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3.82 AVERAGE
3.82 AVERAGE
I really didn't like this book, which shows considering it took me nearly a month of reading to finish it. I found most of it unnecessary and especially the parts about Whatshisface White. I don't need to know that. If I did I would read his book. I wanted to know about her experience of grief and loss and instead it felt like she had rewritten Whites book with a few details about her life.
I'd avoid it if I were you.
I'd avoid it if I were you.
H is for Hawk is what happens when you give a depressed poet too many words to play with.
There are many reasons why I picked up this book: one, I'd like to read more about falconry despite not knowing anything about it 2) the book is supposedly about how the author deals with the death of her father. The synopsis at the back of the book says as much, and 2/3 of the book does deal with the aforementioned topics. But there's a third part that the synopsis doesn't tell you about, and that is a strange biography of author TH White and how he, too, had to deal with isolation and depression while training his very own goshawk.
I feel a little cheated because of that.
Not only are the TH White bits the slowest points in this book, it also feels the most shoehorned. I understand that the writer, Helen Macdonald, is trying to draw parallels between her journey and White's, but the links are somewhat tangential to say the least. Even though she does draw enough lines between White and herself, I cannot help but feel that they are stretched in many ways. Every time the writing dives into White's experience in falconry, the book goes to a dramatically different place about homosexuality and isolation. I applaud the effort of trying to blend these genres together, but this element of the book—the part that snuck up on me—just didn't work.
But the parts about grief really touched me on an intimate level. It's not that I have lost anybody in my family in recent times, but MacDonald is hyper-sensitive about what she was going through while dealing with grief. Now, the topic on grief is one of the reasons why I picked up this book. It's not because I have a soft spot for misery porn. It's just that I haven't read that many biographies about, well, grief. On that front, Macdonald does a wonderful job. The sense of isolation, the way nothing made sense, the way she made decisions that were, in hindsight, illogical, I actually enjoyed all of that.
But then she sinks into depression towards the middle of the book, and that's where everything changes. I don't blame MacDonald for that, of course, because depression is an illness. But I don't have depression, and it is difficult for someone like me to be in the shoes of someone like that. That's part of what makes depression terrifying because—literally—no one will understand what you are going through, and the isolation will only serve to make things worse. Depression is something that I hardly understand, much less relate to, and MacDonald doesn't do a good job at plotting out the lines. She'd be in the middle of a field, flying her goshawk when something will wash over her and it'd make her breakdown. The layman in me cannot help but ask: but why? To be clear, I don't think depressed people are "acting out", for the lack of a better expression. It's just that, unless you have or have had the illness yourself, it's hard to understand.
So, while I connected with the grief, the depression totally failed me. And when the author also happens to be a POET, its a potent mix for disaster.
Speaking of which, I don't hate poets and poetry—I just don't like them. I don't read them, I don't get them, and I stay away from them. If I had known that Macdonald is also a poet on the side, I'd have given this book a second thought. Perhaps the author's description at the back of the book should've clued me in (lesson learnt), but a part of what makes this book a drag for me is because everything reads beautifully—too beautifully, almost. The author spends a lot of time in her head, taking things apart and analysing them, which I guess is her way of dealing with the situation. But when filtered through her poetic mind, the result is an emotional journey that's hard to sit through as a reader—at least for me.
And there is a reason why I haven't talked much about falconry. I've learnt a thing or two about falconry, yes, but the topic forms such a small part of this book that I cannot say that I've gleaned much from it. And it's funny, too, since my local bookstore placed this book under the "Zoology" section—why is that? Because it has a cartoon goshawk on the cover? This book is about zoology as much as The Lord of the Rings is about WWII history.
I didn't connect with this book, and the TH White parts feel shoehorned in. And I'm not alone too, since two other colleagues have read and discarded the book just as I have. This is a book for SOME readers out there, but it definitely isn't for me.
There are many reasons why I picked up this book: one, I'd like to read more about falconry despite not knowing anything about it 2) the book is supposedly about how the author deals with the death of her father. The synopsis at the back of the book says as much, and 2/3 of the book does deal with the aforementioned topics. But there's a third part that the synopsis doesn't tell you about, and that is a strange biography of author TH White and how he, too, had to deal with isolation and depression while training his very own goshawk.
I feel a little cheated because of that.
Not only are the TH White bits the slowest points in this book, it also feels the most shoehorned. I understand that the writer, Helen Macdonald, is trying to draw parallels between her journey and White's, but the links are somewhat tangential to say the least. Even though she does draw enough lines between White and herself, I cannot help but feel that they are stretched in many ways. Every time the writing dives into White's experience in falconry, the book goes to a dramatically different place about homosexuality and isolation. I applaud the effort of trying to blend these genres together, but this element of the book—the part that snuck up on me—just didn't work.
But the parts about grief really touched me on an intimate level. It's not that I have lost anybody in my family in recent times, but MacDonald is hyper-sensitive about what she was going through while dealing with grief. Now, the topic on grief is one of the reasons why I picked up this book. It's not because I have a soft spot for misery porn. It's just that I haven't read that many biographies about, well, grief. On that front, Macdonald does a wonderful job. The sense of isolation, the way nothing made sense, the way she made decisions that were, in hindsight, illogical, I actually enjoyed all of that.
But then she sinks into depression towards the middle of the book, and that's where everything changes. I don't blame MacDonald for that, of course, because depression is an illness. But I don't have depression, and it is difficult for someone like me to be in the shoes of someone like that. That's part of what makes depression terrifying because—literally—no one will understand what you are going through, and the isolation will only serve to make things worse. Depression is something that I hardly understand, much less relate to, and MacDonald doesn't do a good job at plotting out the lines. She'd be in the middle of a field, flying her goshawk when something will wash over her and it'd make her breakdown. The layman in me cannot help but ask: but why? To be clear, I don't think depressed people are "acting out", for the lack of a better expression. It's just that, unless you have or have had the illness yourself, it's hard to understand.
So, while I connected with the grief, the depression totally failed me. And when the author also happens to be a POET, its a potent mix for disaster.
Speaking of which, I don't hate poets and poetry—I just don't like them. I don't read them, I don't get them, and I stay away from them. If I had known that Macdonald is also a poet on the side, I'd have given this book a second thought. Perhaps the author's description at the back of the book should've clued me in (lesson learnt), but a part of what makes this book a drag for me is because everything reads beautifully—too beautifully, almost. The author spends a lot of time in her head, taking things apart and analysing them, which I guess is her way of dealing with the situation. But when filtered through her poetic mind, the result is an emotional journey that's hard to sit through as a reader—at least for me.
And there is a reason why I haven't talked much about falconry. I've learnt a thing or two about falconry, yes, but the topic forms such a small part of this book that I cannot say that I've gleaned much from it. And it's funny, too, since my local bookstore placed this book under the "Zoology" section—why is that? Because it has a cartoon goshawk on the cover? This book is about zoology as much as The Lord of the Rings is about WWII history.
I didn't connect with this book, and the TH White parts feel shoehorned in. And I'm not alone too, since two other colleagues have read and discarded the book just as I have. This is a book for SOME readers out there, but it definitely isn't for me.
challenging
emotional
sad
medium-paced
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
She’s an excellent writer. I enjoyed the insights into falconry. Less so the dependence on White.
Is it a tutorial on how to raise a goshawk? Is it a reference book about goshawks in general? Is it a personal recollection of grief? Is it a self-help book to deal with grief? Is it a biography on T.H. White? Is it all just Macdonald's diary?
Yes. Maybe yes.
Yes. Maybe yes.
dark
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
“Hands are for other human hands to hold. They should not be reserved exclusively as perches for hawks. And the wild is not a panacea for the human soul; too much in the air can corrode it to nothing.”
emotional
hopeful
inspiring
reflective
sad
slow-paced
I really liked the discussion on how humans coexist with nature and wildlife. Some parts were slow to get through however