Looking For Mars!
I made two pages this week, which for me is amazing. Unfortunately, I am aware that they are not my best pages and I felt I spent a lot of time faffing with them, as I really didn't know what I was doing. My scrapping mojo is in need of a boost.
Anyway, here are my layouts.
This first one is of my girls getting ready for the local carnival. Every year their teacher picks children from her class to join her in the carnival. This year, we were lucky enough to be chosen. It was a fabulous day and I ended up walking round with a bucket collecting money. I really got into the swing of it and actually wondered if I could take it up as a profession!
This page had quite a bit of sewing on it. You would think after my fancy dress attempts last week, I would have hidden all needles and threads somewhere I was guaranteed never to find them again, but after seeing what Anne over at Pretty can do with some beads and cotton, I was inspired. Unfortunately, what she didn't let on in her posts, was how time consuming sewing scrap pages actually is.
Amazing huh! So each night I have been out there to see if I can catch a glimpse and so far I haven't seen a thing. Then I began to wonder if just maybe, my sister in law may be fooling me and this could all be a hoax. So I did a bit of internet searching and lo and behold, look what I found. This message debunking the whole thing. So there I am, looking like a complete plum for the last few nights and telling everyone I know that Mars will be as big as the Moon and it is a big hoax. I can only laugh at myself for being so daft and believing it in the first place. I am easily fooled, just ask my hubby how many times he used to ask me to pause the video when we were watching live tv (before Sky+) and I would always fall for it!