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3.53 AVERAGE
3.53 AVERAGE
3/5 … I wasn’t expecting this to by so rhyme-y. Aside from the unexpected prose which I’d say is very similar to that of Virginia Woolf, this was good. I’d recommend this to those interested in reading about girlhood. It’s nice how this follows different periods of her life but still very much focused on a central point of her life. I liked it. I feel like this showed how religion can affect one’s life. Although I understand the appeal of the idea of a higher power, it can become too much sometimes, especially when your life is touched by some form of a health tragedy.
Imagine my world, at start, yes my. Didn't bark at the songs or given any. Frenchman staggers into the fold, writing he did, he did. Moustaches and dandy. Madeleines and memories. Ah trains are heavy, clappety clap. But not for the prettiness of such ends. For in words or foreign words. Start again. Being with a mighty bang and keep rising. I hear bedsprings go. But random where the streets are something. The slipstream of her mouth, it was. Could be. Wheesht. The meanings changed and repeating often. Moment back. I should offer a mask to them, all and sundry. Such as when the never been gone same as always but under new lights. And the road was a black one with forks and banks, carrying options for Jesus. Thump it went. Where else to go but to follow. Nothing but the moontide and familiar feelings of comfort. This is is where it takes us. Those all complicit and made same by it as go pstshhhh. Ark and bark. At the wind if needs be but remain magical next to the real things. Look at me. Peddling wares. What else could come the heavenly cost. But you're own answers and expectations.
Translation:
Imagine a world where Proust didnt exist, where the exquisite limits and boundaries of what language can accomplish in its purest, most flourishing form were unknown, remote, undiscovered, and, as such, the mediocrity of hiding behind stream-of consciousness writing was the banal norm, allowing the world's most stagnant and talentless author's to masquerade as creative forces. Imagine we travelled that particular road, idiotically bounced down its tarmac, rough and hewn, which was, despite the pockmarked surface, essentially a novelty for our feet, feet which, ignorant of alternatives, might experience this journey as something wondrous when, in reality, it was tedium incarnate. Well, in this world those who are bathed in a veneer of the banal, the nothing, are regularly elevated to a status of significance and grace, often, and with the assistance of a dying medium, to the extent that the unthinking herd will bleat in animated unison at the very thought of such malignant trivialities. You have no-one to blame but yourselves. You did this.
Perhaps the worst thing I have ever read. Utter dogshit.
Translation:
Imagine a world where Proust didnt exist, where the exquisite limits and boundaries of what language can accomplish in its purest, most flourishing form were unknown, remote, undiscovered, and, as such, the mediocrity of hiding behind stream-of consciousness writing was the banal norm, allowing the world's most stagnant and talentless author's to masquerade as creative forces. Imagine we travelled that particular road, idiotically bounced down its tarmac, rough and hewn, which was, despite the pockmarked surface, essentially a novelty for our feet, feet which, ignorant of alternatives, might experience this journey as something wondrous when, in reality, it was tedium incarnate. Well, in this world those who are bathed in a veneer of the banal, the nothing, are regularly elevated to a status of significance and grace, often, and with the assistance of a dying medium, to the extent that the unthinking herd will bleat in animated unison at the very thought of such malignant trivialities. You have no-one to blame but yourselves. You did this.
Perhaps the worst thing I have ever read. Utter dogshit.
I found this difficult to read. I sort of settled in about page 90 but it was a hard read, both the subject matter and the style of writing. I appreciate what Eimear McBride was doing and I applaud her choice to do it, but I struggled a lot. Even after discussing it in class I found myself missing a lot.
I don’t really know what to say about it - it was a serious and complicated thing to talk about and it obviously took a lot to write this book.
We particularly discussed the ending in class - some people disliked it but I found it a natural way to end. I think if it had been a happier ending it would have felt cheap considering how the rest of the book was written.
I don’t really know what to say about it - it was a serious and complicated thing to talk about and it obviously took a lot to write this book.
We particularly discussed the ending in class - some people disliked it but I found it a natural way to end. I think if it had been a happier ending it would have felt cheap considering how the rest of the book was written.
First off: I loved the idea. I had high hopes that could, perhaps, only be betrayed. As a huge fan of modernist fiction, I was expecting this to be similar to Woolf & Joyce, especially since McBride herself has called Joyce her 'hero'. I found the story engaging at first but when it turned into extremely disturbing guilt-ridden self-flagellation (metaphorical AND literal) and ticked a surprising number of the "Every Irish Novel Ever" boxes (or was this intentional? I really couldn't tell) despite its genuinely interesting style, I had to put it down more than once and became ever more irritated as time went on.
Nevertheless, the text does feature a few exquisite passages of overwhelming beauty and surprising tenderness in-between the seriously depressing overall tone and in general, I applaud the chutzpa needed for writing texts such as this one. Undoubtedly an original addition to the mix, if not my cup of tea.
Nevertheless, the text does feature a few exquisite passages of overwhelming beauty and surprising tenderness in-between the seriously depressing overall tone and in general, I applaud the chutzpa needed for writing texts such as this one. Undoubtedly an original addition to the mix, if not my cup of tea.
challenging
dark
emotional
mysterious
sad
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Content Warnings
Graphic: Child abuse, Death, Incest, Rape, Sexual assault, Suicide, Terminal illness, Violence, Medical trauma
Moderate: Cancer
challenging
dark
emotional
sad
I gave up with this pretty quickly to be honest - too many better books to read that don't have overly pretentious style and structures. I flicked through to the end and it seems like a lot of work for little gain - a grim miserable tale of abuse. Given the hype over this book i imagine it'll be on lots of Undergraduate reading lists and for that i feel sorry for them having to plough through it.
I had to read it twice this book is definitely too smart for me
But I liked the bits I understood, very deserving of the awards it won
But I liked the bits I understood, very deserving of the awards it won
A harrowing read. This is written in an unusual prose style, which actually serves to highlight the distress involved. I felt the book really got under my skin, and I actually read the last 40 or so pages in floods of tears!