Great whites and makos and tigers and bonnets and lemons and nurses and threshers and blacknose and blacktips and spinners and bull sharks and duskys and finetooths and smalltails and silkies and dogfish and hammerheads, sharpnose, and browns. All circling, circling, circling their death-patterned courses, pushing the mass of horror-stricken humans deeper into their clump of false-security safety-in-numbers, huddling together with their backs to the murderous fish that had somehow stripped away order from the universe and learned to navigate against the laws of the physical world.
Have you ever seen a thing the first time and known its name?
These were the motherfucking sharks.
This book is…
… really quite unusual.
Oh. I probably should’ve put a language warning on this somewhere…
Motherfucking Sharks: 4 out of 5 stars
The tourist irritated Camelia. Shamelessly flouncing in front of her sons, exciting them. Rubbing against her boyfriend, practically masturbating him in Camelia’s store. Holding her nose, as if she smelled dung instead of garlic.
“Cheap,” the boyfriend was disdainful. “What’s wrong with them?”
Camelia pointed at the sleeping-bags. “Stains.”
“Gross. Was this shit?”
“No.” Camelia was honest; if not exactly forthcoming
A bargain was reached. Equipment, plus local directions to the Carpathian ruins.
Camelia watched them leave.
“Head out morning, after the Strigoi are finished with them” she instructed her sons. “Grab the bags, wash them again.”
I wade in the shallows, I fear your depths, I can only picture the strength of your currents.
You change so quickly, promising calm and comfort before shifting, raging with unsuspected vehemence; overwhelming, intense.
Frustrated you break against my timidity, spending yourself uselessly before retreating, pulling back only to break against me again and again.
I stay close to the shore observing your beauty, scared of losing myself to your undertow.
As the tide goes out, I dream of drowning.
Something was happening inside Dorrigo Evans as he watched. Here were two hundred men watching three men destroying a man whom they all knew, and yet they did nothing. And they would continue to do nothing. Somehow, they had assented to what was happening, they were keeping time with the drumming, and Dorrigo was first among them, the one who arrived too late and done too little and now somehow agreed with what was happening. He did not understand how this had come to be, only that it had.
For an instant he thought he grasped the truth of a terrifying world in which one could not escape horror, in which violence was eternal, the great and only verity, greater than the civilisations it created, greater than any god man worshipped, for it was the only true god. It was as if man existed only to transmit violence to ensure its domain is eternal. For the world did not change, this violence had always existed and would never be eradicated, men would die under the boot and fists and horror of other men until the end of time, and all human history was a history of violence.
The Narrow Road To The Deep North, Richard Flanagan
A book I selected to fill the Man Booker/Pulitzer Prize winner category from my 2015 Read Harder Challenge, this was one of those rarest of books – one that not only educated me or challenged me, but actually moved me. Seriously, I had to stop reading a few times on the bus to avoid actual tears. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a manipulative tearjerker and you don’t need to read it with tissues, but there are moments…
Damn, is it dusty in here?
The Narrow Road is a very ‘literary’ book which may put some people off (it has been described by certain commentators as ‘pretentious and stupid‘ or ‘all bite and no chew‘), but I couldn’t disagree more – I loved it.
The Narrow Road To The Deep North – 5 out of 5 Stars
“Happy anniversary dear,” his expression is sour like the Bollinger we drink. “Ten years. Regrets?”
I summon my most expensive smile to answer, paid for in tears unshed. I send my smile down our antique oak table, to shine on him like a crystal chandelier; brilliant, cold, fragile.
I hold my champagne up in a toast to him. A toast to my oh so clean life. Clean of need. Clean of want. Clean of children, affection, love.
I miss your dirt. Your dirty face, your dirty hands, your dirty laugh.
I miss you; I missed you.
“None dear,” I respond, barely. Continue reading
Officer Bankowski, clad head-to-toe in coveralls, stepped around the yellow tape and entered the kitchen.
“Y’know something Banksy?” Dewell joined him in the corner, away from forensics, “I became a cop to arrest drug dealers. To catch bank robbers. Shit, to be a goddamn hero.”
Bankowski was silent, observing forensics at work as they measured the arterial spray (8 foot), outlined the small void in the red mist on the wall (child, 4 foot), tracked the victim’s steps as she ran from her husband.
“I did not expect to see so many kitchens,” Dewell continued in a quiet voice. “So goddamn many.”
A super-quick post to let my large number of devoted reader (thanks mum) know that I have revamped my ‘About’ page (and to a far lesser degree my Bibliophagy page).
- Bibliophagy has two new ‘tag links’ right at the top, which will take you books I have reviewed and rated either 4 stars or 5 stars.
- About, now called Actually, it is all about me (because I’m as witty AF) now has more useful details about the blog (what it’s about, where to find things), some more tag links, and another picture of me (you’re welcome).
A waste of a perfectly good lunch time? Maybe. But if anyone does click through and check it out, I’d be very interested to read what you think.
Thanks, as always.