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shariq312's review
3.0
She is telling a tale because she trusts you. She trusts you because she believes, you would understand her emotions she didn't say.
The author has written words, and left it to the reader of what kind of a connection one can make.
Certainly, love is not a product to bound a person from performing in other areas of life. One shouldn't just love and not seek the pain to grow in life.
Love is a product to transform you, strengthen you, build you to become independent and free yourself from all the compulsions.
This book makes women understand how important it is to know what you need when they are growing up. There are stories of betrayal, hurt, and how to recover from a heartbreak. The stories are written in a poetic realm. The language is rich and becomes a headache to catch the flow. But, as I said they are written in a poetic way so it also gets a bit friendly to read and dedicate attention for a certain period, but then again you are lost in a canvas.
There are various distractions I sorted out reading the stories. One is; in modest societies, extra-marital and pre-marital relationships are never acceptable, but the way it is shown in the book is quite disturbing. The women showed, they are decision makers and know what is best for them. So, from this angle I am in two thoughts.
This book empowers women to show valiant approach after betrayals, loss and separation, but also teaches how to involve themselves in another romantic relationship and then another, and the chain goes on? I rebuked those conceptions.
The consequences in stories were of some happy moments, in some of the greivances and in some a mournful ending.
The author has written words, and left it to the reader of what kind of a connection one can make.
Certainly, love is not a product to bound a person from performing in other areas of life. One shouldn't just love and not seek the pain to grow in life.
Love is a product to transform you, strengthen you, build you to become independent and free yourself from all the compulsions.
This book makes women understand how important it is to know what you need when they are growing up. There are stories of betrayal, hurt, and how to recover from a heartbreak. The stories are written in a poetic realm. The language is rich and becomes a headache to catch the flow. But, as I said they are written in a poetic way so it also gets a bit friendly to read and dedicate attention for a certain period, but then again you are lost in a canvas.
There are various distractions I sorted out reading the stories. One is; in modest societies, extra-marital and pre-marital relationships are never acceptable, but the way it is shown in the book is quite disturbing. The women showed, they are decision makers and know what is best for them. So, from this angle I am in two thoughts.
This book empowers women to show valiant approach after betrayals, loss and separation, but also teaches how to involve themselves in another romantic relationship and then another, and the chain goes on? I rebuked those conceptions.
The consequences in stories were of some happy moments, in some of the greivances and in some a mournful ending.
dhiyanah's review
5.0
I write about this book in my series of blog posts on reading and grief. It's part-review, part-personal essay where I write about two out of the six books that helped me through difficult mourning phases.
"Reading this book was like hosting tidal waves in my guts and I had to let them move through me to find solid ground again. The pain or warmth my heart felt over a too-relatable scene or dialogue or sentence was that of growth and I enjoyed every flower-scented moment of it. I had been planning to write about all this. I had all the words and some of the notes brewing and brewing – and then everything, like time, stopped."
Full piece is on here:
https://forwardslashsea.wordpress.com/2017/05/31/reading-keeps-me-alive-spoils-i/
"Reading this book was like hosting tidal waves in my guts and I had to let them move through me to find solid ground again. The pain or warmth my heart felt over a too-relatable scene or dialogue or sentence was that of growth and I enjoyed every flower-scented moment of it. I had been planning to write about all this. I had all the words and some of the notes brewing and brewing – and then everything, like time, stopped."
Full piece is on here:
https://forwardslashsea.wordpress.com/2017/05/31/reading-keeps-me-alive-spoils-i/
ameliareadit's review
emotional
lighthearted
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
4.0
Content Warnings
Moderate: Sexual content
Minor: Miscarriage and Infidelity
kitabae_'s review
3.0
It's a collection of 26 short stories. The main theme is melancholic longing. Most of the stories revolve around women lamenting for the love they've lost. The writing is beautiful and there are so many quotable lines but even then, there was still a confusion in my mind about what the story was. A couple of stories were too short to even try to understand what happened. I didn't like the beginning stories at all and I was going to be give up on it and it was only when I read randomly and read the later stories that I actually liked them. The stories didn't focus on anything except longing and sadness and love. I only had a problem with it because I couldn't understand what was going on. And after a while, I just couldn't continue because it got repetitive and I didn't want to read it. The writing is amazing and poetic and you understand what the author is trying to convey but the story-telling aspect didn't work. I haven't read her poetry work but I'm guessing it might be better than this. There are also a lot of South Indian references which I didn't understand but they didn't bother me. My favorites were The High Priestess Never Marries, Sky Clad, Afternoon Sex and Sweet. I would recommend this to people who love reading poetic prose.
thebookdog's review
5.0
All alone on a night like this — quite as confession and blackwidow blue. Oh what she would give, tonight or any night, for a lover’s mouth, for a lullaby, for a moon so low it could snag in the conspiracy of branches. And she sits there in the darkness and watches the silhouettes of trees against the city sky blanched with artificial effulgence, and admires the silver rings on her toes, and thinks of how a good reading can unbraid everything. She blows a smokey cloudkiss to the Venus flytrap in the corner and even the Venus flytrap doesn’t bite back.
Sometimes, I want stories to be closer to me. I want the characters to drive on the roads I take. I want them to speak my tongue. I want them to know my gods and goddesses. I want them to lose themselves in the ocean where I seek solace.
Sharanya Manivannan’s The High Priestess Never Marries is close to my bosom for the said reasons.
I read the book this February. As I finished every short story and postcard fiction, I kept asking myself, “Between prose and poetry, where does this writing lie?” I released the question religiously, only to realise that it was an exercise in futility.
Because the stories were just there.
Feral. Timid. Pregnant. Empty. Loud. Silent. Intimidating. Comforting.
The stories were just there.
If Haruki Murakami’s heroes kept making spaghetti in his books, Sharanya Manivannan’s characters were fond of bitter gourd. More specifically, bitter gourd tossed with jaggery.
Dark, bitter, and yet sweet. Quite like her stories.
Bitter gourd that tastes of love and all its consequences. It is my simplest, most sincere dish: my heart on a platter.
‘This is an epiphany,’ she grins, her nose running, her back resting against the spice cabinet. I watch her for a few moments before reaching to serve myself.
With her clean hand, she grabs mine. ‘Thank you!’
‘Anytime, my love.’ I squeeze her hand, drop the spoon I reached for, and decided to wait. What a pleasure it is to give.
Sometimes a meal is a psalm. Sometimes it is a code, a consolation, a sense of an unbroken coast in a season of ravages. Always, it is an offering. Always, it is an embrace.
The other motifs created the feminine, divine, resplendent atmosphere too. Toe rings. Mangoes. Neem trees. The colour red. Celestial beings. And of course… sea, sand, soil, and shores. There were myriad omens which made me feel feverish.
I love Sharanya Manivannan’s women. They did not demand my sympathy. They did not offer condescension either. They were beautifully vulnerable, incredibly human. They related their stories in a tone that was free of apologies. Their voices were laden with regrets, melancholy, and pain. But there was no pretense.
I love her women more because those are the ones who can listen to my story without judging me. Those are the ones who can say, “You fucked up? It’s fine. Let’s clear the mess together.” Those are the women who won’t ask me to stay strong. Those are the ones who would say, “Weep. Weep. Weep. It’s okay to be broken.” Those are the ones who understand the need to feel belonged, the need to love, and the need to be loved and cherished.
Those are the women who know what it is like to be a woman.
I wanted to unleash my love on two women particularly — Sarala Kali and Antara. (Oh! The names! There was a man called Mazhai.) Both the women taught me something that I have been meditating for a long while — allowing myself to feel.
I am tired of hearing phrases like, ‘You have always been brave. Continue to be brave.’ Or a patronising one like, ‘Snap out of that depression.’ Or a reduction like, ‘What you are feeling is a mere disappointment.’ So when I met Sarala Kali and Antara, I naturally warmed up to them more for they didn’t wage war against their emotions. They walked into the eye of the storms. They swayed to the tunes of gusty winds. They destroyed themselves. They re-birthed themselves. And when the cyclone had crossed, they were brave and authentic in the way they embraced their sentiments. How can I not love them!
It’s been a long while since I finished the book. But I can’t capture one word as such and pin it down to explain how I feel about it. There is a lump in my throat. I want to hug somebody and cry for a little while. I want to take deep breaths. I want to reread some stories from the book. I am giving myself to the quicksand of thoughts. I am throwing a courageous glance at the bright clarity that has surfaced. I feel everything. I feel nothing. I am melancholic. I am content.
Maybe, I am one of them. Maybe, we all are…
worncorners's review
5.0
All alone on a night like this — quite as confession and blackwidow blue. Oh what she would give, tonight or any night, for a lover’s mouth, for a lullaby, for a moon so low it could snag in the conspiracy of branches. And she sits there in the darkness and watches the silhouettes of trees against the city sky blanched with artificial effulgence, and admires the silver rings on her toes, and thinks of how a good reading can unbraid everything. She blows a smokey cloudkiss to the Venus flytrap in the corner and even the Venus flytrap doesn’t bite back.
Sometimes, I want stories to be closer to me. I want the characters to drive on the roads I take. I want them to speak my tongue. I want them to know my gods and goddesses. I want them to lose themselves in the ocean where I seek solace.
Sharanya Manivannan’s The High Priestess Never Marries is close to my bosom for the said reasons.
I read the book this February. As I finished every short story and postcard fiction, I kept asking myself, “Between prose and poetry, where does this writing lie?” I released the question religiously, only to realise that it was an exercise in futility.
Because the stories were just there.
Feral. Timid. Pregnant. Empty. Loud. Silent. Intimidating. Comforting.
The stories were just there.
If Haruki Murakami’s heroes kept making spaghetti in his books, Sharanya Manivannan’s characters were fond of bitter gourd. More specifically, bitter gourd tossed with jaggery.
Dark, bitter, and yet sweet. Quite like her stories.
Bitter gourd that tastes of love and all its consequences. It is my simplest, most sincere dish: my heart on a platter.
‘This is an epiphany,’ she grins, her nose running, her back resting against the spice cabinet. I watch her for a few moments before reaching to serve myself.
With her clean hand, she grabs mine. ‘Thank you!’
‘Anytime, my love.’ I squeeze her hand, drop the spoon I reached for, and decided to wait. What a pleasure it is to give.
Sometimes a meal is a psalm. Sometimes it is a code, a consolation, a sense of an unbroken coast in a season of ravages. Always, it is an offering. Always, it is an embrace.
The other motifs created the feminine, divine, resplendent atmosphere too. Toe rings. Mangoes. Neem trees. The colour red. Celestial beings. And of course… sea, sand, soil, and shores. There were myriad omens which made me feel feverish.
I love Sharanya Manivannan’s women. They did not demand my sympathy. They did not offer condescension either. They were beautifully vulnerable, incredibly human. They related their stories in a tone that was free of apologies. Their voices were laden with regrets, melancholy, and pain. But there was no pretense.
I love her women more because those are the ones who can listen to my story without judging me. Those are the ones who can say, “You fucked up? It’s fine. Let’s clear the mess together.” Those are the women who won’t ask me to stay strong. Those are the ones who would say, “Weep. Weep. Weep. It’s okay to be broken.” Those are the ones who understand the need to feel belonged, the need to love, and the need to be loved and cherished.
Those are the women who know what it is like to be a woman.
I wanted to unleash my love on two women particularly — Sarala Kali and Antara. (Oh! The names! There was a man called Mazhai.) Both the women taught me something that I have been meditating for a long while — allowing myself to feel.
I am tired of hearing phrases like, ‘You have always been brave. Continue to be brave.’ Or a patronising one like, ‘Snap out of that depression.’ Or a reduction like, ‘What you are feeling is a mere disappointment.’ So when I met Sarala Kali and Antara, I naturally warmed up to them more for they didn’t wage war against their emotions. They walked into the eye of the storms. They swayed to the tunes of gusty winds. They destroyed themselves. They re-birthed themselves. And when the cyclone had crossed, they were brave and authentic in the way they embraced their sentiments. How can I not love them!
It’s been a long while since I finished the book. But I can’t capture one word as such and pin it down to explain how I feel about it. There is a lump in my throat. I want to hug somebody and cry for a little while. I want to take deep breaths. I want to reread some stories from the book. I am giving myself to the quicksand of thoughts. I am throwing a courageous glance at the bright clarity that has surfaced. I feel everything. I feel nothing. I am melancholic. I am content.
Maybe, I am one of them. Maybe, we all are…
thebooksatchel's review
3.0
This is a collection of 26 stories of love, desire and consequence. The women in High Priestess Never Marries are those who choose their lives for themselves. There are stories of lonely women, wives, widows, unfaithful partners, artists and goddesses. There are stories that throw questions at the institution of marriage. There is a clever spiritual interplay of the supernatural (or sometimes sacred symbolisms) that lend a beautiful hue to some stories.
Sharanya’s writing shows a deep understanding of local beliefs and folk tales woven into the main narrative. I loved the lyrical language with hints of surrealism. There are colloquial Tamil phrases in many stories. So a person who doesn't know the language might have a little difficulty in understanding those lines. However you will get the bigger picture.
Read the full review on - http://www.thebooksatchel.com/high-priestess-never-marries-sharanya-manivannan/
Much thanks to the author and Harper Collins India for a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.
Sharanya’s writing shows a deep understanding of local beliefs and folk tales woven into the main narrative. I loved the lyrical language with hints of surrealism. There are colloquial Tamil phrases in many stories. So a person who doesn't know the language might have a little difficulty in understanding those lines. However you will get the bigger picture.
Read the full review on - http://www.thebooksatchel.com/high-priestess-never-marries-sharanya-manivannan/
Much thanks to the author and Harper Collins India for a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.
dhanyanarayanan's review
2.0
How I got hold of this book:
I came across a blog titled ‘Three Strong Women’ which was about three women writers who dominated the reading life of the author in last 6 months. (https://iamagreedyreader.wordpress.com/2017/04/19/three-strong-voices/).
One of them was KR Meera, who happened to be my all time favourite writer in Malayalam, whose words, imagination and thoughts have never failed to leave me in awe and adoration. Since Sharanya Manivannan was placed on par with my favourite author, I thought I should get to know her writing. Sharanya Manivannan writes poetry in English and this book is her first collection of stories.
What is this book about?
This is supposed to be a ‘short story’ collection. A short story, by definition, can have words ranging from 1000 to 20,000. So most of the 26 stories in this collection about women who live on their own terms, do qualify to be classified as ‘short stories’ though some of them are too short and some of them are too long.
What are the positive aspects of this book?
The writer has used words directly from Tamil, the local language spoken in Chennai interspersed with English without taking any effort to clarify the meaning of those words or putting them down in italics. By this undertaking, poverty of English language compared to vernacular language is exposed.
Some of the imageries used are lucid and poetic( Sharanya is essentially a poet)
All the stories have women as central characters. I appreciate women who write about women.
What are the drawbacks of this book?
At the outset, let me be clear that I am neither a writer nor a trained reviewer. All I know is to read and feel what is written.
Sadly, I could not appreciate the craft of story telling in any of the story in this collection. The ‘stories’ are narrated in first person. Many a times, my mind strayed away and I had to forcefully make myself come back to the story. They all simulated solitary, narcissistic elocution by different women. I am sure the author of the blog, Three Strong women, has not had the fortune of reading short stories in Malayalam where the art of story telling is at its pinnacle.
Some of the words used are complicated and instead of becoming an evidence of the author’s command on English language, they kill the joy of reading. Those words don’t serve any special purpose and feel like stones amidst tasty food.
The women in most of the stories are considered ‘liberated’ because of the sexual choices they make. I don’t believe that sexual liberation alone will lead to improvement in womens’ affair. That alone cannot be considered as a yardstick for measuring women empowerment. After reading about even stronger and more real women in stories and real life, I could not admire( leave aside admiration), nor could empathise with a single woman in any of those stories.
Explicit description of sex in many stories did more harm to those stories than good. A good short story has to be really short and subtle. The words have to be weaved in the right proportion and direction so as to make an impact.
I really doubt whether the author believes in anything that she has written. Because the moment an artist believes in his/her own art, the outcome will never fail to touch human hearts.
One of my very close companion said something very relevant and important, about beauty being an essential component of art. Beauty in lines, strokes, words or actions make every art form divine. Sharanya’s stories lack beauty as far as I understand.
To be short, I did not like what I read.
I am not sure whether my sky high expectation about the writer curbed my ability to enjoy the stories and may be I should get hold of her poetry to appreciate her talent.
I came across a blog titled ‘Three Strong Women’ which was about three women writers who dominated the reading life of the author in last 6 months. (https://iamagreedyreader.wordpress.com/2017/04/19/three-strong-voices/).
One of them was KR Meera, who happened to be my all time favourite writer in Malayalam, whose words, imagination and thoughts have never failed to leave me in awe and adoration. Since Sharanya Manivannan was placed on par with my favourite author, I thought I should get to know her writing. Sharanya Manivannan writes poetry in English and this book is her first collection of stories.
What is this book about?
This is supposed to be a ‘short story’ collection. A short story, by definition, can have words ranging from 1000 to 20,000. So most of the 26 stories in this collection about women who live on their own terms, do qualify to be classified as ‘short stories’ though some of them are too short and some of them are too long.
What are the positive aspects of this book?
The writer has used words directly from Tamil, the local language spoken in Chennai interspersed with English without taking any effort to clarify the meaning of those words or putting them down in italics. By this undertaking, poverty of English language compared to vernacular language is exposed.
Some of the imageries used are lucid and poetic( Sharanya is essentially a poet)
All the stories have women as central characters. I appreciate women who write about women.
What are the drawbacks of this book?
At the outset, let me be clear that I am neither a writer nor a trained reviewer. All I know is to read and feel what is written.
Sadly, I could not appreciate the craft of story telling in any of the story in this collection. The ‘stories’ are narrated in first person. Many a times, my mind strayed away and I had to forcefully make myself come back to the story. They all simulated solitary, narcissistic elocution by different women. I am sure the author of the blog, Three Strong women, has not had the fortune of reading short stories in Malayalam where the art of story telling is at its pinnacle.
Some of the words used are complicated and instead of becoming an evidence of the author’s command on English language, they kill the joy of reading. Those words don’t serve any special purpose and feel like stones amidst tasty food.
The women in most of the stories are considered ‘liberated’ because of the sexual choices they make. I don’t believe that sexual liberation alone will lead to improvement in womens’ affair. That alone cannot be considered as a yardstick for measuring women empowerment. After reading about even stronger and more real women in stories and real life, I could not admire( leave aside admiration), nor could empathise with a single woman in any of those stories.
Explicit description of sex in many stories did more harm to those stories than good. A good short story has to be really short and subtle. The words have to be weaved in the right proportion and direction so as to make an impact.
I really doubt whether the author believes in anything that she has written. Because the moment an artist believes in his/her own art, the outcome will never fail to touch human hearts.
One of my very close companion said something very relevant and important, about beauty being an essential component of art. Beauty in lines, strokes, words or actions make every art form divine. Sharanya’s stories lack beauty as far as I understand.
To be short, I did not like what I read.
I am not sure whether my sky high expectation about the writer curbed my ability to enjoy the stories and may be I should get hold of her poetry to appreciate her talent.
tanvi's review
4.0
"This is the weight of love: just because you can touch water does not mean the oceans are yours."
This was a very lush, lyrical and indulgent book. It is a book for people who have a lot of feelings. Who meditate on what it means to love, to be loved and the specific violence with which love unravels us. The prose was poetic bordering on an overdose of melodrama but the author achieved the goal of reminding us that love is a many act play. I enjoyed her portrayal of love as devotion, surrender and salvation and I appreciated the admission that love is a consuming force. I have not allowed myself to read a book like this in a long time and I remember why. More than anything I was struck by the depth of her writing and her ability to claim space for her narrative within many dimensions. I'm definitely more emotional and pining now than I care to be, but such is the mark of a truly piercing book.
This was a very lush, lyrical and indulgent book. It is a book for people who have a lot of feelings. Who meditate on what it means to love, to be loved and the specific violence with which love unravels us. The prose was poetic bordering on an overdose of melodrama but the author achieved the goal of reminding us that love is a many act play. I enjoyed her portrayal of love as devotion, surrender and salvation and I appreciated the admission that love is a consuming force. I have not allowed myself to read a book like this in a long time and I remember why. More than anything I was struck by the depth of her writing and her ability to claim space for her narrative within many dimensions. I'm definitely more emotional and pining now than I care to be, but such is the mark of a truly piercing book.
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