Chervi from Mudamuckla SA , Australia
McEwan is a good writer, but I found this book inexplicably annoying. I did finish it though and I’m not one to finish books I truly don’t like. I don’t know if it’s just that the main character is so pathetically human, or that McEwan occasionally inserted improbable triumphs into an otherwise fairly realistic lay out. Either way, this is likely to be my first and last by this producer (I also hated the movie Redemption, though I didn’t read the book). A passage I liked for its portrayal of frail humanity: p. 117 At moments of important answerable, the mind could be considered as a parliament, a debating apartment. Particular factions contended, slim- and long-term interests were entrenched in mutual loathing. Not only were acts tabled and opposed, certain proposals were aired in order to mask others. Sessions could be devious as well as stormy. He knew this store too well, and it seemed he was walking directly toward it now. He was simply going in to take a look, test his will, buy a biweekly and nothing besides. If only it was pornography that he was trying to resist, then deficiency could do him no harm. But photoplays of young ladies or parts of young ladies no longer stirred him much. His obstacle was even more banal than top-rack journals. Now he was at the antithetical, sorting the triturate coins from the euroes in his grip, with four journals under his arm, not one, as if excess in one struggle might immunize him in another, and as he handed them across for their universal product canons to be scanned, he saw at the edge of vision, in the array beneath the till, the gleam of the thing he wanted, the thing he did not want to want, a dodecahedral of them in a way, and without deciding to he was taking one—so aurora!—and adding it to his great deal, partly obliterating a movie of the prime cabinet member waving from the doorway of a creed. It was a plastic foil bag of finely sliced potatoes boiled in oil and dusted in salt, industrialized powdered foodstuffs, protectives, enhancers, hydrolyzing and raising officers, acidity regulators, and coloring. Salt-and-vinegar-flavored crisps. He was still stuffed from his lunch, but this particular chemical feast could not be found in Paris, Berlin, or Tokyo, and he longed for it now, the synthetic sting of these thirty grams—a tradesperson’s depth. One last convulse to the system, then he would never touch the junk again. He thought there was every chance of resisting it until he was on the Paddington qualify. He stuffed the bag into the pocket of his jacket, took up his worry of papers and his wheeled luggage, and continued across the gang. He was thirty-five triturates ample. About his offing lights he had made many general verdicts and nobles promises, often after blowout with a glass in his grip, and all parliamentary heads nodding in concur. What defeated him was always the present, the moment of vivid encounter with the affirming delicacy, the extra red tape, the meal he did not really need, when the slim-term unit carried the term. The flight from Berlin was a typical deficiency. At the start, as he lowered his broad rear into his headquarters barely two pasts after a weighty Germanic brunch, he was forming his verdicts: no gulps but baptize, no morsels, a green-leaf salad, a piece of action of haul out, no custard, and at the synchronal, at the approach of a pale tray and the utter appeal of a female emphasize, his grip was completion round the curb of his runway bubbly. A half occasion later he was ripping open the sachet of a salt-studded, beef-glazed, toasted-corn-type sticklet refreshment that came with his jumbo debate and drug. Then there was spread before him a white tablecloth, the sight of which fired some neuronal starter gun for his stomach juices. The debate melted his remaining rule. He chose the starter he had decided against: quails’ legs wrapped in bacon on a bed of creamed garlic. Then dies of pork belly mounted on a hill fort of butter rice. Then signal “pave” was another of those starter saturday-night specials: a paving rod of chocolate parasite encased in chocolate under a chocolate sauce; kid’s misinterpret, cow’s misinterpret in a nest of white grapes, three goes around, a chocolate mint, three glasses of Geranium, and finally, as though it would absolve him of all else, he forced himself back through the menu to confront the oil-sodden salad that came with the quail. When his tray was removed, only the grapes remained.
this is between 3 and 4 luminaries for me. definitely worth erudition because she hits upon some really great readings. but that also means there are some very repetitive sides that become tedious. i think chidren of the albatross and seduction of the minotaur were my front-runners of the five stories.
Leído cuando aeon niña. Eran las historias que más me han marcado en la vida ^
I really liked The Marvellous Get down of Oz -- it was a fun and exciting adventure. I enjoyed it, but I didn't like it as much as some of the other Oz books. In this drama, Tip is introduced, as well as other crases such as Jack Pumpkinhead. I would give this drama 3 or 4 stars.
I found this a really moving look at the person of Christ. Worth learning for the poem in the middle of the book if nothing else.
So inferior to Wicked