Some days simply lay on you like stones. Some were fickle as cats, sliding away when you needed comfort, then coming back later when you didn’t want them, jostling at you, stealing your breath.
Esta história de Patrick Rothfuss é realmente diferente, não me recordo de ter lido algo em que a personagem principal, Auri (tão frágil, tão forte), interage com objectos inanimados como se estes tivessem alma. Sem qualquer diálogo o livro narra sete dias da sua vida com uma mestria imparável.
É um história estranha, mas que adorei, porque existe “a place for everything and everything in its place“
What I like most about this books is that when a read it again I get new sensations, new meanings like a living organism. If I read Feather with 50 years old I will get new sensations because I have learn more of life – don’t know if making any sense – tough it does to me.
feather in my lap
The book that send me to my childhood; and I am still immersed in the pages of Feather – I think I’ll need help to get out.
Sadly I finished reading Feather. Were good times spent with his words. The book is still on the bedside table for rereading.
The summer morning reflects all its splendor on the beach’s sand and invites you to swim in the salty sea and the vacationers are not unrelated to this appeal.
Children jump, scream, balls bounce from one side to the other, sand flies, tents are assembled, towels are laid, some goofy eat greedily with their eyes women from top to bottom, others nibbling buttocks here, two breasts there, the lucky ones can foresee briefly after a swim one erect nipple daringly homeless from a bikini; older people proudly display the decrepitude of life; fanatics attempt within 30 days to clean the body of fat accumulated in 11 months of gluttony.
We see men with dump, round, oval, hairy bellies; we see women with pleats, jelly thighs, with baroque bellies. Some young, sculptural women contrast this symphony of flabby and ribbed flesh, diaphanous they glide at the seaside showing steady buttocks; small breasts are transformed into big breasts thanks to modern the engineering of bikinis, triquinis or swimsuits; large breasts are voluptuously bouncing or flattened reminding sardines in a can…
Unaware of all this is a reader of The Lunar Tickle by Rhys Hughes. And why? Simple. Everything that is inside the book is superior to what may be observed outside its pages. What surrounds him is a pale shadow.
The adventure, the environment has no substantive or adjective that can be glued easily. The best definition for the “The Lunar Tickle” is to say “that there isn’t definition” – this prevents me headaches and close in gold the review: I hope.
“Songs for the Lost” was one of the best books I have read recently. And of course for this to have any value I will put the names of some books I read at least this year:
Sob o Sol Jaguar, Italo Calvino (Teorema)
Nove Histórias, J. D. Salinger (Quetzal Editores)
O Deserto dos Tártaros, Dino Buzzati (O Marcador)
Kafka à Beira-Mar, Haruki Murakami (Casa das Letras)
I finished reading the book “Songs for the Lost” by Alexander Zelenyj, edited by Eibonvale Press, and the first conclusion I reach is that I really haven’t finished reading the book. Sounds absurd, I know. This is said because it’s a book whose words stay in memory and make me think, suddenly of some lines, of some sentences; like that melody that in the morning, for no apparent reason, does not come out of the head and is constantly being hummed.
Alexander Zelenyj is a master weaver holding me in a labyrinthine web of words – when I notice I am stuck (suspended) such as a puppet, inanimate, until the puppeteer gives me life.
Alexander Zelenyj has a complex and visionary writing and here, of course, I’m not saying anything that has not already been said about him. What I can say, as a reader, and not as a literary critic, that I am not of course, is how the book touched me for its beauty, for its insanity, for its soul, for its melancholy.
The words of “Songs for the Lost” are not innocent and paraphrasing Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864):“Words – so innocent and powerless As They are the standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil They Become in the hands of one who knows how to combine Them.” – from “Defrocking the Devil: Theology of Fear” by Thomas J Boynton.
Yes, Alexander Zelenyj is not a prolific writer, but when he writes – writes dazzling stories. Alexander Zelenyj is a writer that makes you sweat, shake your head and makes you think “what next?” at the turn of every the page. This book is really a thunderstorms of words.
To Alexander Zelenyj I just need to throw a sentence of Boris Pasternak: “Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.”
Many thanks for submitting your flash fiction, which will be up and active on the site on the 30th December. We usually post some time around 12:00 GMT, 7:00 EST, for max blogging impact.
We tweet and post to facebook and google+ when your work is first published, but do feel free to use the share buttons at the bottom of your work’s page to connect with your own followers on these and other social networking sites.
Since you’ve had a flash fiction piece accepted, you’re very welcome to show off this fact on your own weblog or anywhere else you can paste html … Feel free to go to Featured Author Extras to pick up the code.
Since we do get a lot of submissions, we tend to operate on the principle of not accepting further submissions from a writer for a couple of months, just to give everybody a chance…
Uma história minha foi aceite para publicação no site Flash Fiction Magazine.
In this, his extraordinary debut novel, Jet McDonald has created a heady brew of volatile cocktail ingredients. Madcap surreal humour blends with vicious parody of the world of work, the vanity of “Creative” types, the torments of unrequited love, animal cruelty and the excesses of consumer society. Words and sentences undergo some kind of alchemy under McDonald’s reckless stewardship, he whips them up into little frenzies like performing pooches and makes them jump through the burning hoops of our open mouths and frazzled brains. Not so much a breath of fresh air as a snort of something industrial, read this book and become initiated into a rebellion of the mind that will leave you inspired and laughing with exhilaration.
from the editor
Sense is the enemy of change and nonsense is the powder keg of disorder.
Amazing (SUPER FUNNY) story. I didn’t need to say anything about this book because Allen Ashley already did a good job in the Foreword.
OH! You don’t know what Allen said – buy the book.
To be fair I don’t make words, I only use them. I choose the words from a magic cauldron, called the dictionary, and as if by magic I create a story, a thought.
I don’t know how to draw, so I just do rough drafts on any piece of paper and thereby I get drawings.
I am not a professional photographer, but I’m a shot addict – bang! bang!
I shoot to the left, to the right and from time to time I get some great photos.
This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, and defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny,Time, Love, Beauty… – Henry Miller