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alanadeluca's review against another edition
funny
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
orlagal's review
funny
mysterious
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.75
Content Warnings
Graphic: Death of parent, Gaslighting, and Death
a_here's review against another edition
4.0
"Sidonia had said that she was sorry for the bite, though it went very well with her dance. But when told that to appear naked in a drawing-room might be considered somewhat odd, since it was no longer the custom, she had argued that our bodies were very unimportant, only there so people might perceive us."
Chapter 1, Part 4, p 12
"She had said, and had meant every word at the time, that she hated herself, her fickleness, her strangeness... How frightened she had been, Yes, actually frightened; she remembered this now with surprise. But all that had passes, and if she was strange, she had nothing to fear from her beautiful, soul-satisfy strangeness. Her strangeness made her feel calm, assured, even a little aloof. It became a delightful condition of mind,
"The Above and Beyonds," she christened this state, a name that undoubtedly expressed it very well."
Chapter 8, Part 2, p 60
"Pictures, quiet pictures vaguely tinged with sadness, hidden away in the depths of Frances, drifting across her mind unbidden, bringing a smile that was somehow not quite a smile to her hard-bitten, whimsical mouth. Pictures of things seen and half forgotten - sometimes of things imagined. Pictures of rooms looking out on old gardens; pictures of gardens folded up in twilight; pictures of evenings beside a pleasant log-fire; pictures of nights filled with soft, contented breathing; pictures of a women with a child at her breast. Frances would smile and wonder where they came from, these pictures that belonged to somewhere and something that had nothing to do with Frances Reide. Would wonder at the strength of the diaphanous things to stir in her a feeling of longing, a sudden discontent with the little house in Young Street a sudden rather fierce resentment against life, a vague, uncomprehending pity for herself, a desire to lift up her voice in protest and ask,'Why? Why? Why?
But Frances was not a dreamer... So when the pictures came she would plunge into accounts...Or if it chanced to be in the middle of the night, switch on the bedside lamp and read Sax Rohmer."
Chapter 8, Part 3, p 68
"Sound is only color made articulate."
Chapter 15, Part 4, p 115
Chapter 1, Part 4, p 12
"She had said, and had meant every word at the time, that she hated herself, her fickleness, her strangeness... How frightened she had been, Yes, actually frightened; she remembered this now with surprise. But all that had passes, and if she was strange, she had nothing to fear from her beautiful, soul-satisfy strangeness. Her strangeness made her feel calm, assured, even a little aloof. It became a delightful condition of mind,
"The Above and Beyonds," she christened this state, a name that undoubtedly expressed it very well."
Chapter 8, Part 2, p 60
"Pictures, quiet pictures vaguely tinged with sadness, hidden away in the depths of Frances, drifting across her mind unbidden, bringing a smile that was somehow not quite a smile to her hard-bitten, whimsical mouth. Pictures of things seen and half forgotten - sometimes of things imagined. Pictures of rooms looking out on old gardens; pictures of gardens folded up in twilight; pictures of evenings beside a pleasant log-fire; pictures of nights filled with soft, contented breathing; pictures of a women with a child at her breast. Frances would smile and wonder where they came from, these pictures that belonged to somewhere and something that had nothing to do with Frances Reide. Would wonder at the strength of the diaphanous things to stir in her a feeling of longing, a sudden discontent with the little house in Young Street a sudden rather fierce resentment against life, a vague, uncomprehending pity for herself, a desire to lift up her voice in protest and ask,'Why? Why? Why?
But Frances was not a dreamer... So when the pictures came she would plunge into accounts...Or if it chanced to be in the middle of the night, switch on the bedside lamp and read Sax Rohmer."
Chapter 8, Part 3, p 68
"Sound is only color made articulate."
Chapter 15, Part 4, p 115
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