Joseph Conrad - Heart of Darkness

"The horror! The horror!" is one of those phrases that will haunt one, long after the last page of the book is turned. This book, or novella, is a ninety page almost-monologue, where the narrator is Marlow, who recounts his adventures searching for Mr. Kurtz in the darkness of Africa. Honestly, despite some incredible lines, I couldn't wait for the book to end. Yes, I know it's a classic, describing the horrors of the ivory trade in the Congo, and is one of those must-reads. However, the emphasis on the allegory of darkness being the heart of the African jungle, or the darkness that pervades the hearts of the European imperialists upon entering here, resulted in me struggling through. For the most part, I like layered narratives, overflowing with metaphors (or any literary device, really), but, to me, this almost came across as forced. Mr. Kurtz, who Marlow only meets in the last third of the book, dominates the narrative. By all accounts, prior to his arrival in the Congo, Mr. Kurtz was a remarkable man. However, as heard through the grapevine, his adventures in the jungles show him as anything but. Thieving, looting, killing, and other barbaric acts seem to define his time in the Congo, while the primary mission that the Company had sent him on was to civilise this uncivilised world, while sending back ivory. Was his fall from grace a result of his environment, or was it simply his innate self being revealed at an opportune moment?

“But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.”

Yet, as Mr. Kurtz lay dying, he acknowledged the futility of his endeavours.

Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn't touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror--of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision--he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: The horror! The horror!

Marlow's observations on his milieu were fascinating, and disheartening. It was incredibly bleak, and while one can take solace in the fact that the observations were based on Conrad's own stay in the Congo which was over a century ago (1890), it still leaves one feeling fairly unsettled.

A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.

This is probably going to be my shortest review yet, for I don't really have much else to say. I can see why it's a classic, but... I really didn't enjoy it!

J.D. Salinger - Catcher In The Rye

As some of you might already know, The Catcher In The Rye is one of my favourite books of all times. I've read it, and re-read it, and then read it again. At the age of fourteen, the first time I read it, I fell in love with Holden Caulfield. A decade later, I still love Holden Caulfield, and all his quirks, but I sympathise with him, and my heart goes out to him. At one point, I was reading this book every year - sometimes, even more often. When I started working, my ancient edition found a permanent spot on my desk, and it was just there for me to flip through, on days when things didn't make sense. Eventually, the book found its way back to my bookshelf, and I picked it out the other day, to find some solidarity, and to fall in love with the book and the author all over again.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

That's the kind of author Mr. Salinger is to me - I wish he was a terrific friend of mine, for, despite the hypocrisy and despite the narcissism, I can just relate to his protagonist... and, despite popular opinion, that fans of the book are likely to be homicidal maniacs (John Lennon's assassin and Reagan's sniper were both obsessed with the book), well... I've never really felt the need to load up a shot gun, and go around shooting people who annoy me.

The thing about Holden Caulfield is, he's just trying to find his place in the world, where he's surrounded by phonies and pretentious folks. He's been expelled from school, for failing everything but English, and he doesn't really regret his expulsion. Instead, he leaves his school before his last date, and heads to New York, to spend a couple of days on his own, before he goes home to face the music, i.e. his parents. He rambles about life at the school, and then, the book continues with his adventures in New York, as he meets old friends and girlfriends, and reflects and introspects on his life.

He's surrounded by people who talk for the sake of talking, and who have the whole holier-than-thou attitude, which infuriates the living daylights out of him. God knows, I can relate.

He started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down on his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God - talk to Him and all - whenever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving in his car. That killed me. I can just see the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs.

While reading the book this time 'round, Caulfield came across as someone struggling to deal with the real world, and he seemed to be quite bipolar - with his emotions wildly swinging from ecstasy to despondence in seconds.

Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

There's an element of hypocrisy, as he rambles on and digresses excessively, but there's so much innocence and idealism and impulsiveness, that he still comes across as someone you'd want to know in real life. He seems to have no regard social protocol, and finds it tiresome, to the extent that he's compelled to make things up, as and when he feels like... some of which is quite politically incorrect.

Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.

I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.

But what really gets me - like, really gets me - about this book is his relationship with his sister, Phoebe; and of course, his sentiments about Allie, his dead brother. When he's asked by his roommate to write a descriptive essay for him on any subject, he chooses to write about Allie's baseball mitt, which has poems scribbled all over.

So what I did, I wrote about my brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him. He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at anybody. […] God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair.

How can something like that not choke you up? Or make you melt? Or not make you love the protagonist unconditionally? It's so simple, yet so profound. So plain, yet so beautiful. And then - how can you blame Caulfield for treating the world with such utter disdain, when the world has really not been good to him, and taken his younger brother away from him? I think it's easy to say, "get over it" or feel like slapping him to knock him into his senses, but when one feels like the world is unjust, they need time to grieve and come to terms with things at their own pace. Everyone handles things differently. Everyone's way of rationalising things vary.

And when eventually, the title of the book is explained, it's just... perfect.

"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like — "

"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."

She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn't know it then, though.

"I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around — nobody big, I mean — except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff — I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.

There's something metaphoric about the above quote; it's not literal. It's an element of having the urge to save people before they go down the slippery slope - much like Holden's done, but there's been no one to catch him, or save him. And the vulnerability and utopian fantasy that comes to light here is just gut-wrenching really.

I can read this book over and over again, and it's one of those books I always turn to when things aren't looking up, or I'm ruing the state of affairs around me. And it always makes me feel better. And it always restores my faith in people, ironically enough. I don't think I can read this book too many times, for with each read, it just gets better and better.

Mikhail Bulgakov - The Master and Margarita

It's taken me a little over a month to finish this book, and I must say, it's probably one of my greatest reading accomplishments 'til date. I found the first eighty-four pages tremendously trying, the next one-hundred-and-fifty odd pages amazing, and I was actually totally hooked to the 'Book 2' of this intimidating classic. At the very outset, I am compelled to admit I don't think I understood the whole book. Large portions of it had me baffled, and I questioned my resolve to continue reading it more than once. At the end of the day, though, I am glad that I read it, for a multitude of reasons which I'll explain further down. In fact, the book is already begging for a re-read, just because I think I, as the reader, will benefit greatly from the re-read.

Set in the 1930s Moscow, where Stalin was the head of state, the basic premise of this book is that the devil (Satan) strolls into Moscow with his entourage to wreak havoc. In case you're wondering, Stalin and Satan aren't interchangeable here, despite this book being a political satire.

In the opening chapter, two members of MASSOLIT (a literary organisation in Moscow) are debating on the existence of god by the Patriarch's Ponds. A foreigner introduces himself to them, apologises for the intrusion but justifies it by saying that the subject of your learned conversation is so interesting that...

The foreigner who goes by the name of Woland is the devil, and he predicts the impending unexpected death of Berlioz, one of the writers. His theory was that Jesus did exist, a theory that the two writers refuted. Berlioz's tragic death is only the first of a series of unexpected events that hit Moscow. There's a seance where money rains down, and the women of the city end up walking the streets in nothing but their undergarments, people get teleported to Yalta, the phone lines break, and devil knows, something bizarre is going on...

So, where do "the Master" and "Margarita" fit in? It's a good question, and it takes a while for that to be addressed, as the first part of this book essentially deals with the chaos and confusion created by Woland and his gang, which includes the unforgettable talking cat in the bow-tie, Behemoth. The first book also goes back in time, and has a semi-fictional account of Pontius Pilate, and the role he played in Jesus' persecution followed by the crucifixion itself.

It's Book Two that revolves around the titular characters. Margarita is the grieving wife of an unsuccessful author, "the master," who has disappeared into the oblivion and she has no idea as to where he is; is he dead or alive. In reality, he's gone over the edge, and is in a psychiatric institution. Now, Satan needs a woman called Margarita to host a midnight ball, where the catch is, the woman has to be native to the city. There are a hundred-and-twenty-one potential hostesses but the master's Margarita is the chosen one. She builds up a rapport with the devil himself, becomes a witch, in return for something...

It's the entire exchange between the devil and Margarita that had me wondering about the first half of the book, where the devil was shown to be an entity toying with the lives of people, without reason. The second half of the book did, in a manner of speaking, highlight the kind of people the devil was victimising in the first half. It was the greedy and the selfish, the people who were successful due to their vices, not their virtues, the people who we'd call weasels, the bureaucrats and the opportunists. People, who in my humble opinion, deserve to be reprimanded, deserve to be punished. Even today, the weasels seem to be the ones who are successful and go far in their lives, whereas the hardworking ones seem to be stuck in a rut, and I think that's unfair... excuse the slight aside, but when realisation hit me towards the end of the book, I was sympathising with the devil himself!

And yes, the lyrics of the Stones' Sympathy for the Devil did come back to me at that point. I love the Stones, I love Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and Brian Jones and... Have you ever heard the lyrics? I did look up the song on Wikipedia once I'd finished this book, and it didn't really surprise me that part of it had been inspired by this work of fiction!

Please allow me to introduce myself I'm a man of wealth and taste I've been around for a long, long year Stole many a man's soul and faith

And I was 'round when Jesus Christ Had his moment of doubt and pain Made damn sure that Pilate Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name But what's puzzling you Is the nature of my game

So, yes, this is a satirical confusing bizarre story, where too many characters are introduced, and too many of them have too short a role to play. I found myself questioning the introduction of some of these characters, considering their short life in the novel, and couldn't really come up with an answer. It's humorous in bits, and thought-provoking in chunks. The characters are mesmerising and some of the scenes incredible.

And an unheard-of thing occurred. The  fur bristled on the cat's back, and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot like a panther straight at Bengalsky's chest, and from there on to his head. Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure  of the master  of ceremonies and  in two  twists tore the head from  the thick neck with a savage howl.

The banter is hilarious, and it does provide some relief from the otherwise confusing bewildering narrative.

'Well, what's all this now?' exclaimed Woland. `Why have you gilded your whiskers? And what the devil do you need the bow-tie for, when you're not even wearing trousers?'

'A cat is not supposed to wear trousers, Messire,' the cat replied with great dignity. 'You're not going to tell me to wear boots, too, are you? Puss-in-Boots exists only in fairy tales, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a bow-tie? I do not intend to put myself in a ridiculous situation and risk being chucked out! Everyone adorns himself with what he can. You may consider what I've said as referring to the opera glasses as well, Messire!'

'But the whiskers? ...'

'I don't understand,' the cat retorted drily. 'Why could Azazello and Koroviev put white powder on themselves as they were shaving today, and how is that better than gold? I powdered my whiskers, that's all! If I'd shaved myself, it would be a different matter! A shaved cat - now, that is indeed an outrage, I'm prepared to admit it a thousand times over. But generally,' here the cat's voice quavered touchily, 'I see I am being made the object of a certain captiousness, and I see that a serious problem stands before me - am I to attend the ball? What have you to say about that, Messire?'

Have you read this book? Or attempted to read it? What did you think? Worth a read? I'd recommend it...

What's the most confusing bizarre book that you've read? I think this is mine, hands down, beating Murakami's Kafka on the Shore...

Ernest Hemingway - The Old Man And The Sea

I have an absolutely ancient copy of this book lying around, and it's actually bizarre that I've not read the book yet - it's just 114 pages long! Published in 1974, the book cost just 30p at the time (US$0.45)! The book costs £7.99 now... let's keep that musing for another day! The Old Man and the Sea is an extremely 'concise' book, for the lack of a better word. The plot is uncomplicated, with minimal dialogue. It's literally about an old man and the sea, as the old man (Santiago) tries to change his luck, after going eighty-four days without catching a fish.

Santiago's protege, Manolin, has moved on to a "lucky" boat, as per his father's wishes, and so, when the old man heads out to the waters on the eighty-fifth day, he's all alone, without the boy he trusts.

On this fateful day though, Santiago's luck does change, as he catches what appears to be a giant fish, and an epic battle begins at sea between the fish and the man, as he is not able to haul the fish onboard. Thus begins a great game of waiting and patience (and impatience) as the old man bides his time, and ponders upon many-a-thing, including how useless his left hand his (when it starts cramping), how much he misses the old boy, and how he would have made some changes in his journey, had he known better.

He could feel the steady hard pull of the line and his left hand was cramped. It drew up tight on the heavy cord and he looked at it in disgust.

'What kind of a hand is that,' he said. 'Cramp then if you want. Make yourself into a claw. It will do you no good.'

While I'm glad I read this book, I still thought it dragged on a bit, by recounting the story of the old man's stay at the sea and his battle with the fish. Ironic that I'm saying the above about a book which is only 114 pages long, but there you have it. I guess I'm not interested in fishing, and while I understand the basic jargon, I don't really get what a lot of it means. For that matter, I don't quite understand fishing techniques either. So, maybe that's just me!

The old man's characterisation was fantastic though, as was his dialogues with the various natural things around him, including his victim - the fish. The way he handled exhaustion, cramps, hunger and thirst was mind-blowing, and I couldn't help but sympathise with him at those times. Even when I finished the book, I felt slightly despondent - but I reckon that's an emotion the book is expected to evoke.

The writing was brilliant - not poetic, but very real. The language was simple, and easy to read, while simultaneously bringing alive some of the scenes from the book. There was no superfluity, but all the words came together as though essential to form the whole story.

It's the first Hemingway I've read (yep, I know that's embarrassing!), but was wondering if you have read any of his works. If yes, what would you recommend?

Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice

Mee invited all Pride and Prejudice first-timers to a readalong in February. I'd like to start this post by apologising for not finishing the book in the second month of the year itself, but, I got sidetracked with a couple of other things, and well, you know how it goes... Pride and Prejudice is my very first Austen (yes, I'm a book blogger who has never read an Austen. Shame on me!), and there are so many things I want to say about the experience. I'm not going to write a proper "review" with a story recap etc. as, well, most people have a general idea as to what the story's about, and in my opinion, knowing more can ruin the story for them.

That was my major gripe with Pride and Prejudice. I really wish I'd read it as a teenager, as I wasn't aware of the storyline back then. Things have changed since, and much to my displeasure, I discovered that a lot of the feel-goodness of the book was lost as I already knew how things would come together in the end. Further, I also knew how a couple of characters would turn out, which was annoying.

That said, I did still enjoy the book, if for nothing else, the language - oh, how I loved the language! Why don't we speak like that now-a-days? Well-articulated, romantic sentences in proper English (it was the nineteenth century), with appropriate exaggerations? It's a fantastic world to get lost into, and the emphasis is so much more on the dialogue than the ambience. Through the dialogue, you acquaint yourself with the characters, and it's almost as though you're right there with them through everything: the balls and the walks, the ecstasy and the misery, the anger and the lament. You even get to read the letters between the characters, which tells you all the more about them, and by the end of the book, everyone has a favourite: Elizabeth Bennet or Mr. Darcy. Unfortunately, none of the other characters jump off the pages as much as the aforementioned.

Yet, I cannot fault Austen for characterisation. As readers, we're introduced to a myriad of characters who stem from being naively good hearted to downright self-involved and manipulative; from being "airheads" (sorry, but that is the apt twenty-first century term) to being gallant; from being weak-minded or avaricious to having severe delusions of grandeur thanks to association. The people would fit in today's society easily - we see them every day! Some we would judge, and some we'd want for our best friend. Some we'd loathe, and some we'd do our best to bring down to earth. Some we'd instantly have an opinion on, only to be proven wrong. That aspect of timelessness amazes me - are society's virtues and vices inherently still the same across two centuries?

And then, we come to the setting: Austen brilliantly brings out life in the nineteenth century, almost satirically. Imagine a world where girls aren't allowed inheritance, despite the property being owned by their father? How about a world where an embarrassing mother is trying to find an eligible bachelor for five teenage daughters (who really should be in school)? Or, a world where people who earn five thousand pounds annually are considered rich? Where girls are looking out for eligible "Officers" as potential husbands - everyone really has only one thing on their minds?! Some of the essential laws of human survival exist: power rules, money talks, estates wow and some people are better as indifferent acquaintances instead of friends!

I did like the dynamics between the characters as well, specially the Bennet family (including the aunts and uncles). Also, must make a special mention of the relationships between Mr. Darcy and his sister, and Mr. Darcy and his aunt Catherine, for they made the book a lot more rich!

I really did enjoy the book, although, maybe not the story in itself, if that makes sense? Again, I attribute that to me already knowing the way the plot would turn, and hence, missing out on the feel-good factor. Also, some of the romanticism and mushiness was a little much for me, but, I guess that was part and parcel of the nineteenth century, and maybe, in another lifetime, I was Elizabeth Bennet. Well, a girl can dream. :)

Michelle Magorian - Goodnight Mr. Tom

This incredibly poignant well written story tackles various important and sensitive topics, some of which are still valid today, despite the book being set around the time of the second World War.

Set in the English countryside, Michelle Magorian tells the story of Willie, a timid little specimen, who is an evacuee from London, and is made to stay with the reticent grumpy Tom Oakley, who Willie calls Mr. Tom.

Mr. Tom is thoroughly unprepared for the scared nervous creature that's at his doorstep, as he half-expects the evacuee stereotype - the wild ill-mannered children, who cause more chaos than anything else. However, he soon finds out that Will has been continuously abused by his mother, and his small body is covered with sores and bruises. But - the psychological damage surpasses the physical, as Willie cowers at the thought of getting on the wrong side of Mr. Tom, and is petrified of doing anything to annoy him. He also wets his bed, throws up his food, expects absolutely nothing, and tries to shut out the world around him, as his mother has brainwashed him into believing that people will only like him if he's invisible and quiet.

However, Mr. Tom has demons of his own. Ever since the death of his beloved Rachel and son, he had resigned himself from village activities, and kept to himself, grieving alone. Yet, when Willie walks into his life, unexpectedly, he attempts to change, and provides the young boy with a happy home, almost selflessly. Be it clothes, food, shoes, or spending time narrating stories or organising surprise birthday parties!

A children's book, there is no surprise that Will (calling someone Willie sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?) overcomes his childhood traumas, makes friends, works hard, and is a talented artist, under the protective loving care of Mr. Tom - the hero. Yet, half way through the book, Will gets a letter from his mother in London, who is ill, and wants him back...

This story will make you laugh, and it will make you cry. You'll hate the woman that's Will's mother, but you'll wish for more Mr. Toms in this world. You'll mourn the tragedy of war, but cherish the permanence of friendship, and you'll come to terms with life not being fair, but, things having a way of working out - eventually.

As a children's book, this is incredible. Yet, as an adult, I found this book a little too simple, without the raw emotion I'd love to see in a book like this, which could bring it to life. Of course, one can argue that it might not be a book for children then...

Rating: B+

Dodie Smith - I Capture The Castle

Dodie Smith's I Capture The Castle is another one of those books with a fantastic opening line, which makes the reader want more:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and the tea-cosy.

An enchanting narrator, seventeen year old Cassandra (described as Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp), attempts to capture eight of the months of her stay at the castle, in three journals: the six penny book, the shilling book, and the two guinea book.

Poverty-striken, with barely any new income coming in, the family is trying to figure out the best way to make ends meet. All the antiques have been sold, and the castle is but bare now. Cassandra's father, also a writer, hasn't been able to work since he was in prison for three months, and the money coming in from the successes of his first book is now nil. His second wife, Topaz, occasionally poses nude for artists to earn money, but even that isn't much for she has to live in London during these jobs, and living there is expensive. Cassandra's older sister, Rose, is bitter and disgruntled with the state of affairs, and contemplates working the streets in order to make some quick money; whereas Thomas is still going to school and giving a helping hand around at home. Finally, there's young Stephen, the son of their now deceased househelp, who is completely enamoured by Cassandra, despite the fact that it seems to be unrequited.

When Simon and Neil Cotton, the inheritors of the castle, which the family has leased, come into their lives one day, Cassandra focuses on getting Rose and Simon together, in order to improve the quality of Rose's life, and see her happier. However, what transpires is heart-wrenching, as the seventeen year old realises that love is complicated, and somehow, things don't always turn out as one intends them to.

Cassandra is a lovely and fascinating narrator, and her writing is full of literary and musical references, be it Lord Fauntleroy, or Debussy. Hidden throughout the book are loads of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte references, and one of my favourite parts of the book read:

"I thought of the beginning of Pride and Prejudice - where Mrs. Bennett says 'Netherfield Park is let at last'. And then Mr. Bennett goes to call on the rich new owner."

"Mr. Bennett didn't owe him any rent," I said.

"Father wouldn't go anyway. How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen novel!"

I said I'd rather be in a Charlotte Bronte.

"Which would be nicest - Jane with a touch of Charlotte, or Charlotte with a touch of Jane?"

There are even art references, and I was quite surprised by a surrealist Dali reference. These references added to the book, and I found myself being fascinated as I was surrounded by intelligent well-read characters, and not girls who are looking to sit pretty and not do much else.

The emotions are also portrayed beautifully, and the honesty the journals portray are heartwarming. She comes across as a conscientious child, innocent and "consciously naive", and when she acts impulsively, her guilt and self-criticism begs for sympathy.

The one "captured" character, though, that I just didn't understand, was the father. He turned a blind eye to the problems of the castle, where his children were dressed in torn worn-out clothes, and there was barely any food at home. Even when Stephen, someone who "worked" for the family without taking any wages, offered to get a job and contribute to the household expenditures, the father carried on as though everything was right as rain. Some of the other characters were convinced that he needed psychological help, whereas others labeled him a genius.

I loved this book to bits, and thought it was a wonderful story, from the perspective of a very charming seventeen year old. The characters are incredible, the story touching, and the turn of events mind-boggling and wistful. And the book didn't have a typical ending, which endeared me to it further.

Rating: 4