A survival story about two friends falling into an ice crevasse on Mount Rainer. The determination and self discovery that take place through the colossal feat to get out of the crevasse are the heart of this interesting story.
Book 52
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Ledge
A survival story about two friends falling into an ice crevasse on Mount Rainer. The determination and self discovery that take place through the colossal feat to get out of the crevasse are the heart of this interesting story.
Book 52
Real World
By Natsuo Kirino
There is no easy way to describe this book. As all Kirino's books, I am not even sure how to put them in a genre. Case in point, her other books were in the Mystery section of the library and this one was in the Fiction. This story exposes the edges of identity in a gripping coming of age story of a group of school age girls. A murder in the neighborhood starts a chain of events that force each girl, in their own way, to look at themselves carefully. Each finding surprising pieces that don't always have a place to rest within them.
There is no easy way to describe this book. As all Kirino's books, I am not even sure how to put them in a genre. Case in point, her other books were in the Mystery section of the library and this one was in the Fiction. This story exposes the edges of identity in a gripping coming of age story of a group of school age girls. A murder in the neighborhood starts a chain of events that force each girl, in their own way, to look at themselves carefully. Each finding surprising pieces that don't always have a place to rest within them.
Book 49
Middlesex
By Jeffrey Eugenides
This was an incredible book about a young women's journey into boyhood. Eugenides has a lyric, dreamy and intimately engaging style of writing that ropes the reader in to being complicit with the story.
"To think that a toilet had once been a haven for me! That was all over now. I could see at once that men's rooms, unlike the ladies', provided no comfort. Often there wasn't even a mirror, or any hand soap. And while the closeted, flatulent men showed no shame, at the urinals men acted nervous. They looked straight ahead like horses with blinders." pg.451
"Every morning a great wall of fog descends upon the city of San Francisco. It begins far out to sea. It forms over the Farallons, covering the sea lions on their rocks, and then it sweeps onto Ocean Beach, filling the long green bowl of Golden Gate Park. The fog obscures the early morning joggers and the lone practitioners of tai chi. It mists up the windows of the Glass Pavilion. It creeps over the entire city, over the monuments and movie theaters, over the Panhandle dope dens and the flophouses in the Tenderloin. The fog covers the pastel Victorian mansions in Pacific Heights and shrouds the rainbow-colored houses in the Haight. It walks up and down the twisting streets of Chinatown; it boards the cable cars, making their clanging bells sound like buoys; it climbs to the top of the Coit tower until you can't see it anymore; it moves in on the Mission, where the mariachi players are asleep; and it bothers the tourists. The fog of San Francisco, that cold, identity-cleansing mist that rolls over the city every day, explains better than anything else why the city is what it is." pg 469
Book 51 (I caught an error in my numbering system back on book 11)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
This was an incredible book about a young women's journey into boyhood. Eugenides has a lyric, dreamy and intimately engaging style of writing that ropes the reader in to being complicit with the story.
"To think that a toilet had once been a haven for me! That was all over now. I could see at once that men's rooms, unlike the ladies', provided no comfort. Often there wasn't even a mirror, or any hand soap. And while the closeted, flatulent men showed no shame, at the urinals men acted nervous. They looked straight ahead like horses with blinders." pg.451
"Every morning a great wall of fog descends upon the city of San Francisco. It begins far out to sea. It forms over the Farallons, covering the sea lions on their rocks, and then it sweeps onto Ocean Beach, filling the long green bowl of Golden Gate Park. The fog obscures the early morning joggers and the lone practitioners of tai chi. It mists up the windows of the Glass Pavilion. It creeps over the entire city, over the monuments and movie theaters, over the Panhandle dope dens and the flophouses in the Tenderloin. The fog covers the pastel Victorian mansions in Pacific Heights and shrouds the rainbow-colored houses in the Haight. It walks up and down the twisting streets of Chinatown; it boards the cable cars, making their clanging bells sound like buoys; it climbs to the top of the Coit tower until you can't see it anymore; it moves in on the Mission, where the mariachi players are asleep; and it bothers the tourists. The fog of San Francisco, that cold, identity-cleansing mist that rolls over the city every day, explains better than anything else why the city is what it is." pg 469
Book 51 (I caught an error in my numbering system back on book 11)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Forest of Hands and Teeth
By Carrie Ryan
"And suddenly I wonder what right we have to
believe our childhood dreams will come true. My body aches with this
realization. With this truth. It is as if I have cut something important
away from myself. The loss is almost overwhelming. Almost enough to
make me give up." Page 105
"I stand at the edge of Beth's grave and stare
out into the Forest and wonder how it is that we are never truly
prepared for death." Pg 174
Book 48
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Year of the Flood
By Margaret Atwood
This is the book that sets up Atwoods book "Oryk and Crake," which I previously posted.
“What breaks in daybreak? Is it the night? Is it
the sun, cracked in two by the horizon, like an egg spilling out light?"
“Time is not a thing that passes; it is a sea on
which you float.”
“How easy it is, treachery. You just slide into it.”
“Nobody likes it, thought Toby — being a body a
thing. Nobody wants to be limited in that way. We’d rather have wings.
Even the word /flesh/ has a mushy sound to it.”
“Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought.
Maybe the two went together.”
Book 46
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