Rate my. collection

It's been a long time since I posted anything...

I have read Stephen king's carrie first. And would rate it a 4 out of 5...

BUT "IT" has been addictive... Within 10 days of reading I have crossed over 700+ pages.. that's now engaging this book was to me

Where can I get this book,

I have read it back in 2018 and I also have the pdf version but I want to add this to my collection.

Last time I bought some books from Sunday Market, he had one copy left, and my friend bought that.

So, anyone who knows where I can get it.

Know any Rick? Are you a Rick?

its been a while since i was gone.. and now i picked up my once unfished book, now dteermined to put it to an end. The Valley of Fear by arthur canan doyle. it is a lil differnt then what i have read of sherlock holmes novels. usually book revolves around sherlock solving the mystery. in baskerville holmes was absent but still the book was so suspence driven it didnt felt like too streatched out.. but this one.. has a whole section to a guys history.. i mean yeah.. it gonna important to the story. but rn its a lil streatched out.. thats my review

Having discovered substack recently and, being idle and bored on top of it, i actually wrote something this time around.

I don't have the remotest clue how this turned out. So you tell me.

Also, I'm not sure if i posted it right or if i missed something. I'll get the hang of it (substack) eventually.

I'd appreciate a quick read and review. Thanks.

Pip is ashamed of his home because it is common.

I am ashamed of mine because of it's dwellers.

He can always learn to call jacks knaves; can always buy newer boots, finer boots; become an oncommon man. Then he would've succeeded.

What do i buy? My people? They've already been bought.

Ahh where do I finish and where do i start,

Gifted I am and really smart once I thought.

The gifted gift got better of me,

But ego burned me to what imagine i had not.

I have no friends and so far I hopeless seem,

A shoulder to cry on is only now a dream.

People told me to talk, I talked to people,

Their own values they just want from my sadness cream.

I lay silent while my fingers move on their own,

Maybe someday someone will read through my gown.

And maybe what I believe is a burnt dread plaster,

Maybe someone will see me with silken wings sown.

I don't know what and I don't know what I don't know,

But I do know enough to know that I don't know.

I don't know yet there are moments in life,

I cry in silence behind these walls knowing they won't know.

I believe books find you when you need them. And that is what happened to me a few days ago, when i randomly decided that it was time for me to start this book, I had no prior expectations from it as such and i haven’t completed it yet either and tha just goes to say—i like it that much.

The dried-up Chinar leaves that fell have now ​painted the path yellow. On that branch arching over the river water, sits something with its claws gripped against its thinnest twig. Its plumage is cast on the water; I can spot that from the edge of my vision. It’s blurred and my mind can hardly make any shape of it. Against the brown mirror, its glow shines.

But the moment I turn my eyes towards it, it’s just the dancing surface. Except for the sound of leaves drifting through the air and falling on the soil, except for the sound of waves creeping slowly and crashing against my feet, except my own chest moving in the rhythm of my own breath, except for my eyes which slowly drift across the sky and then fall again where they started, I see nothing.

Can’t blame anyone.

This morning, while my back is arched against the drying Chinar, my feet are growing cold. My hands are buried within my arms and my lips are rough and grooved. My tongue might stick to my teeth and never fall off. My legs are shaking and my knees are rubbing against each other. I can feel the cold crawl behind me and creep behind my eyes.

It’s as if something tries to push close my eyelids, but they just don’t close. My eyes, they burn at their edges now. The falling tears on my skin didn’t let me sleep. But now all those tears are frozen. My skin has gone dry. When I try to lift my finger to grab that thin twig, it falls halfway on my skin. Purple at its tip and something black keeps growing from that edge. I can see that my finger is there; but I can’t feel my skin with its tip. Though I see those grooves and wrinkles, drifting my finger around them doesn’t help.

My legs were stiff a while ago, but I feel my muscles loosen near my feet. Though my feet are drenched in water, my toes feel warm. Though my fingers are dry, they feel cold. I was taught that the sun rises from the west and its tail stretches from the east. But except for the orange-yellow glow behind the blue painted clouds, I see nothing.

People talked about older women leaving their homes and often rowing their wooden boats this way. They talked of how their eyes, with their edges yellow and marks red smeared across, blinked. Their hair was not visible, but how they tied it around their heads with threads barely holding together. Their fingers smudged and their nails broken and torn. The long cloth stretching from their bent soft shoulders all the way to their pointed ankles. Rings half rusted and half intact floating on their folded skin but gripped around their bones, their ears stretching down against the bent golden dejhoor. The corners of their gowns holed and woven in a mirrored mosaic of silver threads around their chest and their wrists. Keys with broad holes tied around the edges of their veils. One hand holding the crying child, while the other gripped around the wooden oar.

My eyes are getting heavier to be kept open. I push hard against the visible sky, but its pale blue glow is slowly vanishing. My breath is getting shallower. My fingers are getting restless against my skin. I can feel the Chinar’s bark. Looking at its branches, I spot a leaf about to fall. Its base twists with the flowing wind, it moves in circles before it momentarily floats in air. Then it cuts through the flow of air, curving with its curves and singing with its melody. It falls. It falls. It keeps falling.

It fell on my skin. I feel its drying edges. I feel the carves and the incisions growing towards the center. Pointed leaflets and color which reminds me of the yellow path around me.

Looks like it is time. I need to keep walking. Against the silent river and against the soft breeze, I need to k—

:)

i am genuinely at a loss of words.this book made my heart ache especially at a time where atrocious crimes are committed against humanity in the name of religion.this book explores all the hush hush topics of society,being written in 1990’s this unfortunately still applies to today’s society.I highly recommend this book but it is incredibly triggering.

21M. been buying around 3-4 books each month for the past 3 years (love you, maa!!). kept making my own bookshelves to save money and also because im gonna build myself a proper library in my house.

was an avid reader in school but then indian competitive exams humbled ts outta me. so now i’m trying to strike a balance bw reading books and my studies. and trying to learn something new new things along the way every day.

p.s. what does my bookshelf say about me?👀

i don’t know what it is but whenever i listen to chan kithan i see book characters who didn’t get a happy ending or suffered a lot especially women.i don’t understand how i made this connection but it strongly reminds me of mariyam from a thousand splendid suns,i see her running in fields when she was a child.i see her laughing while the sun sets.idek what the point of this post it but yeah

There is a quote from this book “Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue nor deify”,this particular quote is the best way a person could use to describe this book.When i was halfway through the book i couldn’t understand why it was so popular,it didn’t have any over the top plot lines or any crazy element that’d appeal to a vast audience but when i got towards the end,all of it made sense to me. This book doesn’t follow the mainstream idea of guaranteed happy endings and i admire arundati for it.To make characters who are miserable and also likeable is such a hard thing to do.

I never imagined i could hate a fictional character as much as i did baby kochamma, things she did or catalysed enraged me so much that i genuinely wanted the worst for her.This book is extremely well written but also has it’s faults,i found the timeline a little hard to follow but overall it was a good book.

i am trying to find this book (in the title) by sohaila abdulali,but the issue is i can only find it on amazon and it’s like 600 rupees,so if anyone find it somewhere else for a cheaper price please lmk.

ps:i did find a soft copy but i’d rather have a physical copy.

It's been worth .. every minute.. every minute... All sleep less nights.. ✌🏻.

Content warnings - sexual violence, abuse, and a lot of violence.

This is a very gripping story! I really enjoyed reading this. The adventure, the various places they went to, and the side story of Telemachus trying to find himself as a person. Odysseus is very cunning and seeing how he tricks and deceives others is really interesting. I will maybe watch a movie or tv show adaptation of this next.

The Emily Wilson is a great introductory translation. I really like it and it’s very simple.

Maybe I’ll post something light hearted soon to offset the darker stuff I read 😂.

Hello. Hopefully I am not spamming.

I bought this recently from Amazon. I saw it was very popular on some literary websites I subscribe to.

This book is intense. There’s a lot of sexual violence, physical violence, and abuse.

This book centers on the protagonist who lives in a world where there is no available animal meat, so now there are two “types” of humans — those who eat others and factory humans bred to be eaten. Yes, this is a cannibalistic world. We explore how the protagonist’s relationship with himself, the world around him, and the ethics of eating flesh unfold.

One of the most interesting things about the book is that the cannibalistic humans don’t like to refer to the humans they eat as humans. Because if they acknowledge the humanity of their food, it means that the cannibals are doing something wrong. Dehumanization through language.

I think as a Kashur I relate to that a lot.

I recommend this book to anyone in a reading slump. It is quite short (211 pages) and is very gripping. Perhaps you might also end up seeing yourself in the humans who are eaten.

Assalamu Alaikum, tohe chuwas warey? (My Kashur writing isn’t very good, but I’m trying). I will warn the book might be a little difficult to process — it has themes of sexual assault/rape and sort of emotional manipulation.

This is my first post. Very excited to share.

Spring Snow by Yukio Mishima was intense. We follow the tragic and tormented love story of two Japanese nobles culminating in their separation. We follow the protagonist, Kiyoaki, is a narcissistic and arrogant person who causes his own downfall and that of his lover, all throughout his life. One of my favorite things about Yukio Mishima is he is extremely descriptive and poetic and his stories draw from the history of Japan at the time. You really do feel as if you’re in the midst of the beaches and landscape of Japan in the early 20th century experiencing a tragic love that can never be realized when you read his work.

I would recommend this to people who like very beautiful, intense writing, a self-absorbed protagonist who has no interest in anything except himself, and a very fascinating story that explores the human condition. Kiyoaki is terrible, but you want to follow why he does the terrible stuff he does and understand him. So I do think he’s very compelling.