I have always wondered how I keep coming to try these books after DNFing them so regularly and so discouragingly. With this book, I got my answer finaI have always wondered how I keep coming to try these books after DNFing them so regularly and so discouragingly. With this book, I got my answer finally. I have realised that the highs in this series are really high, while the lows are mere grey, and quite insipid. I have taken away jewels of knowledge from this huge nonfiction book. But there was no chance in hell of it getting 5 stars.
The standout conflict, to put it mildly, was the tussle between Phillip II and the entire Dutch Civilisation. People say that Mauritians are not patriotic because they haven't shed blood for the cause of their independence. While this has a kernel of truth in it, it does not tell the entire story. True enough, the most inhuman and most drawn out war, the 80 Year war was mostly about getting rid of foreign and religious oppression. As a result of the peace, the Netherlands were the most emancipated country in Europe. The first free press came from them. For about a century they were the masters in the very crucial science of mapmaking. The Dutch were the first inhabitants of my country's history, Mauritius. To cut to the chase, I would say that the level of savagery achieved in this war was more than what they showed in Game of Thrones. The variety of inflicting defeat and pain was second to most none.
The development of technology and the proliferation of inventions were heartwarming when read about them in the book. The fountain pen, the thermometer and barometer, the invention of the printing press, all changed the game of civilisation. The Bible remained the most published and most read book ever. But the ideas of mortals came to wobble it from its throne. I now fully understand the quote of Isaac Newton:- “If I have seen further,” Isaac Newton wrote in a 1675 letter to fellow scientist Robert Hooke, “it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Now I know the names of those giants. I also know why people don't place any scientist, including Newton, above John von Neumann in terms of raw cerebral power.
Throughout Europe there was the dismantling of feudal power. The 16th and 17th centuries had the kings being under the influence and yoke of the Popes. I hated Henry III more than I liked Henry IV, who sounds like Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark mixed together. This, is neither an exaggeration, nor a joke. Along with the Dutch history, I loved reading about the English and French courts. Shakespeare's chapters gained me new glimpses into the plays I am yet to read of his. I have forgotten a lot already of Spenser, Marlowe, and Sidney. All these writers merged together in one entity in my mind.
The European artists were something! I read avidly about Rembrandt and Rubens, who is my favourite. I began to understand the subtleties of paintings. The play on shadows, colours and light was something I could not get without education. So much that is quotable worthy has been written in this book. The essayist Montaigne was a tough nut to crack. I read about him with excitement. He influenced so many writers. I suspect his effect on future generations was telling. I am almost sure that he influenced Poe, who himself, though a god of literature, is too recent to appear in a volume of Will Durant's. The latter has already been dead by the 80s. I wish he could continue his chronicles indefinitely. I enjoyed his magnum opus a lot and recommend it to people of all ages and abilities....more
Little Women is a puzzling and interesting book to read and to think about afterwards. This book was very good. Paradoxically, I rated it more on thisLittle Women is a puzzling and interesting book to read and to think about afterwards. This book was very good. Paradoxically, I rated it more on this reread upon noticing flaws that my adoring eyes had not upon the first read. The book has power. It has the power to enchant us. E.g. I began and completed reading it during the month of March. That cannot be a coincidence. There is an untarnished sweetness in the book that is not nauseating for most. For those who dislike the book, I cannot disagree with them. But this book is very special.
The first volume is above reproach, to me. It is so lifelike, it takes your breath away. The book format works much better with this material than any adaptations onscreen, including the latest one (2019). There is a certain voyeurism in the first book which is the only sinful thing about it. The March family has been captured perfectly and regurgitated with pen on paper. You feel the chirpy voices in your ears. You see the knotted fingers and the weary shoulders of the girls, who are poor and happy. Marmee, the mother, is like a bookend, with the other piece of the bookend, Mr March, a distant trifle that does not and should not intrude in his own home when he returns from war.
The March little women are a collective force of eruption of colour, whether in their decent language or their untidiness. They toil under the yoke of boredom so much that you feel you are cheating them by having modern amenities that they will never have. Yet they are lucky enough. They have each other. They have their youth, which they retain up till the last page of volume two. Jo, the ringleader and amateur poet, playwright, and writer of the family, goes down on one knee under the force of time, at the early age of 30 years, yet it feels as titanic an act as Thor's feat. Jo is my favourite character in the book.
There is a failing in health from Beth, the penultimate child. And one feels sadness for her and solace for oneself. Who is to say how long a lifetime should be. Beth is the kindest of the four girls. She takes care of her dolls with happiness and patience. One of her dolls is disabled, which perhaps foreshadows her own fate in a grim and sanguine way. Meg, the eldest, and Amy, the youngest, have upbeat and delightful fates, and perhaps these are what prevents them from making their mark in the book. Meg is the most mature and the silliest, being precocious without the gift of experience. Amy, well, she shines most in volume two.
The unlikely neighbours in the form of the two Lawrences, rich, honest duo of grandfather and grandson, are plot movers in name and in game. Laurie, like a certain Mr Darcy, has always been played by actors far older than what the books tell you. Laurie is very young, and, in the hands of Louisa May Alcott, becomes the type of character that shows all that women write men better than the opposite. Laurie lives his late teens in a state of paradisiac bliss. Having made best friends with Jo, he is flushed with the naivety of youth, which is also his innocence.
The book cannot escape the merriment infused in its characters by the authoress. The fixation on education and culture is unmistakably feminine. This could have been a blemish, but here is not. In their conversations the March girls display a longing for the future, which they will not reach till after the first part. It is hinted that they know French, and that they are steeped in the type of customs that seem stuffy to most people now. The book is clever in its depiction of the various short and pertinent adventures of the girls. If only things could remain the same forever. It was not to be.
Alcott should have been more in tune with her own creation when writing further adventures of her fictional family. She commits the mistake of believing that her work is an example of morality selling fast. In fact, it sold despite the moralising, not because of it. There is a strange power play that occurs in the book. The author saddles her women with back breaking moral rigmaroles. And we see that the life of the characters begin to feel independent of the author's meddling. The latter cannot comprehend the minds of her creatures. They rebel in a way, then accept with fake joy their fates that Alcott prefers for them.
The constant pontification made me laugh rather than groan. This was quite true of Professor Bhaer's defence of Christianity in the face of a couple of heathen zealots. Never mind that Bhaer has a zealotry of his own to keep his dull mind busy. It is proper for a book of this type to be rooted in a sort of vulgar realism by marrying its lively girls to older and crusty, pompous nonentities. But in trying to stay true, Alcott forgoes verisimilitude. It is the classic case of overcompensation. None of the male characters do things that come even close to the female ones' acts. This is okay, except that, seeing her little women maturing, the authoress abandons herself to a matchmaking mood.
Alcott tries to be daring in her own small ways. She longs for her characters to be colourful and carefree, yet she herself probably bought into the patriarchy 'wisdom'. This is displayed in the unflattering presentation of two women discussing female emancipation. It is displayed in the stated dependence of the woman on the father-like husband. The sheep with its shepherd if you will. Alcott is also daring in one glaring way. She creates a quadroon child for the purpose of fleshing out the future of Jo March. That was as far as she could reasonably have gone.
Little Women is not the most popular of classics. It is also not the most revealing. Not the most clever, neither the funniest. But her characters not only are more than the sum of themselves. The characters are autonomous, and cannot be controlled. They will speak to the reader in their own voices and authorship be damned. The writer had captured something in this book that not only she could never replicate in sequels, but also that no author I have read could or would replicate. This is why I will pick up this book next year, probably during March, if I'm not being careful....more
I temporarily toyed with the notion of not registering this reread. That is because I knew that it was more difficult writing an interesting review ofI temporarily toyed with the notion of not registering this reread. That is because I knew that it was more difficult writing an interesting review of books like this - books that required not a lot of talent, but a certain range of talent. I had fallen into the habit of reviewing nonfiction books this year. This is the first fiction book of the year for me. Also, I did not like my previous review. I had been, in the year 2014, regressing in terms of analytical thoughts and also misguided in the beliefs of what actually made a review good. So it came as a cold feeling to me when I realised that I wouldn't be able - as I said before - to write well here.
This book got the same rating twice from me. But this time I was able to picture everything much clearer. Bain Madox - the one and loony - made for a great villain. He wants to initiate project Wild Fire. And John Corey, the able cop that is neither the good one or bad one (he is just the funny one) is there to try and stop Madox. All of this seems quite clumsy. And to tell the truth, the writing in the book, trying in the initial pages to come across as understated, is overall, quite laborious. But the book works. The repetitiveness side of it is not its major fault. The book's major fault is that it does not sell the idea for its plot 100 %. But this is a thriller. And as thrillers go, they don't come much larger than life than this.
I decided to write a review of this reread without reading the last chapter of Wild Fire. The good guys win. But the slimiest of the baddies get their comeuppance to them in that last Chapter. This is no spoiler, see, because all thrillers are like this. The genre has as much stilted tradition as a medieval play. The jokes in the book dry up when they must and I think this shows some awareness on the part of Demille, who, frankly, has written far worse books in his yawning stretch of a career. Wild Fire is well written, but it wouldn't translate well if a cinematic adaptation was produced.
The book is also not very charming, nor has it become better over the years. But it is sometimes absorbing in its narration. And that is because the details of the plot are unique to the genre. The intelligent man's thriller is something that Wild Fire attempts to be. It succeeds partly in that too. Like a shark, the book keeps moving. Over the years, I have read a wide gamut of books. The more I think of this one, the more puzzled I become. This is because I don't know what is the hook in it. It is supposed to be the solving of the mystery and the foiling of the evil men's plans. But now reflecting on it, I simply cannot put my finger on what makes this book tick.
Finally, I must state that there were just the right number of characters in this thriller. Detective John Corey and his wife Kate Mayfield are colleagues who happen to be a couple, just like the ones in offices round the world. Kate is a strong woman who feels feminine. But for the life of me I cannot decide if the femininity is the result of bad writing or good. I'll leave it at that. I enjoyed rereading this escapist book with wiser eyes, and the read was not a total waste of time....more
I feel like I committed treason by giving My Story, by Steven Gerrard, 5 stars. But I have to admit that this book was much better than many of the auI feel like I committed treason by giving My Story, by Steven Gerrard, 5 stars. But I have to admit that this book was much better than many of the autobiographies that I had the pleasure of reading. Gerrard was a name that I had been associating with anathema for over a decade. To summarize my agony with his career, I'd say that Gerrard played for Liverpool Football Club, and I support Manchester United. These 2 clubs are rivals in English and European football - or soccer if you want to be pedantic.
Gerrard might not have actually sat before a keyboard or with a pen in writing this book. The de facto route to writing a sports autobiography is to record one's voice before a collaborator, who is also going to be dubbed the co-writer. After which comes a tedious editing process. I suppose that Gerrard must have used an associate. But the fact remains that there are no co-authors on the cover of this book. Still, even actual writers have support from a team of professionals. This means that Gerrard is not a superlatively silver tongued author along with having been a very good footballer. I could breathe again...
Gerrard's book is full of his love for his club, which was also his boyhood club that he followed. Towards the wrapping up of his career, when he is leaving Liverpool for an American soccer club, his vulnerability really shines through. We think footballers in terms of athletes, which they are. But for many footballers, including Steven Gerrard, there is much wear and tear. The body goes through swift movements in games that it never ought to have gone through. Men's feet were made to stand upright and walk and run long distances, not to twist, jump, change direction in the middle of a sprint, have a defender clip one's boot with studs showing etc etc.
The world class midfielder or defender will always carry hurts and tiny scars to their grave. However fit these players might be, they remind us that beneath their six packs and their deltoids, they are only human beings who will one day grow old having retired from football at the age of 35 years. Gerrard narrates in his book that once, a few days before a match, he had to have an abscess removed from his mouth. So footballers like him have that Spartan life during their careers.
I don't know if I believe every word in this book, but I feel Gerrard is not as scummy as some other players... or managers. Gerrard, the former Liverpool captain, comes across as a humble, quiet, and grounded person. He has the occasional drinking marathon. Like many Englishmen, Gerrard considers getting drunk with your 'mates' as an example of having fun. I personally don't see any fun in that. So, the odd episode aside, he seems honest, even. That was the difference between this book and countless other sports biographies. One other reason for Gerrard not to feel like the king of the world was that there were players better, more good looking, with more trophies and more pedigree than him! One such person was Paolo Maldini; football royalty, and the best player not to win the World Cup. So when Gerrard insinuates that he felt grateful to his fans, I reluctantly believe him.
Steven Gerrard ended his book at the point where he was going to play and settle in the US. At that point he would not know that he would become a semi successful manager. As the latter he would have, if he were managing in the English first league, to pit his wits against his former club Liverpool. He has in effect done that. Gerrard never won the Premiership. He was never crowned English champions. Reading his book, I feel that the difference between my club and his was that his had defenders and keepers that were error prone. Mislaid passes, own goals, misuse of the offside trap... they took their toll against Gerrard's and his team's efforts in winning each and every match. I liked this book for its insight, and its honesty. Gerrard might be slightly boring, but that is a pleasant quality for a football superstar. He is boring and also has enough nous to write a 5 star book. Well done indeed....more
I identified with the author immediately, even if I did not know substantially about him. This book, despite being a nonfiction one, has a beginning, I identified with the author immediately, even if I did not know substantially about him. This book, despite being a nonfiction one, has a beginning, a climax, and an end. O'Toole uses the English language with calm and restraint. He does not even think of showing off. His story seems to have existed and been compiled for years without any release of any kind. It is safe to say that O'Toole is not a prolific author. Should we apply the 'death of the author' philosophy to someone so alive?
The Ireland from the author's childhood made the poor pay dearly for their lack of money. The poverty of Ireland is vaster than its shores. It bears kinship with the poorest of India and some parts of Africa. But the slums of Ireland are residences proper. They cannot be called slums. There is a sluggishness about Crumlin, where the writer began living. Though there are few toilets in the developing towns at that time, there was too much concreteness about these poor houses to call them squalid. Urban Ireland was grey, depressing, claustrophobic, and too uniform to call them hellholes. All this back in the 60s.
The impression I got from reading the beginning of the book was that the latter could have been longer. O'Toole gives us a lot, yet the length of his historical, fireside-like chat could have revealed more. This is what I take away from the book. It does not censure itself. It simply makes us understand that it is revealing everything but not going through even a fifth of what was worthy of hearing.
Fintan O'Toole made us side with him easily, even if most of his personal focus was on his childhood. Here too, he does not tell everything worth telling. The swirling traumas of child molesting was all around him. The Catholics' world famous hypocrisy at work. John F. Kennedy visited the country and must have looked on the populace with fantastically concealed pity. The author did not meet the president. That would be too theatrical. But he gave us a glimpse into Ireland's position in the world through that visit.
There is a perversity about the desire to enjoy the plight of a terrorism infested place like Ireland. The IRA was an insane landmark in the pockmarked face of the country. Just as many people seem to follow the war on Ukraine and find excitement in it... so too did I find excitement in this book. On one hand I shouldn't really do so. I ought not to find joy in this violent narration. But if I hadn't enjoyed the book, I could not have finished it. It was a guilty pleasure. Here was I, safe in my humble abode, in a different island where there exists no army, let alone a draft. I could not live in a war torn country. It would have finished me off, regardless of any circumstances.
But I did draw pleasure of a more karmic kind that is the dominion of the endless fight between good and evil. Here at last we have a contextual bookkeeping of Haughey, the Taoiseach of Ireland. The rapacity of the latter person was a foil to the author's telling of the corruption and frozen ability to think of the population at large. We get to see the disadvantages of living in a country where religion is meant to be the natural way of organising society. All of this was very fascinating.
It began to dawn on me that the book has a happy ending, with a look to the future too. The fall of the political troupe and the defeat of the hold of Catholicity on the laws of the land was a rewarding aspect. This was one of the reasons why I think many people still now in the US can read the book with a touch of familiarity about them. If they had not been there they sure will be.
As the chronology of the book went on almost linearly, we see the icy façade of orthodoxy and the reality of the society undergo changes. Changes in office, and in law. I give this book 3 stars because simply I reserve 4 or 5 stars for outstanding reads. This book is very revelatory about my own self and the place I live in. For that alone I would reread the book. But I don't think I will. A reread will bring to fore the nasty bits that I have half forgotten in it. Since I cannot reread it, I cannot give it more than 3 stars. I recommend it though. And I wouldn't be surprised if many people like it more than I....more
I am one with the poor of The City of Joy. My ancestors came from Bihar. And it is from this province of India that many of the poorest line up for a I am one with the poor of The City of Joy. My ancestors came from Bihar. And it is from this province of India that many of the poorest line up for a life of hardship in Calcutta. My blood is one with these people. My skin colour is dark brown, just like the colour of my eyes. I have no epicanthic eyes of the Chinese, no flat nose of the Bedouin, no cheekbones of the Sub-Saharan. I am from the same human roof as these people who know what it means to live and who do not know what it means to live without pain.
I'd like to register one grievance against Lapierre in this book of his. He often takes artistic license with the translation of Hindi or Bengali monikers. E.g. 'Chomotkar' does not mean 'Son of miracle'. It means simply, 'miracle'. So even in this type of no holds barred book, inaccuracies will sprout. There must be many more errors that have passed unnoticed by people like me, who is a stranger but who has one foot jammed in the Indian door, culturally and also in terms of language.
Having said that I loved reading about this fabled city, in which a French priest, Paul Lambert, will find riches beyond the most fantabulous imaginings of El Dorado. Lambert is the dominant POV in this book. He is joined by Hasari Pal. The similarities in the names of Paul and Pal did not escape my attention. Max Loeb, a third actor in this book of wonders, blurs the line between fiction and reality. He is a doctor who responded present to the call for help from Lambert. Loeb is the only Jew in this book (apart from a brief cameo from his father). And he is the richest person in these pages. Is this being typecast? The poorest are the Hindus. It seems like the Hindus - regarding their pantheon of Gods - having in recent times deified the second version of the cult guru, Sai Baba, might, in poverty, adopt even more gods the poorer they become.
This is the 3rd time I'm reading this book. I had forgotten how it ended. My feeling of forlornness at nearing the end of said book matched my melancholy in reading the ending of the beloved fairy tales from my childhood. Partly this is because I had forgotten how exactly, and on what note, does the seemingly everlasting effusion of words, stop. When I read how Paul Lambert feels at the end, I felt a great sense of fulfillment. I felt a great sense of joy. These characters, who live in squalor, whose lifelines get shortened because of pollution, of danger, of disease, they all participated fully in the maddest of games, that of the game of life.
There have been, here and there in the book, a sentiment of duplicity on behalf of the author. True, without him, we would not have this story to read. But there are a few cracks, nay, pinpricks rather, where one has the unshakeable sense that Dominique Lapierre is poking fun at the poor of Calcutta. His rhetoric of relativism and of comparison sit ill with his subject matter and he seems to have a laugh and a wink to share with his fellow Frenchmen and Europeans in general. But this should not matter really. Lapierre, we must remember, is a product of his time. However open minded he might be, he remains from a time when whistle blowing was the affair of either the indolent or the militant. In these times an author in Lapierre's place would treat the horrific poverty of Calcutta with a different prehensible grasp.
Reading this book revealed how laughable poverty was pictured in Indian movies from the same time where the story is set. The City of Joy is blessed as far as I am concerned, because it helped me in deciding how to live my life. The merits of the book though, are varied. The relationship between members of different religions has been written with great diplomacy. Nobody reading this book could lambast Lapierre with playing favourites in this respect. The variety in the words of the author is very diverse. The latter is obviously a bilingual at the very least. There is also the love/hate duality that the writer treats with candidness.
To summarise, I'd say that I can see myself reading this book again in 10 years, luck willing. This is a tale of woes, of dirt, of corruption, but it is also a tale of humanity, dignity, compromise. Anti-natalism is a word that took root in my mind after reading The City of Joy. Life and Death are cliched dualities. But it bears mentioning that with life gone, Death would be dead. It would cease to exist. Lambert's rationalising of sufferance is a tough exercise. It is a series of improbable gymnastics to keep believing that God is both infinitely benevolent and also infinitely powerful. Thus, I carry part of the poverty of India in my mind, which paradoxically seems the better for it. I recommend this book to anyone who has forgotten how powerful a rush worth its salt can be....more
I read most of this book over a period of a month or more time. It left me exhausted, partly because this book would exhaust anyone sane. Also I did nI read most of this book over a period of a month or more time. It left me exhausted, partly because this book would exhaust anyone sane. Also I did not temper the reading experience with the enjoyment of a second (and much less voluminous) book. I must belabour the point that I fell at the last hurdles. I could not bear to persevere with this book to what would be a bitter end. Thus the removal of one star from my rating.
What is utterly bizarre is that this reading acted like a quantum phenomenon. First, I was enjoying it. Secondly, I had given the initial reading of Oathbringer 5 stars. But since that time I had been reviewing the book in my head and decided that the book merited 1 star. The fun does not end here. I also was shocked to discover that this so-called 1 star material had lots of moments that I had forgotten, most of them moments of gem-like brilliance.
Even after these volte-faces, I felt my brain being lobotomised to a slush while reading this book which to my senses, was an excellent read. I do not know why I was enjoying it and hating it at the same time. Maybe my quantum comparison was inaccurate. After all, Feynman himself claimed that if you think you understand quantum theory, then you don't understand it at all.
But though I digress, this is no joking matter. I got severe reading block when reading Oathbringer. I had to take a break from reading, a 4 day hiatus. When I went back to the book, I used my last strength to read up to the last quarter. After that I said 'no more'. This book broke me. And here I thought we were going to get along.
The magical stuff in the book is not magic. It narrates the reintroduction of 'magic' in the book, but there is a fuel of sorts in this book which powers most awe-inspiring acts. That fuel is Stormlight, which occurs whenever a 'highstorm' falls on a settlement or city. We get the same characters who we had cared for in book 2. They are all struggling with their troubles. Shallan, she of unspeakable sense of humour was different here.
Did I say this book was rocambolesque? It was indeed. Before picking book 3 up again, my preferred characters were 1) Kaladin 2) Adolin 3) Dalinar 4) Shallan. Now, this order is upside down and reversed completely. Shallan as Veil was my favourite because of her adventures. They were the best. I always feel good when a male author writes about a female character with care, and skill.
The world building was, as to be expected, elaborate in the merest details. Sanderson turns into a world beater when writing this series. I was particularly avid for any info about the unmade. And I was glad to hear one of them (nine Unmade in total here) talk, and have an individuality and a sense of right and wrong. This is one correct way to render supernatural beings. The Unmade are powerful and mysterious beings. They feel so much more unbeatable than good old dragons (which are not in this universe).
By reading patiently and turning back pages, I managed to piece together a lot of details that had been missed by me all these years ago. Oathbringer was my Moby Dick. I'm glad not to have gone to the bitter end with it, though, and to have cut it loose. The structure of this book was intelligent. There was no big reveal at the end (I checked coppermind, a wiki of the Stormlight Archives), but each adventure in the book brought new knowledge to the fore. Though I almost became an Unmade with the perusal of this book, I gleaned a sense of appeasement reading it. Now I can resume my activities as a reader with my regular earthly, and 'Newtonian' (read Unquantum) small tasks....more
Foundryside is a damn good book. Though I give books a perfect 5 stars, every book is flawed in one way or another. I was debating whether to give theFoundryside is a damn good book. Though I give books a perfect 5 stars, every book is flawed in one way or another. I was debating whether to give the book 4 or 5 stars. I settled on 4. But at the last moment, I give it an unconditional 5 stars. It would be ridiculous to give it a lower rating than some of the embarrassing books that have got 5 stars from me. Basically, if a book fulfills its potential of wowing me, or presenting me with a story to whose narration I nod pleasantly and docilely to, and against which I can find no harsh words to utter, I give that book 5 stars.
Bennett, the author, seems to have read a lot of books set in the 90s. I can distinctly recognise the makings of a storyteller from that decade. Only he is much cleverer than the soulless copycats that plague and choke this genre broadly called Fantasy. Bennett is not made of inferior stuff, and he proved his mettle, his worth, what he was made of, time and time again in this book. I know almost nothing about the author... his age, race, experience, his career... I know nothing about him. I only know that despite the flaws of his book, I got curious enough to consider reading the second book in this trilogy, knowing only with the certainty that comes with bitter experience, that the sequels will not be equal.
The heroine of this novel is Sancia Grado. She is not described beyond her thinness and litheness. Somehow I got the impression that she was black. But her appearance is quite in question, if you consider such trivialities. I mean, these things are worth considering. The Hermione character from Harry Potter could become attractive by simply applying a potion to her hair and having her teeth reduced. Sancia is a main character whose appearance is not important. Just like one knows that the detective character John Rebus is handsome simply because he attracts females, so one might suppose so with Sancia, because she too has a female love interest.
So we have a male author in the Fantasy genre who provides us with a trio of dominant characters, where the male persona is the third wheel. That took guts. That must have irked a few of the males reading this book. But the male character is romantically neutral. He is important to the plot, but mainly to hide facts and to provide misdirection. Any bearing on the main plot is not of his dominion.
This book does a lot of good things, but from the melodramatic fashion it ended made me get the idea that the author wanted us to be attached to certain people in the book. Bennett did not do enough to make that happen in my case. I did not care for anybody in the book. That is the biggest flaw here. No matter. The book is simply aching fun to read. It begins with what the late author Douglas Adams would describe as a big bang. There is almost no pause in the book's pacing. Pacing in Fantasy is usually tempered with excuses of world building. That latter cardinal sin is indulged in by every Fantasy writer I have read; they use world building as an excuse to delay the gratification of the plot's revelation.
There is a joyful conundrum that obfuscates the plot of this book. So many people around, some of whom can fly, while others can defy reality itself. I enjoyed being mystified by the naturally progressing affairs of the book. What we seem to deem as pithy and yawn inducing clichés are in fact cleverly concealing plot points. The ultimate reason, the motivation for going through this adventure for Sancia is broken up into tiny McGuffins and spread all over the book's narrative structure. So one can forgive the reader to think that there are no plot coupons in this. There are, but they are concealed.
The author has my admiration and I am in good and numerous company where this brilliant book is concerned. In the hands of a subtle and talented writer like Bennett, the story reaches 500 pages, and that is how things would be in an ideal world. A denser writer like what Jordan was would have added a further 200 or 300 pages of public caning or sexualised stabbing. But here, the cursing seems natural, yet the author exercised discretion. This book has stuff that could have gone wrong, which is why I suspect it was written in years rather than months.
To summarise, this is a Fantasy book, set in a world that is magical, a steampunk novel. A novel that is not boringly set in a pseudo medieval world. The judgment of Bennett is spot on. The magical system is inherently exposed yet reveals its secrets continuously. That alone would have made this book interesting. But the conception of a heist book makes the reading experience very special. Despite the lack of characterisation worth the name, despite the lack of audible gasps from this reader, I have no trouble in cataloguing this book as among the 100 best ones I have ever read in my life....more
The Second Sex has a hyper refined language in some places in the book. This, I could barely follow. Fortunately Simone de Beauvoir was a woman flowerThe Second Sex has a hyper refined language in some places in the book. This, I could barely follow. Fortunately Simone de Beauvoir was a woman flowering in her vital youth in the 1940s. She had access to modern amenities that were denied to her gender throughout 99.99% of human history. Let that sink in.
De Beauvoir had a great mind. It is of no surprise that she had Sartre as one of her lovers. De Beauvoir is a feminist, always will be. Her accessible ideas in this book of hers are what catch fire symbolically. She is one of the giantesses of Philosophy. I consider her higher than Schopenhauer, Kierkegaard, Aristotle, and Sartre himself! I am smitten. I think women should have a crack at ruling the world. It is a shame that Monarchies were ditched in Modernist times just as women were given quasi equal rights in enlightened societies. Is there causation? I wonder.
This book was so well written that I have some quibbles with it. My puny mind could not seize the portent of the initial chapters, which dealt with the biology of the 'inferior' creatures that de Beauvoir took for examples. The reason for the absence of a female gaze is rooted in the biology of creatures that are not close to being human.
Patriarchy is a trap so cunningly disguised that it does not look like one. I despair when I see online, women going against super achievers who are themselves women. I see people saying that de Beauvoir's work was understandable at her time and is now not so pat on the topic! As if women everywhere are treated similarly. De Beauvoir is sadly still relevant today. It was the same for Marx. People who do not know better keep saying that Marx's ideas were written at a time where people were being repressed in their workers's rights. That now Marxism is redundant. It is not. And Feminism is not. It is still needed.
Men and women need to see in women beyond a baby cranking machine. In Hindu mythology, the goddess of wealth is Lakshmi, but the male god Vishnu was the one who took her as his bride. She was subordinate to him. We still see in depictions the goddess pressing the feet of the god while he lies reposed. As if he were a peasant. As if this imagery was not aimed at the poorest and the least informed and the least educated. Goddesses were created so as to subjugate women even further in Vedic and other societies.
Like I said, women in our times look down on other women who are career-oriented. I remember a comment on Goodreads where a woman was berating Julie Andrews for feeling sorry for herself when jetlagged (in her memoir) while her biological child was left behind in the US. One is not born a woman, one is born a female.
There seems, every 5 years or so, and now, where fashion peddlers market the cheapness of designer clothes. This is possible because of the slave wages which girls enjoy in developing countries. Girls are paid slave wages to work themselves to the bone. They incur the contempt of women on the other side of the world, who do not want to know how their gear was so cheap compared to the rising costs of other unrelated goods. Women are exploiting other women, but men who own the means of production pit these two classes of women agaisnt each other in a merciless and grotesque dance of exploitation.
De Beauvoir seems relevant. I have seen a few comments on a certain group on Goodreads address her as Madame de Beauvoir, repeatedly so. She was not a matron. She had no fixed significant other, she knew she was the other sex, the second sex. I love Simone de Beauvoir in the same vein that I hate Arthur Schopenhauer et al.
The serf who owned nothing used to own a wife. The slave who was whipped goes to his hovel and beats his woman. The boy is embarrassed by being seen with his mother. The unfaithful husband dreads seeing his death in the shrivelling body of his wife even as he cuts up the golden jubilee cake of his wedding anniversary. The rich cover their women with silks and gems. The middle class man praises the resourcefulness of his wife. The working class man boasts on the grounds that his wife worships the ground he walks on. I hope Feminism is taken for what it has always striven to be, namely that it asks only that women are treated as the equal of men in all ways.
Man encroaches on the woman in all ways imaginable. When the Western man calls his kith and kin to announce that his wife is pregnant, he cries, 'We are pregnant!' Go do one, Man. Your body is far less beautiful than women's. Women's body is the aesthetic of the creative force of nature, not a rib taken from Adam's body. My, oh my, I'd better end this review here....more
The book is a masterpiece, of that I don't doubt. It rings so true too. It feels lifelike, even if a few of the people - real people - are both largerThe book is a masterpiece, of that I don't doubt. It rings so true too. It feels lifelike, even if a few of the people - real people - are both larger than life and also dead, giving the story told a marvellous hue. The book is almost a standalone. The Path to Power is too good to overlook. But if push comes to shove, then do your bookish self a favour and read this biography.
Unlike a sizeable % of the books I'm fond of, this is not a forgotten but remembered book from my childhood. Neither it is a book that is a beloved Fantasy, a sequel a la Harry Potter. Robert A. Caro, the chronicler, has done his country and the Western (and Eastern) civilisation a favour. Of course, the book is not for everyone. But I say that only in terms of the likelihood the book will fall in the lap of a twenty-something reader. And that is a damn shame.
The book starts from chaos. Lyndon Baines Johnson's political plans are foiled by WW2, and by the removal of the shade provided by Roosevelt. I still don't know how exactly Johnson goes about charming the stalwarts of Washington, that bastion that radiates power and prestige. Washington DC might be the only capital city in developed countries that, outside of its museums and memorials, has little to offer to the tourist. But it is the root of every senatorial and every presidential existence.
For someone who doesn't like congenital liars and shysters, I was not surprised to find myself aloof from LBJ's narrative. But the book made me curious about his life. This book was written with so much detail yet one is never in doubt about its sources and its veracity. This is the first nonfiction book that made me cry aloud in excitement ((view spoiler)[when Stevenson gets to be the nemesis of Johnson (hide spoiler)]).
Johnson's characterisation has a familiar sound and look and feel to it. You can imagine how often people of varying origins have a mind like his. A mind thirsty for power, recognition, respect, awe. The mind that dominates is no fun to be made a show of, but Caro gives it his all. Johnson's last book looks like it won't be completed, but the third book in the series has a reputation for being the best of the known four. I don't know if I will rank among its hailers. Means of Ascent provides sinister stories but also stories reeking with humanism.
Stevenson's life was very interesting to go through. You know that, when you read his feats of struggle, then of study, then of valour, that his is a life that doesn't, simply doesn't, grow on trees. He was my preferred person in the book. In context, he was probably a racist, but compared to that Johnson, he was a better man. Both Johnson and Stevenson have passions. The former for power, and the latter for amenableness and love of the land. The difference that really overshadows the quality in Stevenson gave him the last laugh. Coke Stevenson was born at a time when cowboys were passing into legend. He would add his epitaph to even that bygone era. But he lived for his ranch, dearly but honestly bought. He lived for the loves of his life. He was 20 years Johnson's senior and he outlived the latter. Both got what they were looking for, and while one sold his soul to do it, the other enriched his, to do it.
I beseech you, if you are looking for a tl;dr section in this review, here it is. Don't overlook this book. Give your romance/mystery/horror book of the month a rest for a few weeks, and give this book an opportunity to open your eyes to a world that was perhaps your country, but in which you, the native, was a stranger to.
I really enjoyed reading this book. It is the type of book that I thought certain history and philosophy books would turn out to be. This book should never make a cynic out of you. Evil things happen, but so do fair ones. I am very relieved to venture out of my well trampled trails. This particular trample leads you to... something unequivocal. Maybe the lesson to be learnt from this book is that everyone is a child of the earth, and under the skull of anyone, has a fixed potential, and also, that everyone born in the 19th century, seemed to have lead a brief life. We can only imagine....more
I was excited to read this book, because it would be one of the rare times that I read it via the audiobook format. I knew there was more of a chance I was excited to read this book, because it would be one of the rare times that I read it via the audiobook format. I knew there was more of a chance of me finishing the read through listening to the very professional Juliet Stevenson. I can't really decimate this book bit by bit. I can't take it up to be verbose, snarky, and varied.
So I'll be brief and move on to the next read, to which I am already looking forward to. After this book, the only way is up. But my foray into YA Fantasy is not over. I want to read at least a couple of good books, lest I become bitter, unconnected with the spirit of the times, and lackadaisical.
I don't recognise many of my friends's adoration and fondness for this book. Maybe it is a YA thing, maybe it is a feminine thing. But things don't compute. People who react somewhat similarly to me, roughly so, lose their collective minds over this series, and this author, Maas. This book was jaw-droppingly of poor quality, for me at least.
I'm having difficulty in formulating the traumatic experience. My ears kind of glazed over. The professional narration, instead of fixing things, aggravated them. Stevenson meant every word that she read. The words jarred with the voice's tone. The material of the book felt so fake, and so devoid of creativity. These are immortals? These characters?
The same problem that I had with Kevin Hearne's Urban Fantasy series was apparent here. Why do even experienced women readers like this. Maybe the young and the old need the romance factor to appease them. But at what cost! At what cost, in all things holy.
The banter was extremely unfunny. Every time I listened to one 'joke', my mind came up with a better one. And that was me relaxing, or trying to, and being passively submissive to the experience. I came up with jokes that was better than those of one of the best YA authors around. I couldn't believe what was happening.
I am giving it the one star that I expected it to receive. But I thought I have seen everything with book 1. I was wrong. I will read book 3. I am hypnotised by the crap spouting out of a narrator's voice in my ear, me wishing that I was listening to some rap music or country music instead. I don't see the younger readers go against this in their later years, unlike the tacky fashion sense that always accompanies most teenagers's lives. Because... their mothers and grandmothers like the same thing.
The speed at which the eroticism began happened faster than most porn videos. Porn these days are getting too plot-centric. They ought to take a leaf out of this series. If a boring work of art is so numbing that it becomes obscene, then I guess I will almost never find favor with a single one of these bleeding books. It was not for me, my mind says. This deserves to be the only rightly banned book among the 1600 ones that have been banned in the last 9 months in schools. My heart says....more
Ken Follett seems to enjoy a longevity that would be the envy of Kafka or Nietzsche. If you weren't aware, I'm talking about his long life, not his heKen Follett seems to enjoy a longevity that would be the envy of Kafka or Nietzsche. If you weren't aware, I'm talking about his long life, not his hegemony. Follett is also without doubt a very successful author, who has hundreds of thousands of fans around the world. I'm not going to join that particular club.
Follett's book, Winter of the World, has clues littered over its face as to the secret of its success, just like a naughty kid has crumbs over his maws after pilfering the cookie jar. The first book, Fall of Giants, got one star from me. So maybe I should stop reading his books? But I have avoided the lure of his historical thrillers successfully. To this day therefore, I cannot tell you why I ceded to this WW2 book.
The deaths of the innocent is the fuel which drives the mechanism of this book. The stakes ought to be high, but this ambitious book about multi-generations and rendezvous with history seems stuffy as the stage of a high school. Follett tries to camouflage the deaths which (perhaps) seemed right and logical to him, with deaths that are not vindictive or strangely fateful. This book is very limited.
Every single woman that is interesting meets a tragedy in one form or other. While there are men who risk their lives daily in the war to end all wars - haha - the women are either boring hopefuls whose aim is to get their men, or monosyllabic geniuses who somehow untangle their tongues to narrate convenient past familial tragedies.
The men are dealt a farcical card, in a universe, that, when guided by Follett's pen, seems jocularly simplistic. The sole intriguing fact about this book are the couples and maybe happy marriages that survive their acid tests. The unions in this book are devoid of romance. Even the most focused of romances, which ought to feel like a mini slice of harlequinism (that word ought to exist) are as famous as the year your warm beer was made. Dusting off my review of Fall of Giants, it seems that the author has continued in creating characters that have a life that looks like the high school overachiever. All the characters, without fault, have the most exciting part of their lives when they are 21.
While some arcs have less melodrama than others, those that don't, just ruin the effect of danger that the book strives to have. The plot is logical when it is convenient, and its opposite when it is inconvenient. The lack of respect for the reader means that many who have given this book a positive score have ignored or been unaware of it. Congrats Kenny, you know the odds, if not your audience.
The worst things about this book is that it lets major bias from the author creep in. First of all, one character keeps the love child of a rapist. Her revenge is that she will raise her kid to be someone you know, who treats men and women equally respectfully. Banzai! Also, Truman thought he was the king of the world? The truest and most honest man to hold any kind of office in world history?
This book lacks the cruelty of Pillars of the Earth, for which I am personally thankful. But its senseless romance, its staged suspense, its deliberate putdown of women, its unawareness of what is clever and what is stupid, all undo the hard work of the research to which Follett has probably had access to. This is the work of a successful, prolific, inspiring, and experienced writer. It feels like the work of an AI who has been programmed to imitate the writing style of a combination of a 16th century Calvinist monk and Barbara Cartland. Follett, take up a hobby and enjoy your twilight years, there's a good lad....more
Words of Radiance is a damn fine title of a very good book. In it the superheroes absorb something called Stormlight, and glow, and can fly and duel wWords of Radiance is a damn fine title of a very good book. In it the superheroes absorb something called Stormlight, and glow, and can fly and duel with the best of duellers. Along with being purdy, the flashes remind me of the brilliance of Sanderson's imagination.
This reread erased many confusions and unfounded hunches that I had collected like stamps, on my first read. Many misconceptions or simple confusions were ironed out. This is a Fantasy book. It is an improvement on the longwinded Fantasy books of the 70s and 80s where their brick sized mass seemed like overweight men who have a lot of gas. Does reinventing a tired genre cures one from wind? I personally intend to find out.
I thought that the ideas in the book were of the magnitude of serious daring. Many of the ideas fitted each other like Lego blocks, or puzzle pieces. It is the result of intense thought. The result makes the reader be immersed in the society created by the author. Reading this feels right.
I hope to live long enough to reread this, when inexorably, my memories of the book dulls. My favourite character remains Kaladin. It was a move of inspiration that made Sanderson give the name of 'Stormblessed' to his most heroic and least boring character. I have a fondness for him because he expresses the type of angst that takes delay to be recognised as that of a new adult.
Shallan is the main problem in this book. She does never shut up. She is not funny, and not even smart. Her goofiness passes for fencing humor here, but she is beyond help. She is an issue, but the only one.
Words of Radiance seems complete and unchanging. Its reputation will stay immortal. Its treatment of slavery, religion, economics, Monarchy, its inspiration for names from many cultures, its lithe storytelling, will stay like a huge pyramid that will weather storms for fun. Just like the Eiffel Tower was the first building to be higher than the pyramids, 2400 years later after the latter, so will Words of Radiance be unchallenged for decades at least.
I will also salute the format of the book. It is easily the best e-book design I've ever seen. Then there are the hints that are lovingly revealed throughout confused, small passages. The very supernatural aspects of the book come in small packets. This reread made me understand that. I see things in the story clearer. A perfunctory read of the book will not do. Your eyes need to be alert for pages and pages of suggestions and hints. I look to the past with scorn, at the Tolkienising of Fantasy. But I look to the future with eager pride at what I have witnessed....more
I have finished reading Perdido Street Station, and I recognise the hand of a master. The ending was absurd resistance. The logic in the shingles of tI have finished reading Perdido Street Station, and I recognise the hand of a master. The ending was absurd resistance. The logic in the shingles of the book a bastion against rest.
The book was more than I was prepared to fathom. Everything seemed like the first draft of fate, with nothing being changed, or rather, shortchanged.
Liking Perdido Street Station means understanding the oozing patience of the author and readers alike. I was reading the book through my trusted Kindle. But in effect it seemed as if I were watching over the shoulder of Mieville as he wrote.
And boy, can he write. This book never felt like cyberpunk. I had been loath to travail through this subgenre of Fantasy again after countless cold and mutated works.
Here, everything was free as sugar. You get great writing, great plotting, great vision whether you ask for it, whether you are prepared for it or not. The book is grudging greed unmasked.
I would not write a spoiler laden review even if you paid me enough. Mieville is so much better than many better selling authors of his generation. Read this and say no....more
In my life I've read the book 2 times. And there have been 2 more times when I had to refrain from completely reading it due to not being prepared forIn my life I've read the book 2 times. And there have been 2 more times when I had to refrain from completely reading it due to not being prepared for it. Although I give the book 4 stars, it remains one of the best books I've ever read.
Consider two albums by Radiohead. The Bends and say, Hail to the Thief. The Bends has fewer radio friendly songs, but when the songs hit a high note, boy do they hit it. Conversely, Hail to the Thief was nice, not great. The band is more consistent, but they never threaten to achieve the level of superlative form as in The Bends. Martin Chuzzlewit is like the Bends. Phew.
When Dickens plots, he plots like nobody else. He excels at creating characters that move on the board as set pieces. Some characters bide their time. Others burn bright then sober up. It's a vast canvas here and I retained a powerful extolment during the American episode. But Dickens never knows the term writing block.
Dickens turns on the faucet of words at will and can go on, sometimes being unfunny, other times being even less funny. His sense of humor has aged like a Chaplin film. But he can write at will, like I said. Martin Chuzzlewit's villains and victims were memorable, and their tragedies and rewards were what I take away from this latest read....more
How cute. A Krusty wanting to write a bestseller, faddish, and sensational book about vampires. Well, his hard work has paid off, as the book is critiHow cute. A Krusty wanting to write a bestseller, faddish, and sensational book about vampires. Well, his hard work has paid off, as the book is critically and commercially a success. This will cause a lot of budding or even experienced readers to get conned by Krusty.
We are like newborn turtles trying to reach the sea from our hatching underground nest. Most of us don't reach that sea of understanding and critical thinking that makes the mind fertile with discerning thoughts.
The shock value in this book is laughable. Take the instance of the deaths. They may be gory, but they are not pathos ridden, unless you take each book at face value and ditch your experience during reading.
The ending does not salvage a bad piece of work. I hope the teens who got hoodwinked by this book will learn to give proper due to real classics. I know that I'm speaking out of turn, knowing that every book is subjectively consumed. But the alternative to riding the objective train is to berate Krusty till I die, and I think I already have had 800 pages worth of the guy to last my lifetime.
There's no way this book gets more staying power than even the Anne Rice books. The need to reinvent a religion (hailed by some readers as world building) shows the cowardice of Krustovski. He is like a cook who started with the intention to make a cronut (yum!) and instead ended with pretzels....more
I have been keeping firmly away from every type and shade of reviews that would give me spoilers for this book, Jade City. I know there are one star rI have been keeping firmly away from every type and shade of reviews that would give me spoilers for this book, Jade City. I know there are one star reviews of this book. I don't understand the reason people give for it. The most misunderstanding complaint is that the book is boring.
Believe me, it is not. Nor will it not be for countless other readers. In trying to know why a minority hated it, I recall the books that ranked high to which I gave 1 star. Hamnet, A Prisoner of Birth, The Three Musketeers, many more. Some books that I rated 1 star were classics that would only please the initiated.
What I know is that I get Jade City. I love its earthy prose. I admire its openly vague acts of vagueness, i.e. little to no display of research, except perhaps for the accounting of the Jade in the book. Jade City is not extremely popular. But it is extremely well plotted. The pacing is perfect. It will be remembered by its fans and will not be completely forgotten.
Jade City is a stepping stone for me. I have made my peace with romance books. But though I'll never complete a romance book that mention genitals galore in its second chapter, I've made progress in the right direction.
Why am I telling you all this? I would have dropped Jade City in the not so distant past. I have evolved for the better. And this diversity is what I need to prevent me from becoming a YA book lover, or a scholar of Dickens. I will not specialise. Specialisation is for insects. You have only one life here. Take a sip from most books that you fancy....more
I didn't understand the last chapter. I kind of understood who was who, but there's a suspicion that the author was trolling in a way different from tI didn't understand the last chapter. I kind of understood who was who, but there's a suspicion that the author was trolling in a way different from the rest of the book. It seems like Moriarty had overextended her resources. She might have worked the ending during a late night in buzzing critter infested Australia. At least that's what I imagined.
The book is better than what I read of her other books. This book is special. It is the same with me with jokes. Recently I've been cracking more good jokes than usual. If the sense of humour is like a muscle, then so is the knack to write book after book. Stephen King practically said that if one can subsist on one's writing, he considered that person a good writer. So why does he keep degrading James Patterson?
What's my business in this entire reading experience is the fact that just like with the best of writers, the words kept reaching my eyes with no lull in quality, bar a couple of early chapters where I imagined giving the book 2 stars. Apples Never Fall is such a surprising title that I thought there must be a tennis reference buried in it. Fat chance of that.
Among the four siblings in the story, I mentally reached out to poor Brooke, who cannot catch a happy ending to match those of her brothers and one sister. But she does get a smashing (yep) apple crumble in the end. That counts, right? The most satisfying tennis trivia I have independently known is about why zero is called love in tennis. You should google it.
I was thoroughly entertained by this book, which I bought from Amazon. I feel the necessity to support the best authors who repay you with words worth more than the book's price. Begging, borrowing, or stealing won't do here. I was reminded of how powerful a reading experience can be. The latter can be classified in merely the mystery/thriller register. But that would be unfair. There are traces of literariness, and chick lit in the mix. In the end, don't we readers crave for something similar? I look to the next book of Moriarty with great anticipation....more
This book was not uniformly good, and its sluggish start was quite gloomy. I thought of putting down the book and looking for alternatives while my exThis book was not uniformly good, and its sluggish start was quite gloomy. I thought of putting down the book and looking for alternatives while my expectations levels adjusted themselves to the lacklustre beginnings.
The one new word that I definitely learned in this middle grade book - peopled as it was with a bunch of gifted children - was pulchritude. You'll thank me for underlying this point after you've checked its meaning.
The clues in the book are concrete clues. They are hints left by the grown up de facto chief of the gifted (gifted seems a bit unspecific here so I'll use the French word surdoués) clan. Where was I? Yes, the clues left by the ringleader were sometimes unfairly difficult, but more often than not, they were within the reach of the children.
I am very glad to have concluded that unlike Enid Blyton's books, where the latter author just had to elect a leader of the various groups, here among the 4 children, power is distributed democratically. Everyone gets their time to shine, and though the boy Reynie was the most resourceful one, the others had real talent different from him, to offer.
I think the author bided his time to use a joke that he must have been itching to use. You see, one of the children's surname was Contraire, and when the chief of the baddies prattled on : 'Au contraire...', well you can guess what misunderstanding happens. It was a pity that 'No ****, Sherlock,' wasn't in canon Sherlock lore. Too ahead of its time I guess.
This was a good book. I do recommend it to all people who love to read. The author, Trenton Lee Stewart, kind of got writer's block at the end and didn't know how to finish his book and as a result the book ended abruptly. It's an interesting ending, but its setting was just as rambunctious as the ending in all Asterix books, at least all that I've read....more
**spoiler alert** This book is responsible for me to lose interest in the rest of the 4 Mistborn books. It was the beginning of Sanderson's dwindling **spoiler alert** This book is responsible for me to lose interest in the rest of the 4 Mistborn books. It was the beginning of Sanderson's dwindling goodwill in my eye.
I have read this book a couple of years ago. I still remember the disappointments of the story. Elend gaining superpowers did it for me.
I respect the fans' opinion, but I knew from reading this 2nd installment that the nadir of Sanderson, the Stormlight series would not jibe with me.
Fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again....more
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