Review: Crooked Kingdom - Leigh Bardugo

21/11/22

This time, there was no “slowly getting into it”. 

I knew the characters, I loved them and I eagerly jumped back in. Once again, the action was contant, the planning was constant, always moving to a new plan, to a new list of things that need to be done and where any of them can go wrong. I have to say, reading this book may not even be healthy for anxious people - I'm not usually anxious while reading and when I am it's not so bad. But here I looked at what will happen next a few times, which I almost never do. But something crazy happens to a character and then you switch to different povs and you know… sometimes you just have to know right away that they survived, otherwise how am I supposed to focus. And when it comes to them surviving two books of absolute batshit situations, it can start to look ridiculous after some point, but it was always written well and seemed somehow natural and no, I won't tell you if they did till the end, you will have to be anxious as well. 

There was a point where I felt like if I read the word “plan” one more time I will punch someone. The book probably. I actually felt tired at that point - because they had one goal and went through two hundred different plans to achieve it. Especially when Kaz said a plan, then Nina wanted to so something before it, so they created a plan before a plan, but to achieve that, they needed a plan for the plan before a plan and I literally read three plans one after the other, each one completely crazy and when I imagined how I will have to go through all of them with them before we get to THE PLAN I just wanted to throw that book out the window. It was a little exhausting. And you know, Kaz and his constant “being ahead” was done very well, but there was also at least one point when I was like “that's enough”. I would say that compared to the first one, this book was “more” in everything, to the point where it may have been a little overdone. Just a little, okay? Otherwise it was great. 

What I loved the most, once again, were the characters, but specifically the parallels between them - two soldiers on opposite sides, two most dangerous people in the city, that can't stand touch for different reasons and two boys, one that is hiding the skill he would rather not have, the other hiding that he doesn't have the skill he would like to have. It created great dynamics and points of view, when they were either standing on the opposite side of things or just had a different experience with the same thing and they completed each other nicely (and a little too conveniently, but so what). And while I felt only some chemistry between Kaz and Inej in the first book, here it went off and I finally felt the full force of that ship. It hit me hard, I admit. 

Anyway, this review is surprisingly negative in focusing on some issues, but I just had to say them. Still, I didn't really mind them - I loved the characters, really, really much, I loved being in that world with them, I was immersed and it was great to be fully enveloped in a fantasy book in a different world and with a fictional family once again. My feelings were all over the place and I was so invested I wasn't sure what to do when it was all done. 

Overall, these books are great and I adored the characters in them. I know I won't stop thinking about them for some time, which is a big success. Because of them, Crows are definitely somewhere up there: belonging on the shelves with the books that are special to me. 

!!!SPOILER WARNING!!!

Really, don't read further if you want to read it in the future.

And now. We are going to talk about that chapter and that scene and then we will continue to pretend it doesn't exist. 

Firstly, I will say this: obviously, I was devastated. I already told you how much I loved Nina and Matthias and how I have such a soft spot for blonde Northmen in general. But secondly: the death of Matthias was a bit cheap. Yes, it was poetic in a way that his “younger self” (or someone resembling it) killed him when his development came full circle, but just… It pissed me off in more than one way. I've found the theme of a brainwashed soldier trying to get better incredibly interesting and his character as well (even though I've also found out I'm actually in the minority it seems, many people weren't such big fans). So yes, I was hurt. But that I can take. 

It kinda bugged me however that it seemed like I'm the only one really hurt - sure, some characters weren't that close to him and they were used to people dying and they showed their sadness anyway, but it really felt like his death was just brushed away. Especially from Nina. And that was my trigger point, because Jesus, how I loved those two together. And then it felt like she let him go and really just… let him go. She even jokes almost right after and was just the usual Nina and it felt so wrong for me. I was also a little angry with the author, because I knew one of them would die to make all that “crazy surviving” more believable, so it was predictable in a way, and I also knew it would be Matthias, which was again, predictable. He was the obvious choice because he was the safest choice from the cast - in more than one way, I think you can figure out which the others are. And I just don't like it very much, when something is easily predictable and when the author follows an obvious pattern. Either take a bigger risk or just defy the expectation completely. But I'm honestly just a little bitter and maybe I'm just frowning uselessly and stumping the ground like an angry child, because I cared a bit too much, but whatever, it makes me feel better, okay? So there it is. 

Now we can go back to pretending he's fine, just somewhere out there calling Kaz a demon over and over again while eating waffles with Nina.  

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Review: Six of Crows - Leigh Bardugo

13/11/22 

I used to be a fantasy junkie - diving into fictional worlds was my obsession (and often necessity to survive reality). Then life and time and stuff happened and there was not so much space for it anymore. But my love for it was still strong and so the “tbr” list of fantasy books was getting longer and longer and now there are so many of them, that I may go crazy. But instead, I finally took a deep breath, put the other genres away for a bit and reached for fantasy - and not just any fantasy. For the one that is all over my feed and bookstores. And I was fully aware that that's not so good, because it creates expectations, but the book had the opportunity to prove itself. And well…

… it did. 

Even though I was not feeling it from the beginning. It was a bit confusing and a little too much. I don't usually have a problem with names, but there were a lot of new names for everything, not just people. The whole world, the city, the parts of it, gangs, its members, our protagonists, the magicians and all their orders (this was my first Grisha book). My head may have hurted a little, which doesn't happen usually, but it was late at night and I was ready to dive into some fictional world and instead got an encyclopaedia thrown into my face. I didn't create much of a bond with the characters at first and just… you know, don't take me wrong, it was nice, I was interested, but it wasn't the best first date I had with a book. But, as it sometimes happens, as we got to know each other, meeting every night, it got better. And the characters became the driving force for the whole thing. The worldbuilding is great, the story is good, but those characters… THOSE CHARACTERS. They could literally be fishing the whole book and I would like it the same probably.  

They are very diverse, both in character and appearance, which seemed very natural and their dynamics were just perfect. If I'm a basic bitch in something, it's always going for the dark guy that borders with the villain. The only exception is if there's a blonde Northman that has something to do with wolves and here there was both of them. It's so hard to pick a favourite from them all and I won't, but I will say - I lived for Nina and Matthias. I loved them to death and I could read a trilogy just about them, but then I would also miss all the others that were amazing. What I really, really appreciate though, is that there are two main women and guess what. They are friends, from the beginning till the end, no fighting about men or talking about which one is more hot, they are not enemies even for a second, just completely supporting one another and I could actually cry about that, like… thank you. Just thank you. 

It got to a point when I just couldn't put the book down. And it may seem that it was because of the story and action, because there was so much of it, but the main reason was, again, the characters. I just wanted to read another interaction and then another and I could spend my life with them. People usually complain about things being slow, but I'm the opposite - I often prefer them that way and so what I've enjoyed the most were the calmer passages where you got to know some of their stories and their backgrounds and it was all very interesting and just… yes. I love them all, the whole squad and I honestly don't even care what I'm reading about as long as they are in it. That about sums it up for me. (More than two months later and I still think about them often. They're worth it.)

My only problem with them, as always, was the age. I know it highlights the lives they live and fates they had to suffer at such a young age, and yes, those things also make you more mature, but there is no way I can believe that that many characters at once can look mature and act mature and be the absolute top in their skills. No. Way. So in my head, they are all over twenty.

Anyway, my restored reading of the fantasy genre was a success (for now) and I'm very curious what the next one will bring. 

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Review: Hear the Wind Sing - Haruki Murakami

12/01/23

This was a re-read for me and everything else apart, the main thing why I come back to Murakami over and over again is that certain feeling that you get from his work. It's the same one I often feel in life as well, but it's hard to name it or even catch it sometimes. But it's always there waiting in his books and even if they have issues or are (like here) less good than some others of his, or the story is not the strongest or not there at all, and some themes are constantly repeating themselves... It's like I can't be disappointed, because that feeling is always there and for me that is the strongest thing about his novels and the one I care about the most. I would compare it to a comfortable nihilism - not much happens or not much matters, things are strange and life is nostalgic, and it goes on, so the only thing you can do is enjoy your spaghetti or your jazz record to the fullest.

I had read quite a few of Murakami's books before reading his first ones and I remember thinking that even though it’s still him and the books have the same feel, they are a little "less" than the others. Which makes sense, as he was just starting his career. I had similar feelings now, but I actually may have enjoyed it better the second time around since I knew already what to expect - or better to say: not to expect - and was just vibing on my train ride. And his books always are a vibe. They leave me feeling nostalgic, sitting in the kitchen, drinking coke and pondering life. 

Hear the Wind Sing is a short one and the story is kind of missing, but it's also a nice (and literal) introduction to his writing. It shows the base of how most of his books are, so it's not the worst to start at when you want to read him, but don't expect anything that will blow you away. Maybe just open some cold beer, don't think about it too much and enjoy the feeling.

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Review: To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf

05/12/22

The first thing that will come to my mind every time when I'll be thinking about this book will be: black tea and heartache. I drank an unhealthy amount of it, while drifting through people's minds and both the tea and the thoughts often left a pleasant, but bitter aftertaste. 

This is no easy book to read. It was my first experience with Virginia and her writing and I don't know what I was expecting, but when I started to read this little book at three in the morning I got very suddenly and very completely lost and confused. I had no idea whose thoughts I was reading, the consciousnesses (what is this word) merged together and the timeline was a mystery to me. The opening is especially brutal in this, it still looks like the hardest part to make sense of. So I closed it and a few days later, when I was less tired, started again. And fully focused and prepared for her writing, it was much easier. For me at least, it still doesn't have to be for someone else even the second time around. And someone else maybe won't have any troubles at all, but I still think her writing can be objectively labelled as difficult. 

The second time felt like lying in the ocean, being carried by waves, each whispering and talking about something else. The change of the waves is almost unnoticeable but you learn to tell them apart. You need concentration for this book, but at the same time not to focus too hard and just… let it carry you. The imaginary was often insanely beautiful, the philosophy and psychology aspects interesting and there were some quotes that spoke to me on some primal level and still linger. When you spend a few nights with someone's thoughts, almost unfiltered, you will miss them a little when the book is closed and it's quiet. Your own stream of thoughts seems even louder then and there is something different about it - little pieces of their thoughts that became yours and stayed. Or they were always yours, now you just finally hear them. Maybe we are really all just different parts of one merged consciousness - that was exactly how reading this book felt like.

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Review: White Nights - Fyodor Dostoevsky

06/01/23 

Imagine lying on your bed at three in the morning with your soul ripped open, your deepest feelings uncovered, your hidden and forgotten fears and hopes and dreams screaming loudly all around you and in between all that violence, a quiet peace is slowly enveloping you - feeling of being understood on a level deeper than you ever thought you could be… understood by a book, a character, an author.

Such a small thing this book, so short and yet hides so much inside of it. It was enough for me to see where both the genius and the devil of Dostoyevsky lies. He dives deep into the human soul and uncovers it smoothly, even against your will, making you face things you sometimes wish would remain buried. You both love and hate him for it, because you are finally understood, but left to pick up the pieces afterwards. 

Maybe that's just me, maybe you won't be so affected by this little thing. But for me it was something revolutionary - I had never related so deeply. The main character is a dreamer and I've spent most of my life in dreams, in various meanings, bad while sleeping, mostly good while being awake. Often, they were (and still are) a real problem for me: I would constantly stop listening to people, I would not pay attention to my surroundings, I wouldn't even properly live in reality, completely lost in my own imagination instead. It's like a drug, an addiction, colourful, exploding, joyful, something to hide in, something to save you, but at the same time making everything else dull and grey and pointless, shaping you into a walking corpse with a loud head and empty eyes. 

And it's not the only theme this book touches deeply upon. There is loneliness and melancholy, hopeless future and unrequited love. But the thing I appreciate the most - how the protagonist responded to it. I would throw this book into the face of all the incels of this world (and regret it's not thicker), because this is how you handle rejection. 

I can't imagine a better book to begin my year with. And if you ever want to give Dostoyevsky a chance, this is a good start. 

New favourite quote: “My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man's life?”

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Review: Kwaidan - Lafcadio Hean

(06/11/22)

Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things, Lafcadio Hearn

I love Japanese culture and therefore may be biased when judging this book. Because even though I enjoyed this collection by Hearn, I can imagine some people being disappointed. The stories are strange indeed, often very short and many of them feel only like a piece of a story or someone telling you a story they had heard a long time ago and parts of it got lost along the way. 

For me it was ideal. Cold November nights and strange Japanese beings and spirits for company can create an interesting atmosphere. I enjoyed them especially because they were a little different from the ones we are used to here in the West. They could go from gore to melancholic, from curious to heartbreaking. Through folklore you can always get to know some roots of the culture (here the roots often being chinese) and even in my little country that is far from Japan, while reading, I felt like I'm sitting close to a fire with some wandering monk, telling stories about creatures that lurk around us in the shadows. They were very vivid and alive.

The second part of the book contained three essays on insects and some translated poetry. The part about butterflies was as beautiful as butterflies themselves. Suddenly all these random appearances of butterflies in anime made sense when you knew what they could mean for Japanese people. When it comes to the other two… to be honest, I never thought that I would enjoy reading about ants and mosquitos, but both carried either beautiful or interesting thoughts and were written well. 

This book created an atmosphere that I enjoyed and gave me some inspiration. Because of that I liked even those stories that felt only like a part of some bigger one - it made me think and imagine and want to write something inspired by it. 

So if you want to transport yourself for a few brief moments into different times, sit in some bamboo grove or visit a monastery and feel the presence of evil goblins, trees with souls or vengeful ghosts, this is your ticket. 

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Review: Paris Spleen - Charles Baudelaire

(17/07/22)

This book is very special to me. 

I purchased it at a flea market when I was very young, fascinated by how very old it was. It was in my possession for years and I never read the whole thing. Instead, at random moments in my life, I opened it, read a few sentences and carried those fragments inside me throughout the years, always collecting some new ones after a while. I would imagine who owned it, how they lived and how they died. It inspired me to write a whole story of my own and any book that inspires you to write is a special one.

And the best thing about this little book - someone marked the sentences they liked. Often reading only those, it made me feel like I was getting to know some stranger from the past. When I finally picked up the book and decided to read it “properly”, I also underlined sentences and often they were already marked or our lines would meet. I was sharing that reading experience with someone from the past, someone probably already dead, but very present in those moments. I could smile when we shared feelings for a piece of old writing and imagine what kind of person it was. It was magical and made this book something more than a book to me, so it's hard to judge it as one.

But about its content I will say this: you will find emotional, beautifully written poetic prose here, that is often harsh or sad, decadent or pessimistic and with questionable morals, but carries sentiments about loneliness, nature and arts that will touch your soul. Mostly reflections with dark truths underneath. Some pieces were just strange and I can't say I fully understood them, but I don't feel like the purpose of poetry is to always understand it, it's more about making you feel and imagine and they did just that. There were also some that I loved and the amount of quotes that you can collect here is enormous. 

So even if you won't share this book with a stranger from the past, you can find something special in it.

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Review: The Secret History - Donna Tartt

14/11/22

I won't forget reading this book. 

I did so in probably the best time possible - in late September, when nostalgic ghosts roamed the world unleashed, when baristas started sprinkling my cappuccinos with cinnamon and when I took my coat from the wardrobe for the first time since the winter. I will say it a hundred times, but for me the reading experience is as important as the book itself and I loved this one: late autumn nights, tired eyes in four in the morning, midnight dinners of croissants and grapes (I did not tried to be pretentious, it just naturally came). I would always put a pencil behind my ear, ready to underline the hell out of it, listen to a quiet classical music in the background and occasionally write snippets of some thoughts on my notes. It made me think all the time, write more again and I adored the book for it. That whole period of reading it had a very specific atmosphere and activities linked to it that will always be tied together in my mind and memories. And I will miss it.

Same as I will miss the atmosphere of the book itself, its morally corrupt characters, Hampden, the country house and just… spending time there and with them all. Even though they are a bunch of… well, a bunch. To say it has a way of “gripping you” doesn't seem completely right, because that can be said about any book and this one wasn't gripping exactly, it had a very specific process of… what. Enchanting me? Possessing me? Hypnotizing? Fascinating? Entrancing? I honestly don't know but there's a possibility that the same will happen to you and you will live there. You will walk that campus, eat those sunday dinners, feel sick in your stomach from either alcohol or some their deeds, see the characters alive and vivid though Richards idealised eyes and when it's done and gone, you will have trouble getting over it, you will miss it and you will want it back no matter how bad some of it was. It will be like a life that you lived and then lost. 

The book is not perfect and it's definitely slow - very slow. At least at two points in the book I've asked myself “and what will they do for the rest of it?”. But there's always something and sometimes it's not much per se, but it's enough for them and for their everyday life that you are a part of, watching it - slowly - fall apart, very fascinated by it and very curious and it just keeps you reading. And don't take me wrong, I don't mind slow at all, I bathe in slow, it's my nourishment, so that was all good with me, but it may catch some people off guard if they're expecting something else. And now that we're at “expecting'': this book has been on my TBR for a decade. When you add all the fuss around it I can tell you, if I ever had EXPECTATIONS (yes, very big ones) it was now. And I have to say, it was not what I expected, but somehow… it was exactly it. It's strange and hard to explain. So I'll leave it very unhelpfully at that. Also the blurb is a bit deceiving, at least for me, because the first line - “under the influence of their charismatic classics professor” - made me expect him to be much more present and influential then he was and that may have disappointed me a little. I wanted more deep talk, more teaching, more… everything. I'm still not sure if the book deserves a five star rating, but the experience of reading it does (for me).

Honestly, I have trouble describing the book and keeping my thoughts comprehensible and collected and I don't want to anymore, so I will just give you random snippets of my impressions. Hopefully you'll make something out of them: 

you can't rush this book, it feels like poetry in a way - it's to be read at your own pace, often slowly, sometimes in fragments and you have to feel it, otherwise it may not be a great experience / the characters are terrible but also charming but also terrible and you want to befriend them but also stay as far away from them as possible and maybe even kill them sometimes or at least give them a good punch and maybe one kiss/ some quotes are so good i want to die / it will show you the charming beauty of beauty and then, very slowly and horrifyingly, show you how not-beautiful it is to love beauty for beauty itself, because beauty is often not what's hiding under it… you understand?/ it had such a strange effect of giving me what i always wanted - to have my elitist group of friends, have profound talks about mythology and human nature and classics, sprinkle a little bit of moral corruption there and a nice campus life and enough money to live freely and decadently - and then make me not want that at all. or maybe want it still, but in a more… right way. it… ah, how to explain? (i can delete this when i find the right words but to assert my confused dominance, i won't). it will not show you what you should do and how the power of friendship conquers all and how murder is a no no and love so straightforward. instead it will give you this beautiful thing of everything twisted and by that show you that this is not what you would really want. even if you think it is, it's not, they are wrong, it's wrong and there is only pain and guilt and nothing good waiting when you live like that and maybe you would rather not. it will seemingly do everything to make that corruption beautiful only to highlight by doing so how not-beautiful it is in its core. well, those are not the right words exactly, but they are words and have to do/ it's been two months and i still occasionally think about the book. it has impressions that will last, but as i've said, what is truly everlasting for me is the experience of reading it. 

It's not a book to devour.

It's a book to savour.

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Review: Nomadland - Jessica Bruder

(28/06/22)

There came a time when the sun was sticky on my skin during my endless free days and I read about the Nomads - the ones whose lifestyle I was always so attracted to, the ones I wanted to be a part of. Ever since I can remember, even as a child I liked to watch documentaries and shows about travel, other countries and cultures and wanted to escape to the world, see all of it. And while I couldn't and was locked in my room, I traveled through books not only to other countries, but also to other worlds.

But the nomad life has many obstacles. I still remember watching Into the Wild late at night, thinking about it until the morning and feeling strange because it suddenly offered me a much less idealized view of this lifestyle. Not only the insecurity of it, but especially the loneliness. And despite the fact that I haven't traveled that much yet, I've lived in another country and called it home and felt what it was like to leave behind pieces of myself in other places, to change homes and feel like I had more than one... but at the same time none fully. And it wasn't always a pleasant feeling.

I originally thought that this reportage would be something in that style. But then the book interested me even more, because it focused on nomad life not only in a different way, but also in a slightly different situation than a young person with a backpack on their back, who voluntarily chose this journey. And so I started with the exact opposite - thousands of retired people in vans, who, although they maintain optimism and a positive view of things, enjoy community and freedom, but gradually also reveal the stories that led them to this life. Stories of debts and loans, collapsed economy, unfortunate fates and a system that cannot take care of its citizens even if they follow all its rules to deserve it.

It was fascinating, disturbing, sad, joyous, hopeful and desperate. I learned a lot of new information and became convinced that America, with her inability not only to provide a person who has worked all his life with a pension or roof over his head, but also with the shootings at schools, loans for studies and health care, and most recently taking away the rights of women, is far away from the dream it claimed to be. It was a sad picture of the land and a sad look on nomad life, which ideally should be a choice rather than a necessity.

And yet… so hopeful. Reading about people who are sixty and over and can completely change their lives, take care of themselves, work and create a community, new friendships and relationships, and all this on their old knees, gives a person a kind of hope that it really is possible to change your life and try things at any age. But just as well, behind that hope and positivity and their own optimism, there are all those negative facts - about their country, about their system, about how people who deserve a break work harder than my young bones could handle and sleep alone in vans and on the road, resigned to the fact that if something happened to them, they might not be found for months.

It was a bittersweet read and captured the essence of life in the fates of those old moving bones. About how cruel and unfair and bleak it can be and at the same time about how people can stand up to it, create their own little space even on wheels, always reinvent and adapt, create new friendships and smile at the rising sun with a warm mug of coffee, wherever they are.

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Review: Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories - Ryunosuke Akutagawa

06/11/22

Short stories by an author that led a short life, and yet what they both lack in length they have enough of in depth. Here you will get to know the son of a madwoman, chronic insomniac and a sinner ridden with guilt, now referred to as “the father of short story”, and his many works. They start of as stories full of imagination and history, that easily transfer you into times of Shoguns, then switch into some curious, even funny ones, only to end in heavy paranoia and incoming madness when they finally turn personal and Akutagawa, however unreliable his narrator stays, shows us finally something from his life, his sins and thoughts and pains, only to make it final, when he takes that very life away. 

For me, reading a book – the atmosphere and stories that surround it – is often as important as the book itself. And here, I've enjoyed both. The very next day I got this book, new and shiny, the water in my bag started leaking and so now it has dried-up wrinkled pages that make it look vintage already. I still see the morning mist behind the train window while I was reading the first pages and letting it dry. And all the autumn evenings that followed, all of them covered in thick mists as well, as if they and the book belonged together. Blurring the familiar view, letting me imagine that something else may lie behind - maybe Japan from another time. 

And the reading itself… many of these stories were very different from each other and yet, they all captured my attention in the same way. It was as if Akutagawa's writing could be applied to anything and make it captivating. I was always curious to read the next sentence and then the next story and it even made me stop sometimes and try to remember if that always happens to me with authors – for all their stories to keep my attention in the same way, however different they are. I don't think so. I do believe that his craft was very refined and I could see why he is called the father of short stories. And when you, for a moment, realise the times in which he wrote them and don't apply today's standards to them, they are very often revolutionary. Some writing techniques are supposed to even be applied for the first time ever and that really deserves admiration. As a bonus, it made me, once again, very curious about the history of Japan and I had to restrain myself from jumping into some history book right after - the stories from those times were interesting and very alive, I felt like Akutagawa opened some window and let me have a look into some random stories that took place then. 

Already some days have passed since I've read the book and I still remember a lot from it. Some stories will stick with me not only throughout days but years as well, and some feelings from them as well – especially the last story, that was hitting home for me with some thoughts and managed to create a powerful anxiety in me while doing so. Anxiety that was mostly his but some of it was mine and then it merged and it was hard to separate. I remember closing the book, taking a few deep breaths and being like “well damn”. 

And however fitting or unfitting that is, I would sum up the whole book in those two words - well damn. 

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Review: Coraline - Neil Gaiman

(07/06/2022)

Even as a child I've always loved fairy tales that were a bit scary or had something strange in them - be that creatures or atmosphere. Those were the ones I remembered and the ones that I still love and appreciate as an adult. To name a few, The Last Unicorn with its heavy melancholy, sinister harpies and laughing skeleton, that made me feel very uneasy as a kid. As well as the atmosphere of sadness and tragedy (I can feel this body dying all around me) that I didn't fully understand back then, but could feel it already. Or Princess Mononoke, that is more a movie than a fairy tale, but back then I saw something cartoonish (no, I didn't really know the difference between anime and cartoon as a kid and neither did our televisions it seems) and thought that's for me. And thank god for that mistake, because even though those demons and strange gods terrified me, and the conflict between nature and human race I didn't fully comprehend, I could still feel its weight and when I was older, it made me search for that “strange fairy tale”.

Ones like these were the ones stuck in my mind. They not only caught my attention as a child, but still had much to give when I grew up. Still, for some reason, I never got to watch Coraline, even though I heard about it a lot of times and it seemed like something right up my alley. But years later, when I discovered Gaiman and wanted to read something from him, not only I found out there is also a book version of Coraline, but that he wrote it. And it took some time still, but finally, I got to it. Fully grown-up, fully adult. And I still loved it and wished I'd read it and watched it sooner, because the child version of me would be ecstatic.

It was shortly before midnight and there was thunder on the horizon when I picked up this book. I got this insane urge to just sit on the balcony, be part of that night-and-nature show, wrap myself in a blanket and read a book full of adventure, bravery and monsters. To be that excited child again, that I often miss both in life and in myself. 

And even though I managed on that first night only the introduction and the first few pages, because then the thunder came and was huge and I got completely absorbed in watching lightning strikes all around me and in shivering pleasantly when it sounded like the sky itself was being torn apart, it was enough. It was a nice start. And it made me go for a walk alone at two in the morning during heavy rain, to explore the quiet city, which was beautiful and scary and it all stuck with me. The beginning of the book, the magnificent thunder, the quiet city and heavy rain. And I know that's one of those memories that I will carry.

I finished the book during the next two nights. I was actually immersed in the story more than I thought I would be - considering that in the end, it's still a children's book and I'm, you know, all adult and stuff. But whatever age you are, child, adult, elderly or ancient god, what is not to love about this? You have one very brave girl that is also an explorer, old house full of secrets and mysterious creatures hiding behind brick walls, one very sarcastic black cat (i'm obsessed with cats in books… and in general), interesting villain, subtle and truthful messages about fear and love and family and pleasantly dark and disturbing atmosphere. 

As a bonus, I also had one curious child that once again came to life inside of me. That first night my exploration started with one rainy two-in-the-morning walk and who knows what will follow. Exploring was that thing that always brought me the most joy in life and for some reason, it felt like I forgot about it a little. Or maybe I just forgot that you don't always have to travel long distances to do it, sometimes you can not only explore just a few streets from your home, but it can be just as exciting. So thanks, brave little explorer, for reminding me. I will try to be more like you again. 

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My demons: I. Experiences with sleep paralysis

 

source: The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli via Wikipedia

Few years ago, when my grandmother told me that during the night an evil demon sits on her chest, doesn't allow her to move and suffocates her, I came across articles about sleep paralysis. I had no experience with them back then. But from what I had briefly read about them, I remembered them as this – temporary loss of muscle function during sleep, a person is half awake and half dreaming, feels great fear and auditory or visual hallucinations can occur, but they are harmless – physically. The most common hallucination is that something bad is pressing on the person's chest, or they hear terrifying sounds or see or feel the presence of something bad in the room.

But inevitably, the time came when I had the “pleasure” to experience them myself. “Inevitably” because I have had problems with my sleep since childhood. There was even a long period during which I didn't know what normal dreams are, because I only had nightmares. Add to that the neverending problems with my insomnia, and with this combination it is only a matter of time before sleep paralysis occurs, as it arises from insufficient sleep and often follows after a sudden awakening from a nightmare.

It seemed like my paralysis had been gathering for years, only to strike with even more force once they decided to meet me. The first ones were so wild and strong that for some time I could not recognize sleep paralysis in them, because it was so different from the description I remembered.

Most of my paralysis followed directly behind one of my nightmares due to the frequency of them. If there was anything positive in it, it was that even those nightmares started to be less terrifying when I got a taste of what it's like to experience them in reality.

The first paralysis was the worst and strangest one for me. It started with a dream. Classic, dreamlike, which did not make sense, the events there were mixed and unclear. However, all of a sudden, like when a program is switched on the television, my dream "switched" to another, much clearer and more real – even after years it's still in my head more like a real memory than dream.

I was standing in a small stone room, in the middle of which was an altar with a dead and naked body of an elderly man. Above him was a young priest who had given him the last anointing and was now preparing him for burial. At that moment, I had a split thinking – on the one hand, I was aware that I was dreaming, on the other, there was my "dream self" that acted according to the things it knew, while my "awake self" wondered where it knew them from. The dream self told the priest to finish his work as he would be needed elsewhere – a woman was about to die and also needed the last anointing. My awake self felt as if it pulled me out of that previous dream into this more real dream realm in order to deliver this message. I was aware how the dream and its feeling had changed.

But as soon as I said this sentence, a picture appeared on the walls of the room that had been empty until then. A figure in a black cloak with a hood on its head and a scythe in its hands stood there in the middle of a fog. I knew it was Death. The moment I looked into the black hole she had instead of her face, I was drawn into that blackness. In a brief moment in which the room faded and the blackness grew, I realized that the woman who was about to die was me.

I still don't know how to describe what happened next. It cannot be compared to any feelings that a person has the opportunity to experience normally. I simply… existed in nothingness. Several times in my dreams it happened that I was in a certain "nothingness" for a while before I woke up, but this was different. I didn't have a body, I wasn't material, I just simply was and it was very real. It's something that my brain isn't quite up to even now, though he probably invented it.

To make matters worse, an even more indescribable feeling followed. It was one of the worst I've experienced and to call it fear would be a degradation. Absolute terror is closer, but still not quite it.

Out of nowhere, something started to pull me away from the nothingness. However, I did not look forward to any rescue, because the only thing I knew and felt was that the "something" was incredibly evil, disgusting and inhuman. That if it got me, it would be a fate far worse than death because it was trying to steal my soul.

In all that nothingness and terror, I had only one knowledge – that in order to keep my soul, I must return to my body. This served as a kind of protective shell in which the soul was less vulnerable (that was a knowledge that I had in mind then). The moment I realized it, I was lying on the bed again, but I couldn't move because – so I thought – I wasn't connected to my body and so I couldn't control it. I didn't feel paralyzed, I felt like I was completely out of my body. I was lying on my side and saw my hand hanging from my bed. All this time, the "something" was still trying to tear my soul away and I was fighting for it and experiencing the worst terror of my life. In the chaos, however, I had the thought, looking at my hand, that if I manage to move it with pure will power, I will be able to control my body again and will return to it and therefore be safe.

I have probably never managed to muster the amount of concentration that I did then to move my hand. But I managed to move it in the end and it all ended very suddenly. I sat on my bed until morning and turned on every single light in the house. I didn't want to see even a bit of darkness because I was afraid of going back into it, and just as I felt that my body would protect my soul, I now felt that the light would protect me from the demons that wanted to take it from me.

I didn't want to fully admit it to myself at the time, the whole night experience. It was very surreal, full of feelings that didn't make sense and that I hadn't experienced before. Maybe because it was a lot at once and I was trying to convince myself that I wasn't crazy, I pushed it out of my mind suspiciously quickly – I usually don't succeed in such a process. Paralysis didn't even occur to me. It was all, even with those dreams, like a single event with feelings that were too complex. Until then, I had not read anything about demons stealing your soul, so this possibility did not even cross my mind. Even the immobility for me seemed to be caused by the soul being outside the body and not from being paralyzed.

I can't say that it wasn't burned into my memories and that I wasn't afraid of the night and of sleeping for several days. But when it didn't happen again for several nights, I thought that it was all an extremely elaborate nightmare that I was exaggerating and it wouldn't happen again.

It took some time, but the night came when it did happen again. I woke up from a nightmare, one I didn't remember this time, and I was lying, just like that night, on my side. My arm was hanging from the bed and I couldn't move again. I knew immediately that it was happening again. Especially because a familiar terror washed over me and the demon was in the room with me. It was dawn outside, but the light didn't penetrate well into my room – it was shrouded in a strange black mist that emanated from a figure standing at the end of my bed. I never looked there, it was just at the edge of my vision. The demon started pulling my soul from my body again, but now I knew what to do – I just had to move the hanging hand. This time it was much faster as I was already an experienced professional in this tactic and soon did so. Just before I interrupted the whole thing, the demon leaned up to my ear and, in a kind of multiple-voices-merged-into-one voice, that you can hear possessed people use in horror movies, said something to me in a vile and unknown language. When I woke up, the meaning of those words repeated itself in my head, despite the fact that the language remained unknown.

He told me that they are waiting for me. 

Well that… I couldn't forget or get out of my head anymore. And since it happened again, my whole belief that the experience before was a fabrication also stopped working. I thought at the time that I really went crazy or something. I lived my days after that with the knowledge that demons were waiting for me during my vulnerable sleep, trying to steal my soul from my body. The night that I used to love so much, suddenly became a nightmare in itself and sleep, which was always problematic for me because of insomnia and nightmares, was something that I tried to avoid even more. Of course, that didn't make it any better. I was incredibly tired and scared. And the worst part was that not only during my nights but also during my days. Sometimes I was so sleepy that I didn't even know if I was still asleep or awake while I tried to function like a human. It was a vicious cycle of course – the less I slept, the worse my nights and night experiences were, and so I slept even less, and so the worse... and so on.

The fact that I might have experienced sleep paralysis did not occur to me until the third experience, which corresponded somewhat more to what I had read about it. I fell asleep when I found myself in a kind of intermediate state between being awake and asleep, when I felt like I was going to leave my body. I jerked out of it because I wanted to move quickly and stay in my body (this still happens to me often) and so I woke up.

The problem was that I was stuck paralyzed with my back to the room and unable to move. I felt a growing panic, but I reassured myself that my mother was sleeping behind me and everything was fine. That only worked for a few seconds. Then this safe thought ended when I realised that I haven't slept with my mom for years, that she sleeps downstairs anyway and I'm upstairs alone, and that I don't even have a bed for two. Nevertheless, I knew that something was behind me, and as soon as it became clear to me that it was something unkown, the familiar rush of terror came. I couldn't move, I felt like something was pressing on me, I was very scared and all these feelings were already very familiar to me, although their circumstances were different for me this time. When I snapped out of it, paradoxically, I calmed down a bit after this experience, because I thought – isn't this the sleep paralysis? 

When I read about it again and not just a few articles, but searched more properly and also read foreign sources, I did find mentions of it – feelings of something tearing the soul from the body, abductions by aliens and similar “entertainments”, some of which I have already experienced. (Fortunately, the aliens are avoiding me so far). I immediately felt better when I didn't have the terror of real demons trying to steal my soul from my body at night in my head and could think that it all has a more normal explanation – aka my brain just torturing itself. It can be argued whether these were really just paralysis, but I will content myself with the explanation that they were. In the end, it's hard to live with it, even if you know what's happening to you and can reassure yourself that you're not crazy. I still have different feelings from the first two than I had from all the others that followed, but at the same time, I also recognize many of those "sleep-paralysis" feelings in them too, just in a more complex form.

I've heard a few different opinions on it. Some associate it with my feelings before sleep – I often have the impression that I am leaving my body, and also one particular experience in childhood, when for some period I dreamed every night that I was walking around the house until I saw myself in the bed sleeping – and they consider it a certain gift. I do not. Those feelings honestly scare me and they happen to me involuntarily and only make the already complicated sleep more complicated. Besides, if I believed that I could leave my body during sleep, I'd probably have to accept the part that there might actually be demons waiting for me that want to steal the wandering soul from me. Personally, I will stay content with the explanation of paralysis – even with the first two very real and a little different experiences – and I will ask my soul to stay where it's supposed to, thank you very much.

A few days after this third experience, I confirmed my " sleep paralysis" conclusion. I had a dream, in which me and my mother were sitting on my bed in darkness, shining a flashlight on a motionless man sitting at the other end of the bed. It was supposed to be me. The world there worked in such a way that there were no mirrors and if you wanted to see what you looked like, you had to pull your frozen form from a specific memory. So we looked at me as I sat on the bed and commented on my appearance. I admit that I was very handsome as a man, a fitting classic for some hero in a story – long blond hair, sharp features, green eyes. (I suspect he was inspired by Achilles, yes). Not that any of it matched my female form, although at least I still had long blonde hair back then, but I figured that part out a little later. 

Less beautiful than "my" male form, was the feeling that overcame me when I said a sentence and used the female gender. I suddenly realised that I am not a man. And I am certainly not the man who sits on my bed and maybe looks handsome, but suddenly also very disturbing. As in a classic horror movie, I shined a flashlight in his face and he looked at me at the same moment. He was no longer motionless – he pushed me into the bed with his hand on my chest and leaned against it with his whole body weight. I felt incredible pressure and pain, and I was convinced that my ribs were going to break. I woke up with that feeling and still couldn't move, the pressure in my chest didn't go away and neither did the panic. That was a classic description of paralysis, so I concluded that it really are these fabrications that terrorize me at night and no real demons are waiting for me. If so, they must have run out of patience, because I haven't seen them since. And I hope it stays that way.

But these first paralysis with them were among the ones that stuck in my memory the most. And which were the strongest precisely because of that terrifying and very specific feeling that something evil is tearing my soul from my body. Later they calmed down a bit and even if they didn't disappear, I could shake them off more easily. They were also mostly satisfied with taking only the basic form – loss of movement, panic, pressure, leaving the body. Only sometimes visual hallucinations and evil or strange figures appeared. But for the most part, my brain contained itself with nightmares, and although sometimes I find it hard to get out of them, and even after waking up I can't move for a while, I don't remember any experience as strongly traumatic as the paralysis with demons, which are still clearly burned into my memories.

Now my sleep problems are limited "only" to insomnia, nightmares, and occasionally, to spice my night life, some kind of paralysis. Sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger, but mostly I know how to leave them behind quickly and apart from the unpleasant feeling that accompanies them, I don't remember much about them. And I'm grateful for that too, because I suspect that if the events and intensity of the first ones would continue, then even though I would know what was going on with me, I would be well on my way to really going crazy. They may be physically harmless, but the mental terror can be truly incredible. I would say that I have lived through some traumatic things in my life and yet these nights, with experiences that were not even real, rank among the worst. Not only were those nights terrifying in themselves, but they also affected my days, my mood and life in general. In conclusion, you really shouldn't underestimate the power of your own mind – especially the negative one.

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Review: The Graveyard Book - Neil Gaiman

(11/06/2022)

If I ever was to pick a favorite kind of place, old graveyards would be it. Not the ones where marble graves are neatly lying side by side like fake teeth that don't belong in the body's imperfections, making death look artificial, gray and sad. But the ones where you almost can't read names from crumbling tombstones, where plants built their kingdom and powerful roots of ancient trees are taking back what's theirs. Where death is at home and she doesn't scare you, doesn't make your body shiver at thoughts about lying in that ground, rotting, being eaten by worms, your whole life pointless, you already disappearing but your resting place taking all that space in one last doomed effort to not be forgotten. 

No, in those old ones, where stone crypts look like they're growing from the ground, where nature took back not only the bodies but their final homes as well, where the graves are scattered and uneven, mossy and beautiful, there you feel at peace. There, the cycle of life doesn't seem terrifying, a devouring monster you can't escape, but right, like something you want to be part of, something you welcome. There, you wouldn't mind lying in that grave overgrown by ivy, listening to a blackbird sing, being one with nature and a part of it – your body nourishing earth, your soul leaving a place for others, a memory of life only you remember now and it's alright that way. There, you can rest. 

Or grow up, like one boy did. Nobody Owens, casually living my dream – growing up at old graveyard, being raised by ghosts (and other creatures cooler than your basic living humans), discovering his dark and mysterious past, learning how to fade from people's attention (please, I really need that) and having adventures in worlds I would not step foot into but with people who may persuade me to do it… what more can one wish for? 

I went into this book with expectations, because the whole theme just seemed made for me, and also with bias from the first page. And I will hit a straight five here, because if nothing else, I could live my very specific dream through somebody else and that's worth a lot. 

But that aside, I do believe the rating is deserved. Opening a children's book with triple homicide and basing the story in the presence of creatures usually associated with fear and a place that may drag it to morbidity takes courage. But managing to make it also sweet and joyous and adventurous and not make it unnatural or overdone takes skill. And both are present here. It's a charming balance between it all and the only problem it has, is the fact that there is not more of it. That idea and world and all kinds of interesting characters would deserve it and I would love to read more of it, but at the same time, maybe it would lose some of its mysterious magic – tempting us with fragments and leaving space for imagination. 

As a final word, I wanted to say one encouraging “more killing in children's books” but rooting for stabbed family members doesn't seem completely right, so let's just say – don't be afraid of children and what they can take, because they truly can take a lot. And then us adults can get books like this.

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Review: The Last Goddess - Kateřina Tučková

(24/09/22)

I am aware that I give little chance to authors from my own region – whether Slovak or Czech. That's why I'm very pleased by the fact that when I reached for a book from such an author, not only was it "not bad", but I absolutely loved it. I had a need to read it whenever I could and after finishing it, I took a break from reading for a few days, because it stayed so strongly in my thoughts that I didn't want to replace it with something else. I wanted to continue running with Dora through the woods and villages and search for the fates of the goddesses.

But I already knew their fates and the book was finished and closed. With regret, I finally put it back on the shelf and started looking for other works by Tučková, because few people convinced me so quickly. But that doesn't mean it was an easy read, and that it won't put someone off. However, it was all the layers of the story and the different styles of its presentation that kept me hooked. I also enjoyed administrative and official documents, which can seem intimidating, especially with the amount of them that there is – but while drinking tea I could always pretend that I was really rummaging through the archives and figuring things out together with Dora. I enjoyed the author's writing style, I enjoyed the theme of goddesses and Dora's life, I enjoyed the sad display of systems and their functioning, and one of my favorite historical topics appeared as well – Nazi Germany and its sick obsession with Old German mythology. I also stopped looking at all the other cultures for a while and became more interested in my own, because Kateřina showed me that fascinating things can be found in our region as well. The story is dominated by strong female characters throughout, which is another plus. When it all comes together, each layer of this story had something that I was interested in and together it made a compelling work. So much so that the more than four hundred pages were not enough for me.

A piece of my own nostalgia appeared while reading, which connected me to the book even more firmly. I often thought of my grandmother and her memories of “kopanice region” – our Slovak ones. And a few fragments of my own memories, of meadows and horses and old houses where streams flowed behind them, of villages in the hills, of those people living there and their peculiar natures. Also memories about how we used to go together with my grandma to collect herbs for winter teas. And then I would think of my own mother, her garden and her constant gathering of plants and grasses and their dried forms, which she then transforms into beautiful works. In our capital city, in the apartment, I am a little separated from this part, and yet I have a garden on the balcony, where I always remember my village when I collect tomatoes or go to smell mint leaves late at night. Maybe we really all have it in us – that bit of witchcraft and wild nature.

However, the book is not an easy read when it comes to its content either. There is cruelty – mainly from human to human – black magic, evil, oppressive systems and tragic fates, family troubles, envy and malice, superstition and paranoia. And yet, or perhaps because of it, it is all so very human. With all the bad that we carry with us and spread around, and with all the good as well – help, determination, love, strength to face fate, care and sacrifice. Several times I felt tears in my eyes, a few times I smiled or was amused, sometimes it hurt, sometimes it gave hope. And it often left a kind of inner emptiness, when one wished something would turn out differently, but could only accept the way it happened. As it happens in life.

The whole book was like a walk through the night woods. Unsettling and fascinating, filled with the sounds of wildlife and perhaps the distant light of a cottage in the distance. But whether you will find inside it an old witch or a healing goddess and what she will give to you... that you have to find out on your own.

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Review: The Sunset Limited - Cormac McCarthy

(28/05/22)

Deep into the night I read the first half of this book. My eyes were tired, my mind as well and in the quiet of darkness I jumped into dialogue between two strangers. Strangers both to me and to each other. I walked around them, listened for a bit, got used to them and their way of talking. But that was it, I didn't think much about it. There are many books and movies and plays that include philosophizing about the meaning of life, faith, the world, society and human nature. I didn't expect anything new, at best I just wanted a few good quotes that will stick with me for a while and that I can carry around during the next few days. 

But the next day when I woke up, for the first time during my "period of freedom" when I didn't have to go to work, I got up right after I opened my eyes, no lazy lingering in bed. It was an hour before lunch when I sat alone in the kitchen, my eyes still touched by sleep and I opened the book again. This time, I wasn't just walking around them, standing in corners. When I sat down in my kitchen I also sat down at that kitchen table with them, feeling a bit closer and a bit more used to them. More and more curious about them and mostly about how this dialogue will end. It wasn't just any dialogue, you see. A life depended on it. 

Quitness, sleepiness, occasional sounds of long-awaken life outside and the steady clicking of the clock, their almost unconscious reminder that life is fading away more quickly than we realize. In that noon atmosphere I got absorbed in the book way more than I did in the depth of the night before. 

As I suspected, neither of them said anything new to me. All of White's thoughts and even beliefs were mine as well, only better articulated at times. At the same time, Black's view was the one I'm still trying to have more of. Except for the faith in God. I saw part of me in both, way more in White, and sometimes it maybe wasn't safe, to have all these thoughts thrown back at me so convincingly, when I'm still at war with them myself. But at the same time, when the end came – and I was happy that there was no miraculous ending this time – it gave me strange hope, however ironically that sounds. Because I realized that no matter how hard that battle is, and even with all these thoughts in my head, I still don't want to catch The Sunset Limited. At least not really and not yet.

And maybe they didn't say anything new, but watching that exchange between those two men made me see more clearly where my own views are. I realized that most of the time I'm somewhere in the middle of those two, same as I was at that table, sitting between them. Still a bit closer to that abyss than not, but at least not fully there. And that maybe… that's okay. Maybe that's where it's safest in the end. To see all that ugliness, cruelty, meaninglessness, all those monsters hiding in humans, and still… be able to live, to enjoy my tea, to want to read the next book, to see another country, to help someone if it doesn't make a change. Because so what if it doesn't. So what if it's all meaningless. (Optimistic nihilism for the win.)

And there is still so much work for me to at least stay on that road and don't fall all the way down every other day. But that's the view I choose and once again, see more clearly thanks to them. 

So no, I didn't get anything new. No revolutionary thoughts, nothing that would make me change my perspective. But… I did get to test my own views, my own hopes and see where I'm standing on that platform of life. And I got one interesting dialogue, more than a few quotes to carry around for the next few days and a feeling that stayed even when the book was closed.

And I think that's enough. 

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Review: Thomas Quick: The Making of a Serial Killer - Hannes Råstam

(25/05/22)

There was a time when I was immersed in dark things - movies, books, facts. The darker it was, the more fascinated I became. Murders, blood, dark corners of the human mind. Then came the period when fascination turned into revulsion. I saw only the bad in everyone, everyone had that monster inside. I started to avoid things that I used to enjoy consuming until then. I didn't want to have constant reminders in front of me about what we are like and what we are capable of, there was already enough in the world around us, why dive into it even more.

And yet, when I passed by a book called "Thomas Quick: The Making of a Serial Killer" several times in the bookstore, it was this old fascination it touched, that, despite everything, never completely left. I approached that book again and again, grabbed it again and put it down again, thinking that in a time of war, the atrocities of which weighed heavily on me, I didn't want to add to them with more murders. Nevertheless, the interesting cover and the unconventional plot - where the murderer was not the murderer this time - finally made me put it on the counter and take it home.

More than a story of a serial killer, however, it is ultimately the story of Sweden's biggest judicial scandal – or how it was discovered that Sweden's biggest serial killer didn't kill anyone. This fact is known since the beginning, so there are no surprises if we exclude those about the behavior of the investigators, the prosecutor and the nurses. The whole book describes the process of how it came to such a thing in the first place and what was behind it. It's more voluminous and detailed, but if someone is interested (I volunteer) in investigative journalism, murder, law and psychology, it's an interesting read. And quite bizarre from the point of view that something like this could happen - especially in such a developed country. It would surprise me less in my own.

The downside of this book, despite the interesting subject matter and the investigative work well done, is the repetitiveness of some of the information, which is distracting. There are many cases and details, and there is no clear timeline. Therefore, not only does no one want to re-read what they read a while ago, but this repetition can easily confuse the reader and make the book more messy. There were also passages that I couldn't stop reading and there were passages that were a little less captivating. Although my attention was never completely lost, I can imagine that many people in these parts of the book and for these reasons may become disinterested, and that's a shame. I know that Hannes died during the writing of this book and maybe that had an impact, but I don't know how deep, as I don't know what he managed to process from it himself.

Anyway, it was a very interesting read and I admire a job well done by the journalist. Because if the detail-obsessed perfectionist hadn't poked his nose into this case, Thomas Quick would have still been Sweden's biggest killer. But the book is also fascinating for many other topics than just its fictional serial killer. When I finally put the book in my backpack, I did so because it seemed safe in this case. This person wasn't a murderer after all, so it won't be a difficult read in that regard, will it? But I was wrong. Apart from the fact that the murders he confessed to are still described, there were other things, perhaps even more disturbing in the end, than reading about a serial killer.

Such as the fact that the real killers continued to walk free while their crimes were readily attributed to an innocent person in this case. How often you can't trust systems and people who keep a protective hand over us. How unreliable some medical treatment and practices have been (and perhaps still are) and how psychologists and psychiatrists are also just people with their own motivations and mistakes, their own – perhaps sometimes unorthodox – fascinations and biases. How the media manipulates us, how we are fed pieces of information bordering with lies, from which we form our life beliefs. What one's own mind can force a person to do, just to make others find him interesting, to finally be noticed by someone, to not be so alone, and how in the end each of us really just wants not to be forgotten and does everything to prevent that from happening.

So much so that sometimes he turns himself into the biggest serial killer of his country.

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Sandman - Neil Gaiman

(15/09/22)

I have a complicated relationship with Mr. Sandman. Since I was a child, it seemed like he didn't like me very much. Often, no sleep came and when it finally did, all kinds of ugly nightmares and paralyses came with it. Maybe because of those terrifying nights, I spent whole days dreaming as well to compensate for it – a lot more nicely, absorbed in my own created worlds or imagining things I dreamed of. Because of this, I spent most of my life in dreams. Those dark night ones taught me how real they can be, how much they can mean. My daydreams showed me how important they are, how much of my future comes from them. I spent a lot of time with them all.

When I first saw Sandman from Netflix, it felt like coming home. I had the comics on my reading list for a decade, never getting to it. The show finally let me get a glimpse, slowly enchanting me, making me wish it never ended, like when you don't want to wake up from a nice dream.

And finally motivated me to pick up the comics as well, so I can get more of that world and stories and characters. This was my first graphic novel and I'm still just getting used to the different reading format and it has some downsides. For example, as the stories flow faster, I find myself less touched by something or caring about someone, not having enough time to get more personally involved. Also, I'm familiar with the feeling of seeing something first and then reading it, but when you've seen something first and then you also see it in a different form, that's something to get used to as well. But even though I saw most of the first book already, I was enjoying it in this version very much and I still got immersed in reading and often couldn't wait to continue. I love the dark theme and the characters, I love the whole idea and stories that come from it, I love the atmosphere and the mythology. I was even (as a minority) enjoying the old art style and sketchy drawing. And I can't wait to read more, very curious how it will feel with the unknown stories. Because of that, I would call my first comic experience a success and I hope to see you soon, Morpheus. 

What is your favourite or least favourite dream you had?

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Review: Good Omens – Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

(25/04/22)

Gaiman and Pratchett. Two legendary names that have been unread on my to-read list for ridiculously long, considering how much I wanted to get to know them. And as I was getting really frustrated with myself, I finally decided to move my ass by killing two birds (in my language it's flies, this seems drastic), with one stone and reach for Good Omens. 

And it was a great reach, don't take me wrong. But I still hope that now, when I will start getting to know them separately, it will only get better. Because – for a change I will start with the slight negatives, so the fanbase can kill me first and become friends later – it was a bit messy, and although the mess was part of the charm for most of it, there were moments when it wasn't that much so. 

I didn't particularly enjoy the kids and their parts, even though to say I disliked them would be too much. Same with the witch and witch hunter. I didn't create a deep bond with any character – i absolutely  loved Aziraphale and Crowley, yes, but in a more of a “what-an-interesting-and-fun-character” then “i-would-die-if-something-happened-to-them” – and sometimes the fun was getting a little out of hand and maybe even went a little over my head. But look… does that even matter really? I don't know. A bit, but not much in this case, so I will take one star from it because there was a little piece of it that just didn't click with me during this first read as much as I would like it to, but that's fine. We're fine. 

I still loved the book. And what I loved most about it was all that clever satire, presented especially during the angel-demon dialogues. I would underline the hell out of this book if it was mine (I had it borrowed from my bf and he is very, very careful with his books, so if I did, the things Hell would do to Crowley would be nothing in comparison). Some quotes will be forever stuck in my head and few of them I actually did manage to write down, when I overcome my laziness. Some were deep, some were both funny and deep and some were just so cleverly funny that it was actually ridiculous how someone can think of this. And most of it – at least it feels that way – happened during Aziraphale's and Crowley's parts. If ever there was just a book about those two and their past adventures on Earth, I would read the hell out of it (no pun intended). 

Other parts that struck my interest were those with the four riders of the apocalypse. I loved the switch from Pestilence to Pollution, I loved how they looked, how they talked (Death was great) and I loved all that cleverly-funny-but-also-deep stuff around them. 

What I can say about the humour is that it was the most british thing that you will meet this year, if you decide to pick this book. That can be great for some, less for others. For me personally it's the first choice. I usually don't laugh out loud, I don't know why, it's just that a little inside chuckle is enough for me for the most part, but a few times I did here and even more times I was just pleasantly amused for a long time, often just from one sentence, and that honestly was somehow a bigger achievement for me. 

Especially because underneath all that chaos, burning Bentleys, clever jokes, quirky things, apocalypse and aliens, demons and tibetans, raining fish and satanic nuns, there was some beautiful philosophy, accurate take on dual-nature of humanity and things worth thinking about, when you stopped smirking like an idiot. But you can also think about them while smirking like an idiot, I won't stop you. 

In the end, maybe that's the point – not only of this book, but also life in general. To not take things, us or, you know, the apocalypse, so seriously. 

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