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Ruthnie Angrand ruthnieangrand — I'll admit it first up: this book was hard going. Not because it was difficult to read, it wasn't, but because there wasn't much in it that held my attention. And I think that's more my problem than the book's. This is heroic fantasy and as such lives up to much heroic fantasy that I've read in the past. And therein lies the problem. Perhaps heroic fantasy just aint my thing. It's essentially a quest story centred around a group of fighters called The Raven who try to find a number of relics so they can cast a spell, "Dawntheif" which will save the world from the Wytch Lords. As it goes, the story is fine, the characters are fine but for me there was something missing. I never really got to know any of the characters, never really got inside their heads. Never really understood the magic system or who the bad guys were. The Wytch Lords and the Wesmen that they command were a bunch of generic bad guys who are talked about a lot but make very few appearances. Wesmen = bad, Raven = good. Too clear cut for me. Give me goodies that you can't tell apart from the baddies. Give me baddies who show good qualities. Just like real humans the world over. This could have been a great tale if there was more depth to it. That said, if you want an easy to digest adventure tale that you can escape into for a time, this will do the trick.

Ferry Febrian ferryghost209d — This is when I found out that you could be bored even in Auschwitz - provided you were choosy. We waited and we waited, and as I come to think of it, we waited for nothing to happen. This boredom, combined with this strange waiting, was, I think, approximately what Auschwitz meant to me, but of course I am only speaking for myself. As he said, he's only speaking for himself. Here, I am speaking for myself, as is the case for any and all fiction, and even some of the non. What I speak involves my understanding, not my knowledge, my general aversion to gnosticism grown to unpronounceable proportions. Such as it should be with regards to the Shoah, yes? First the horror, then the silence. Despite that, let's talk. If Kertész is willing, how are we to forbear? With a cracking voice, she desperately shouted something to the effect that if our distinctiveness was unimportant, than all this was mere chance, and that if there was the possibility of her being someone other than whom she was fated to be, then all of this was utterly without reason, and to her that idea was totally "unbearable." If you are punished, and have committed a crime, you are guilty. If you are punished, and have committed [...], ranging from birth to creed to whatever the reason one condemns another wholesale and complete, each on either side simply one of a many millions, you are innocent. A horror, the horror, your horror, or so they say. They, the bystanders, millions compounded and compounded again muttering in the stands, still capable of wanting, needing, crafting a story. They need their catharsis, especially the diffuse of responsibilities and unwitting (maybe? perhaps? they claim victimhood as well and don't want to think about it) accomplices. You will provide. You? You lived. That length of time of your life, that skein of events and your reactions to such, the ideas and emotions filling in ever faster as all those gift baskets of audience prescribed sensibilities of disbelief, rage, terror, tears, fall by the wayside. You, a human being, lived, and made full use of your human capacity for feeling. Happiness, annoyance, puzzlement. The finding of beauty in a concentration camp. All of this, as I said, I noticed, but not in the same way as later, when I started to fit the pieces together and could sum up and recall the events step by step. I had become used to every new step gradually, and this hadn't given me the detachment I needed to actually notice what was happening. Was there a story in there somewhere, one a little more entertaining than the fact you managed to live to this day, and all the turns and twists and often boring banalities involved in such a happenstance? That would imply a reason behind it all, when everyone knows the capriciousness of life. Far deeper down than I would have thought, this knowledge, considering how they keep insisting on the climax, the tragedy, the entertainment. And this is only one genocide out of many, only one part of one genocide if one thinks only of the six million. What of the rest of the voices? Do they not fit within the parameters of what deserves to be heard? If those who still live on refuse the title of "victim", contemplate the multifarious of their experiences within the full range of feeling and thought, grasp their memories of such a time of their life as anyone else would, are they worth the time? Then, that day I also experienced that very same tenseness, that same itchy feeling and clumsiness that came over me when I was with them, that I had occasionally felt at home: as if I weren't entirely okay, as if I didn't entirely conform to the ideal; in other words, somehow as if I were Jewish. That was a rather strange feeling, because, after all, I was among Jews and in a concentration camp. He speaks of his lack of faith while the blood bound heritage of it couples him to a baffled mind and moldering body. Only slowly, and not without some humorous puzzlement and wonder, did the idea dawn on me: this situation, this state of imprisonment, had to be what was causing his agony. I was almost tempted to say to him: "Don't be sad. After all, it's not important." But I was afraid to be so bold, and then I also remembered that I didn't know any French. He puzzles at the monotone view of his day to day life by others, one restricted to pity, pity, pity. As if his effort to see the worth in living had time for that, when there were so many other things to think upon. But who can judge what is possible or believable in a concentration camp? Who could explore, exhaust all those countless ideas, inventions, games, jokes, and ponderable theories, which are easily accessible and transferable from a make-believe world of fantasy into a concentration-camp reality? You couldn't, even if you mustered the totality of your knowledge. The horror, the horror, the horror. What else?

Natalie Wells _atalie_ells — Poorly researched and clear from the start the author was going to prove how hard it is to get by in the US. Don't bother with this one.

Mayra Altamirano mayraaltam762d — If I had read this book in high school I'd be a writer now.