kitkatpanicattack's reviews
210 reviews

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

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adventurous mysterious tense slow-paced

Plot- or character-driven? A mix
Strong character development? No
Loveable characters? No
Diverse cast of characters? No
Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

2.0

am I supposed to feel sorry for Erik? cause I don't.

The Hours by Michael Cunningham

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challenging reflective slow-paced

Plot- or character-driven? Character
Strong character development? It's complicated
Loveable characters? No
Diverse cast of characters? No
Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

2.0

I didn't know beautiful prose about melancholy could be so boring, but here we are.

Mother's Milk: Poems in Search of Heavenly Mother by Rachel Hunt Steenblik

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emotional hopeful reflective fast-paced

3.0

I've always known the divine is all around us--both the masculine and the feminine--but I just now beginning to believe the divine wants to be found and talked about and written about, even in repetitive poetry.

Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins

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dark emotional sad tense fast-paced

Plot- or character-driven? A mix
Strong character development? Yes
Loveable characters? Yes
Diverse cast of characters? Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

4.5

I thought I couldn't love the commentary and characterization of The Hunger Games series more, but Suzanne Collins just proved me so incredibly wrong.

Road Tripped by Pete Hautman

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adventurous funny sad medium-paced

Plot- or character-driven? Character
Strong character development? No
Loveable characters? No
Diverse cast of characters? No
Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

2.0

I am Stiggy's number one hater.

The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo

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adventurous emotional hopeful fast-paced

Plot- or character-driven? A mix
Strong character development? Yes
Loveable characters? Yes
Diverse cast of characters? Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

5.0

I was a strange kid.

I read The Tale of Despereaux for the first time at six years old. I didn't read it in class or with a parent; I read it by myself in my twin sized bed. That's not normal for a six year old. Yes, I still played pretend with friends and talked to my Barbies, but I also spent a lot of time reading books with new vocabulary while my classmates struggled with picture books. Between the advanced reading level and good vocabulary alongside a growth spurt that made me taller than all the other kindergarteners and a speech impediment, I felt like the strangest six year old to ever grace the rainbow carpet.

I think that's why I related to Despereaux so deeply as a child. He was also strange--small, big ears, distracted by music, disinterested in his siblings' hobbies. However, the aspect of Despereaux I related to the most was his love of stories. While he crawled over the words "once upon a time," my fingers grazed those words like a sacred text.

The moment I really knew I was a strange kid was in second grade. Mrs. Fox read this book out loud to us throughout the fall. I was memorized by her dark lips pronouncing the words as she sat at her desk. "Stories are light," she read. "Light is precious in a world so dark." All of my memories of listening to her read as draped over with sunshine and the golden lamp at her desk. I'm sure it wasn't always sunny and her lamp wasn't always on, but in my eight year old brain, reading time meant time in the light.

My classmates didn't feel the same way about reading time--they preferred science and recess. They also didn't care about all of the commentary about light and darkness and stories and love. They thought the soup bit was funny and felt bad for Miggery Sow, but their critical thoughts didn't extend much beyond that. (And they shouldn't have. They were seven and eight, after all.) But me and Despereaux? We understood. Stories are light. Stories are sunshine and golden lamps and candles blazing a path forward.

My path forward has always been defined by stories. I remained an obsessive reader through middle school. I took every English class and elective I could in high school. I spent my college years in basement classrooms and cramped apartment reading literary theory and classics. And now, sixteen years after my fingers first grazed the words in The Tale of Despereaux, I teach English Language Arts to sophomores and juniors.

I don't think of myself as a strange kid anymore. Maybe my students do as we explore the symbolism of fire in Fahrenheit 451 or the use of literary devices in Taylor Swift lyrics. However, I've seen their eyes travel pages and gaze at me as we've read the words of Mitch Albom and Sandra Cisneros and Shirley Jackson and John Green. I've seen their eyes go from sleepy and dreadful to completely consumed by a story. If a story is a light, then I've seen my students run straight into it and try to capture it.

Maybe they feel like strange kids. I don't think they are though. I think they understand something it takes most people lifetimes to grasp. They understand that love and forgiveness and hope are wonderful yet ridiculous things. They understand that grave times call for soup. They understand that stories are light, and light is very precious in our dark world.

As silly and strange as it sounds, The Tale of Despereaux seems like the start of my journey to and in the light. It's only fitting that the story that led me on this path is a silly and strange story about a tiny mouse with big ears and big feelings and big dreams. It's only fitting that now, at twenty-two, I reread this book and remember that stories will carry all of us through, even in the darkest of times.

Honey by Isabel Banta

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emotional hopeful reflective medium-paced