Pirastro 900700 Piranito Reçine kitap serbest oDF biçim

Angel Gomez lynild02 — Like House of Leaves, but NOT good. Well, it's pretty accomplished, I guess. But I had serious problems with it. Where to begin? When you have several different narrators, they're usually different characters with distinct voices. In this, Erickson has three female narrators (Kristin, Angie, and Louise) who are all pretty similar: they're hardened, secretive, empowered loners who can take care of themselves except when there's literally any guy around. When there's a guy around, they all have a weird submissive streak that, to be honest, totally reeks of authorial fantasy. And on a related note, I realize this is an alternate universe to some small degree, but since when do all women go around nymphomaniacally raping men in their sleep? I'm not buying it. I was also promised Swiss-watch levels of complexity in the plot. Apparently, though, they don't make Swiss watches like they used to. A. is actually B.'s father? C. is actually D.'s daughter? Now, I'm no real writer, and I don't mean to belittle Erickson's accomplishment as a whole, but I do think pulling out conspicuous coincidental meetings between long-lost relations is a pretty cheap trick, most often seen in canonical (and also lesser) fantasy novels. And Star Wars. Not to mention the fact that all these little seemingly-random meetings basically undermine what I'd understood to be the central premise of the book, which I won't spoil, although really, it shouldn't even matter. For me at least, there are two ways a book can be difficult. The first is in its language, e.g. Ulysses or The Recognitions. It's pretty difficult to read pages and pages, but if you can understand each individual page, you can understand the whole book. This is usually rewarding. The second is in ideas, e.g. Kafka on the Shore. You can be reading along just fine, understanding what's going on, but at the end, you say, well, that was kind of an interesting story, but what was it actually about? This is often not as rewarding, and T.S.C.i.a.M is totally guilty of it. Like I said above, the theme or premise that was being harped on for the first third of the book seems to be totally dismantled by the end, and doesn't get replaced by anything. And what even happens at the end is anyone's guess. So why did I even read this? For the sordid descriptions of sexual deviance (the world's first snuff film, whorehouses featuring blindfolded semiconscious women dangling from hooks, Stockholm-syndrome exhibitionism, etc. ad naus.)? For the cold cerebral challenge of interpreting a chaos-based calendar whose very premise is a contradiction in terms (if chaos determines everything, what good is trying to keep track of anything?)? For the cheap thrills associated with deducing a relationship between two minor characters that will probably be stated explicitly later on anyway? I don't know. You tell me.

Maiken Ingvordsen maikeningvordsen — I've only got a few pages left of the last story in this collection and the whole thing has just been so excruciatingly beautiful I am almost palpably sad to see its end approach. That the guy whose mind from whence this sprung had to want to die so bad is just the worst the worst the worst. Done. Buh. So sad.

Xiaole Wang 1759592142aebc — This book should be retitled. " A Guide On How To Induce Brain Damage and Maim/Kill Yourself For Dummies". Pretty worthless book overall. Diagrams look like they were drawn by an elementary school kid, with poor drawing skills. It also contains many, MANY nuggets of "wisdom", such as the fact that giving someone an "ear clap" hard enough will not only cause their ears to bleed, but will also instantly KILL them, due to air pressure causing bleeding of the brain. Really? Let me guess. Next your going to tell me that the old "hit a person in the nose hard enough and it will drive the cartilage into their brains and kill them" thing is true. Wait. That is what you are telling me next? oh. Historically worth keeping I suppose, other than that this book is rubbish.