This is late because my husband, cat, and I just finished moving to a new apartment. Moving is exhausting, especially because we were trying to get our cleaning deposit back after living in the same place for eight+ years, and then when we got to our new place we found the cleaners had done a horrendous job- so I essentially spent two months cleaning. I thought my hands were going to die on my wrists, they were so dry and tattered from scrubbing and chemicals.
Now we are settled, everything is cleaned and unpacked, and despite my brick and mortar job throwing a curve ball at me last week, things should be normalizing a bit. *knocks on wood*
Oh, how I wanted to like this book. Oh, how I set forth into it’s pages with the golden promise of a beautiful dawn setting my path aglow. Anchored fast by the scores of joyous online reviews and the exuberance of one of the employees of my local bookstore, who was a veritable font of praise and excitement at seeing this book about to be devoured by another soon-to-be-delighted reader.
Little did I know the road that had lead so many others to happiness and satisfaction would lead me to the cliffs of hollow obligation and disappointment.
First of all, allow me to say that this was a beautiful story, even though (as Mr. Rothfuss says) it does not do the things a traditional story does. It is nonetheless pure delight, and hard to put down because of it. Some people were disappointed in this novella because of it’s lack of focus on Kvothe, or because they feel Mr. Rothfuss should only work on the next novel of the King Killer Chronicles- this story is not for them.
As the Afterward says, this book is for all the fucked up people, you can look into this fragmented story and see a reflection of yourself, like a mirror shattered on the ground. There were moments I had to put the book down and simply be amazed at how perfectly Patrick Rothfuss got it, how he captured in words the frantic-bird-flight of the heart, the way the world suddenly turns on it’s head, comes rushing at you all at once, and every press of cloth, every shaft of light, feels like daggers to the throat. But he also captured moonlight with his words, cartwheels and soft songs. You have to read it to understand, and even then you might not- but I firmly believe it’s worth it to dive into the darkness with Auri, to see and feel the world alongside her, as she waits for a visit from Kvothe…
Better late then never! Alright, I’ll be honest- I forgot to post this. It’s OK, it still holds truth!
What a year, what a year. Half given to intense bouts of depression and anxiety, I did however manage to wade through a total of twenty four books. Here’s a look back at the ones I just could not finish, which is saying a lot, considering the last time I didn’t finish a narrative was Blackwood Farm by Anne Rice, all the way back in 2002. And while none of these ended with me screaming in frustration and throwing the book at the wall like that did, they were still… not necessarily enjoyable. Also, spoilers.
In a world where our grasp of space and robotics-based technology is rapidly accelerating, where a robot has been granted citizenry and an international gateway is planned for the moon, stories that blur the line between what we know is human and what we perceive as such become more and more relevant. Tales that bring to the forefront questions about humanity, what defines it, what defines us. When we fail to treat other beings with the respect and dignity we ourselves feel we deserve, do we relinquish some of our own morality? If we create something with the ability to empathize, to sympathize, are we wrong to not recognize those emotions as valid?
I adored this first volume of Descender; it’s one of those books that you want everyone to read while also never allowing your own copy out of your possession. Emotional, intelligent, well written, and beautifully brought to life, it’s not hard to fall in love….
Two days till Christmas, and the gifts I can’t give are the ones I wish I had. Cancer laces the path of my family, it’s left it’s scars on me and my mother, it’s taken my aunt and my grandfather, now it crawls it’s way through my grandmother’s body and there is nothing we can do to stop it.
Outside the night grows darker, on occasion I hear the crack of wood as the ax connects. It’s an old rhythm, one that’s tangled within the song of the mourning doves roosting in the old oaks and the singing of the floorboards as I pace the home I grew up in. I remember the place as it was; the organ in the kitchen, the delicate glass lamps, an old record player below the TV stand. I remember Lawrence Welk and Sesame Street and being loved. Ghosts and memories, nostalgia is an old wound that never heals…