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TBA

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The Russian Revolution of 1917 and the rise of Stalinism, explained for 8th graders. This book, as horrified and stupified as it had made me, kept reminding me of the stories my parents used to tell me about growing up in the Soviet Union in the 70s and 80s. An incredibly well executed allegory. Done so hauntingly well.

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This book tormented me for over a week before I allowed myself to check it out at the library. I could not stop laughing after every other page from the sheer obsurdity. I was glad to not to have judged it, as the age-old saying goes, by the cover alone. While it was, admittedly, rather shallow, it was fun to read. However, I couldn't even bring myself to open it in the library while people were walking behind me.

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I was as dumbfounded as I felt high on psyhedelics, or perhaps actively detereorating. Notes such as "This chapter was left incomplete" made everything feel even more morbid. It made me think of the things people leave unfinished after their death, as well as the fact that Kafka had requested for his writing to be burned after his horrific death. It might have clouded my perception of the book for all I know.

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This book was assigned by my French teacher for an assignment. I had to buy both the student version and orginal second-hand from France. Frédéric's 12-year-old-boy honesty with himself really captivated me: "I'm a fraud. [...] I'm sick, I'm sick, I'm sick and tired of perpetuating this lie. [...] That's my problem. I'm surrounded by good people while I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person because I hurt everyone. All this just to show off and make myself look interesting." (Frédéric Legendre, part 2). My only complain is that the book isn't 200 pages longer. It felt like climbing into fresh sheets after a hot shower after a devastating argument of hysterical crying.

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A simple comic. I felt satisfied, like after enjoying an old, homemade meal. I spent time examining each page, appreciating the artistry and attention to detail. Reading up on the real Dalton gang afterward, I was delighted to discover photographs taken after their capture were directly referenced.

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A journey amongst veterans, strangers and the clinically insane. I laughed, trembled and choked back tears (among several other bodily fluids).

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I finally read McCarthy's "magnum opus" after several previously failed attempts. I had a five-hour video essay saved that I was desperate to watch but refused to touch until I had finished it. I found myself blanking sometimes. The prose felt vividly oppressive. Despite the brutality and goring that occurs only pages earlier, moments of sudden empathy emerge. The hypocrisy of it all made me, admittedly, spiral: "He looked down at the judge. You ain't seen my dog, have ye?" (Glanton, ch. 11). After finishing it, I analysed it thouroughly in never ending rants. Even then, I doubt I fully grasped even a fraction of it.