The only C.M. book so far that I've found damn boring. inb4 it gits gewd rait after ya've finished it.

Describes in too much detail big pharma's shenanigans.

Dangerously based at times. Good read for modern day cities.

Stuff I figured out alone before graduation (though I'm not from the 6. century nobility). You could say, it's a good read if you've never thought and/or are under 18. Also, fuck all your god shit.

Great read, if you've not heard the arguments⸻I hadn't. Tad dry and theoretical, in that not all's grounded in reality. Worth a reread in .5⸺1 years' time.

Timeline mixing⸻new to me, wanna see it explored more, supposedly alt. history is the genre. Although I'd love to read about the 'bad' parasites winning, instead of the 'good' ones. Rather unsaleable, and paperweights don't pay the bills, nor are nutritious.

Bemused, infantile rantings of an old man trying to make sense of things using communism derivatives, postmodernism, history of old dogma and authority, and often times objectively false reasoning and premises. As a fellow hooman bean, sad. As sb w/ an bigass audience- spreading unknowledge, misinformation, regardless of pseudonym, annoyingly infuriating.

To be honest, I should've given this on more time, however, too many names, and I don't care who's who to whom in Rome. Implying, any writer or historian worth a grain of salt would write about household 'struggles', and boring shit, meanwhile⸻actual tribal genocide, burning and pillaging, but nah, weddings and brother-in-law 'n shit. Fuck this dude. Alt. history my ass.

I'd read this, not listened through it, years ago. What had motivated me, I cannot remember. But given it took me ~1.5h of my usual speedy listening, before I caught the drift: Hey, don't I know you? The book is so devoid of meaning and content, I barely remembered anything about it. Because there was nothing to remember. Well, fuck you, Huysmans.

Braindead. Copy-pasted collage of MRE tryhards, doing absolutely nobody a favor. Should be hung publicly by the balls for being so pussywhipped. Did the abook, had all three, and listening to parts of each chapter of all– fewer than two paragraphs sufficiently summarize the reasoning, goals, visions, mindsets and everything possible. Dude's more legible than a tower of Babel sized W at the ophthalmologist.

Written in 1940s by airplane engie, one the is first novels (i think), it's enjoyable, pacing could -be better in spots, be less foretelling overall, the last 20-30% were albeit decent, very predictable. Still, nice for a one-time read. The next novel will dictate the subsequents' lives on my drive.

Introduced to me by Alex Jones on the second (or first?) podcast with Tim Pool. 'I am a gorilla⸻murder yourself.' Yeah, but turns out it really is a book, it really does have a following, the author's made a pretty penny selling propaganda. And, what can I say, it's some of the best written propaganda out there. Rather far from the perhaps jocular suggestions the show gave impression of. I'd've not thought about it, til I saw the site...

Did the 13h abook of all six, dude apparently shits these babies out like a queen bee. Very little depth, likely self-published, couldn't easily find reading material to go along. He thinks in series; each introducing new element(s) or character(s), un-shy about 'gore', albeit tame and shallow compared to Chuck Palahniuk, not descriptive, yet not verbal/action-based. Immature as a writer, imo- maybe that's his niche.

Fuckin' A. My kinda of kino. Second read.

Nothing within (so far) suggests Nobel-prize-worthiness. Occurs in modern day Nowheresville, Turkey with its current issues. Boring though, and slow to boot. These 30% I've read could've'n a 1⸺2 paragraphs, action-wise, aaand the description or narration isn't worth my time.

If you've seen his documentaries, his mannerisms, the way he conducts himself, the question he asks and how he goes about everything, you've read some this book, at least, everything up to his 20s and career start in the US. Smart guy, but indoctrinated leftie in need of subjugation to harsh truths.

Based and pilled. Has decent advice and ideas to consider for author and reader alike.

Gives a decent to great view, indirectly for the most, into how a good and mature mind goes about tackling a strong foe. David vs. Goliath. However, here Goliath lacks his natural strength, instead hiding behind a system disallowing people without massive amounts of money to play. The first amendment, and freedom of '''press''', both in from the 2000s to early 2020s so very often misused, that lawyers specialize in this overlitigated law. Whereas before companies strove to shut up the the press, who then more frequently sided with the common folk and the average joe, currently things are exactly backasswards. Well, with Project Veritas' BIGASS cases against the jew jork times and cnn, soon the titanic Gawker case might be joined by two other leviathans in case law.

Kinda hard to follow, too many characters, some too zany, or predictable in a stereotypical fashion. Writing from the future, serves me right for picking up a long-running series. Dude's wringing it dry as bone. I'll give the firstborn a try in due time.

I do love a time-traveling novel that's also closed off, that loops into itself, explaining more through different timelines, sets of eyes and eyes. This one also has nice ideas about the American dream, as if it were something physical, making myth out of the founding fathers' creation. If it'd employed better writing, less foreseeable or predictable- I'm always a paragraph ahead of where I'm at-, it could've been a full checkmark.

The stream of consciousness in this is gorgeous, it never stops. Even more so than Under the Volcano maybe. The matter of fact delivery, the similarities with the real world both make this extremely enjoyable and re-analyzable.

Nice to hear what some had long been suspecting, me too albeit I've didn't care as much, but was nonetheless fascinated about the length people would and do go to for money and/or power. Just power, actually, all things that be exchanged for in the book can be seen as power within some domain⸻financial, political, personal, etc. Personally, my first big insight into media manipulation, deception, and play on all team for gain. What ticked me off that he's a giant fucking jew, is how his unscrupulousness and unruefulness. That he sees James O'Keefe is fraudulent⸻this was most damning. He becomes the exact same person he claims to be short- and long-conning, the misinformed reader, the blogger. Showing no evidence, no sources, nothing but spurious claims, (same could be said about handing various other American '''news''' outlets compliments such as 'credible'). He's is no better than these people. And he's a long, long walk from doing anything of worth.

Written in England during the 80s when cheap, explicit gore was all the rage (was it any good tho?), this gentleman's collection of what he call 'dark fantasy', offers a jab back. Were it you cup of tea, you might call it decisive blow, but the 7 first stories within did not grasp me. Dark or creepy, or spooky, they are not. Quaint, sure. Tolerable, even not too boring or predictable, just not enough happening to warrant the time currently with so much on the reading table.

Too mild. More historical through a child's eyes, than good fiction. Too sentimental, or human, or what would be a better way of putting? Normal, predictable? Were the war, world, characters all fictional, I'd've not cared and dropped it before the hour-mark.

I really could not bring myself to caring about anybody or anything within the first 1.5h of the audiobook. It's boring and bland.

If you were paid attention at the beginning, you'd know how it ends. I hate it when true crime novels-, I had to, had to look back to see who that other fucking author was who did this-, I WAS JOHN GLATT, FUCK YOU, JOHN GLATT. He did this with 'Secrets in the Cellar', now this. Just take out the apex of suspense and use it as book cover, ffs. The suspense-release method of moving 'plot' (or music, content, etc.) forward works in a monotonally increasing fashion up to the ultimate release, the climax of the piece. Given the peak-end rule, it puzzles me how this twat's editors would allow such a readers-trust-destroying, money-wasting, author-infamy-building thing to go through twice.

No fucking clue what the fuck is supposed to be happening. With zero on-boarding, hearing strange names (jacobarian..?), etc. is off-putting. I thought alt. history was supposed to deal with real historical things, not made up ones. Regardless, without the text in front of me⸻and I sure as shit wasn't giving it a chance with that delivery⸻, big no. NEXT!

Third novel of Cutter I've read. This one, like The Deep, is a 200m dart throw bullseye⸻1. both characters and plot reek of believability, none of that bad writing shit you find in (all of) sci-fi; 2. the thriller/suspense aspect of whatever genre you'd classify this is one of the best. I've little experience to say what I think is best, but compared to everything else I've read, this is better: there's a monotonally increasing, dipping roller-coaster that culminates nicely and resolved all issues, ideas, etc. brought up. This is good fiction.

Often tries for dry delivery, but fails more often than not. The feel, or texture, the thought patterns are somehow wrong. Not uncanny, they just don't make sense. Maybe it's trying for gore/horror comedy..? However, nice little passage somewhat make up for it:

Self-awareness really doesn't mean shit though. It is, in fact, little more than psychological masturbation, and has about the same net worth as a wad of semen in a handful of crumpled tissues. No cockroach ever desired not to be a cockroach just because it knew it was a cockroach.

...

The two living girls I've been with never came at all, and my own climax was nothing memorable. The faint pleasure paling in comparison to the ecstasy I feel when I ejaculate into a dead woman. The dead have no expectations. There's no pressure for you to make them feel anything. I copulate with corpses largely because it is all about me. About the meeting of my needs.

Note⸻this is the most modern-day, brainwashed, cock-carousel, pseudo-feminist woman statement. Men, if they feel like it, take, they don't comment about it, they don't write in their journal, blog, diary, talk to their friend about it and lead month-long inane discussions.

... Shooting thousands of doomed children in the general direction of her dead and useless ovaries. Another benefit of my little fetish⸻no condom, no problem. I may very well be the most fertile man on the planet, but all my lovers are equipped with the best birth control the world can offer.

Halfway though, I'd say the biggest problem is characters are shallowly explored. Again, an attempt is made at dry delivery, but it comes off as... off. A lot more side-points, -experiences could've been explored similar to to Victor in Chuck Palahniuk's Choke. That was visceral, this was either harried to completion, or merely initial work of a new author. The third acts drags on retardedly, and has so much tacit/implicit foreshadowing, but puts re-becomes decent for the its parting breaths.

For a horror/thriller/suspense novel⸻it's shit. I should've trusted my instinct, my disgust, revulsion at Stephen King's endorsement of this mediocre trash. Cut out three quarters, make it punchy, do something, for fuck's sake. Reads more like a a stereotypical midlife crisis⸻flirtation at work, bumps in marriage, trouble with family/heritage, increasing paranoia about meaningless, irrelevant shit. Pace is frozen solid compared to where it should be. And the reader? Bored, gets a middle finger. NEXT!

Another boring Jap novel. Most characters are predictable. Up to the quarter that I'd reached, unexpected only was the main release in act 1. Beginning pages are way to rocky. Actual ground is missing, not 'rocky', if I were to continue with a metaphor of a vehicle driving you to the all the essential info of act 1. Also, way too many characters and plot points or lines introduced in too short a time span. I'm not decoding bad writing. Even when I eventually caught up to roughly what was happening, it's still falls flat. I could wait for 'the good stuff', or actually get a good book.

Nice critique and analysis of environmental problems and problems with environmentalists. Although it does get rather floaty after ~2/3, and becoming increasing irrational, petulant, and the type of person she was hating on beforehand.

For children, I'd hope, I think?, otherwise unfunny and or annoying.

Alright-y, months later and in a better mood, I relistened and reread. It's actually quite nice for a short story, family friendly too.

Fucking snoozefest, atrocious writing style. At least put the good stuff up front, for fuck's sake. Waste of time.

T.R.A.S.H.

One of these days, I'm gonna stop considering all self-help books altogether, same as anything by a woman, or in a series. And this guy's supposed to be fucking smart? Smart in extracting money from trash humans stupid enough to forfeit their money for this garbage. NEEEEEEEEEXT!!

Same old garbage. Predictable, annoying, platitudinous, common-sense, unhelpful, waste of time. I won't again consider or download a self-help book. I'll rapid-fire go through every single one I've saved, just to reduce space and be content. Deletion s-s-s-satisfiessss.

Over-the-top parody/satire of the fecal fanfare that is US politics (be on a local or federal level, as seen by natives and foreigner from abroad and at home), albeit kinda leftie-biased, albeit not fully trump-derangement syndrome. Still though, all around good–great short, one-time read.

Thinking back on the past 7 books, one, that is, I really does see the author's progression. The plot is good, connected, and complex enough to still be enjoyable without too much concentration on details (with are provided wholesale only when author decides⸻the exact react why I hate A.C.D.'s Sherlock series), albeit, being a thriller you'd expect as much, Contains a lot more amateurish aspects, such as over-the-top/over-dramatized dialogue and moments; still has the same reaction shots from Indo soaps, and simpler language use. Unless it's a chronologically consistent series, there's an ~13y gap between 00 and 01, which is unfilled. The main support also is much more of a comic relief, it's as if author wanted to be a soap scriptwriter, I don't get it. It's unappealing, distracting, and doesn't further anything. Looking forward to the 2⸺7 & 9⸺10.

Compared to 01, much more complicated plot, and even though I paid more attention, the amount of characters (and you know author hand out only distinct, unique, hate-your-parents sort of names to facilitate remembrance) is ~4⸺5x that of 01. A lot less cringe, but the over-dramatized things still bug me. Given their presence in 08, it's likely a feature, not a bug, as Todd would say. I don't do good with history (dates), and names, much better with ideas, abstractions, actions, rather than descriptions. I think the following characterization will persist in all titles, even without the series: filler à la Indian reaction shots, that is, exclamations (on the other hand, it makes it more cheesy, which sometimes works in its favor, like the new bitch boss of the police department with cliche overflow), a few catch-phrases that all three so far read have used 2⸺4 times, and something that probably has a name but I don't know it, namely, more or less "*overenthusiastic trailer/announcer voice: from an early age, this genius was abused (echo abused), he suffered trauma (..-ma.. -ma), and now, he's back for revenge!"⸻copy-paste with different extrema for for the main, support, and all villains. But it worth it, a nice plot. T h i c c.

I'd long thought about the American left (the European, British, and Australian follow suit with some delay) as cryptonazies and cryptofascists. I just didn't know how deep this shit ran. And how far back. Fucking hell. It is thoroughly disgusting what humans will do to each other.

This books provides the herd leftists' perspective in its best light⸻already abysmally wan⸻, and of some unbiased or intellectually honest, morally uncorrupt scientists/academicians/historians that just do their job. It's not hard to see the vying for power, control over others and the lying, cheating, stealing, covering up, minimizing and apologizing for used to achieve American cryptonazies and cryptofascists have utilizing across all playing fields when you see the results alongside the whole of of historical evidence, and the many side-by-side comparisons.

Hypocrisy somehow always materializes (within humans) to gunk up any and all human endeavors, true; I take that as a given. But mistakenly assumed not total incompetence, mischievousness, and hypocrisy of the left. That they had ≥one good deed, something of merit. Yeah, well, nope. The prominents play for power only. 'Career politicians' you could say, those exist on all sides, true, but truer of than than of others.

The book is rather neutral, the support I've noticed in the author's words or wording is that of Christianity (he does have a 1 or 2 books about why it's great regarding America..).

There has yet to be a single (more than a capitalist counterpart) successful state in the last 5000 years as far as I know. They degenerate, an intricate network of corruption is woven from the very top to the very bottom, lone cogs suffer, smaller groups suffer, the honest and hardworking suffer, the state rots, putrifies, and eventually dissolves, because excesses of the pyramid atop the pyramid cannot be upheld, but until then 'might is right', possibly beyond that as well, so long as the stupid unyieldingly stupid children are provided bread and circuses.

On point, not too breath-y, and based.

Up til ~2/3 was weak, not as deep as the previously read ones. A lot less suspense and release throughout, and, say, 3⸺5s of the mystery/plot see the Sun rapid-fire within 2 chapters around the 90%. Less gore. Again, no character development as if, the first book was strongest there. You can make the case as with other detective novels, that cases happen separately, as if in their own Everett universe. Shorter too..

The slope from 3 to 4 was downward, and steep, but tolerable. This jump was in the same direction and of the same magnitude. We're not quite vertical, but it's pretty mediocre. Explanation repetitions, long wind, and the same issue plaguing 8, 0, 1, 2, 3, and 4. Another unused cast of characters. Too little action, gore, which are the only reasons I liked this series, I've not had any exposure to gore novels, maybe I should research and find some.

I like the jabs, and jokes. But I fucking hate jewry, and religious anything. The jesus char getting everything served on a silver platter, whilst whilst playing innocent is too annoying, to infuriating. These people should be shot. Given the current state of affairs at home, in the EU and US, there is little-to-no reason to tolerate this fuckery.

Great writer, bad topic, or too much worship. Fuck him for this. First ch moore book I couldn't finish, ffs. I'm mad.ss

Major game step-up. The last two were weak, as if written in financial need, or quick succession. What I dislike about this one is the incongruence within all significant characters: being professional, then⸻amateurish or childish; being omniprescient, then⸻surprised; keeping their cool, then losing it. Robert Hunter is not believable, but the killer, the antag, my nigga is not perfect, but very close. Very nicely constructed. As much as I hated all the predictable interactions between the 'good' toons with and within themselves, and their surroundings, 3⸺5-fold more was my pleasure in scenes with antag in control, with thing going according to plan, with the stupid fucks incapable of independent thought. Putting aside plot armor, hypocrisy (again), and inconsistent morality: it is extremely кино. Tad disappointing ending though. We need more authors with ball to kill off main characters, and let the 'bad' guys win. Not great for series.

Nice idea, but either aimed at children/teens and/or very naively and amateurishly executed with a rather palpable left-wing bias. From main to support to accidental, all characters are shallow and predictable. Also has false allegations, and cringe-worthy, unwarranted jabs at Trump, the US 'right', and the older parts of internet culture. I'd bet top dollar Yoon is either very old or younger than myself, in either case both uninvolved and very unknowledgeable. He might have good intentions, but that's worth fuck all, esp. so when the both means and results are mediocre at best meanwhile disseminating unhelpful, baby ideas and motivations, and (re-)stating falsehoods. NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEXT!!

I hate nearly all people within this novel. Pretentious, nagging, inconsistent. Other than human prediction and modelling practice, this novel offers nothing of value to me within the first 15%. Fuck you, Freudian shitknob. Fuck you too, Joyce.

This was a treat, and it even had a bit of what 8 does. Great plot, and very nice and subtle twist(s) at the very end. Satisfying.

Cui bono?, or 'follow the money'⸻the book. Even though it was written in 2006, it explain in detail how Soros acts, and how Soros benefits. Quintessential evil jew, smart enough to use Marxism-derived shit to make money hand over fist over hand over... The amount of foreshadowing, prescience is scary. Or rather, it's been the same since the 60s (and earlier still), the intensification of everything, acceleration has been getting out of hand as if..?

Amateurish at times, it seemed to me, but I think, given the author's afterword in the audiobook version, this was perhaps what he sought. Not mediocrity but rather to provoke thought in readers, which he said would consider the novel's success. Would I have done better, otherwise, or the same? What it all have played out the same? Armchaim philosophy wouldn't help here much. The character supposedly were chosen such as to fit a particular never explicated profile (which I loosely gathered to be loser/failure with no desires/ambitions/achievements/prospectives in life).

The idea of 'choice and consequence' was explored in Chris Carter's One By One, and Sea Caummisar's Games, the former how, the latter both who and how, and more shallowly. The culminating scene within Nolan's The Dark Knight wherein neither ferryboat decides to press their button to save themselves, however it may be rationalized or moralized, resulted in a great scene. Unrealistic as it may fucking be... All character sans main were believable, constrasted by the whiney, bitchy, complainy, mentally pubescent 21-year-old main toon. Then again, I'd be a ruler of one, had I my way. I'll give Luke the benefit of the doubt. I shot him an email, my second, he might elucidate stuff.

Although I fucking hate Russian literature, I've had Gogol stories in school lit curriculum, and have attended one of his plays as well. All I remember was 'The Overcoat', and that everything else was mind-numbingly boring. The audiobook version's translation is horrible (Isabel F. Hapgood, a fucking cunt a woman again ruins shit), given the amount of of existing ones. I mean, for fuck's sake, how often do you see beetles in the Russian winter indoors? From Kafka's Metamorphosis (in the original southern German), Ungeziefer would translate as vermin, pest, bugs, wild animals, how any translator would substitute a beetle in these' place and expect pay is beyond me.

Anyways, I fucking hate Russia. All of it forever and always, regardless, at this particular point in time A.A. is an utter loser, wholly irredeemable. Self-improvement? Nah. Status? Nah. Friends? Nah. Family? Nah. Hobbies? Nah. Goals? Nah. Et cetera. The Gutenberg printing press has existed from a some 200, 300 years and these niggas still be using copyists to further fatten to bureaucracy. I take this despicable story as a tragicomedy for weak, shallow men, losers.

Fuck Russia, and fuck Russians.

I first rest this on my kindle back in, say, 10. grade, could've been 11. or 9th. It was a big turning point in my maturation, intellectual and emotional. I took much to heart and unconsciously acted and thought accordingly for the following 4⸺5 years, or til around when uni started getting too involved, me depressed and bogged down by circumstance, etc. Proper focus lacks in my life currently. Feelings of overpowering loneliness and malaise and disappointment constrict me with shrinking periods, blotting out hours up to the whole day.

So I thought it prudent to 1: keep handy this book as a .txt file; and 2: revisit the sole worthwhile self-help book ever written. This, I think, is something to keep in mind and not forget. And I've forgotten some shit. Fuck me, I know. Comparing to others in the genre, two things soar out. First regards quality: it's not pretentious, self-righteous, absolute, nor condescending. Second regards style: no baby language, no exercises, summaries, key points/notes/takeaways or other filler. It is curt, albeit the examples are annoying and unrelatable, and well-structured: example, thesis, argument, and possibly another example. The use of 'fuck' (or other expletives) is not too juvenile, more everyday, or tryhard so.

I'd recommend this book⸻more accurately, the first 25⸺50% of it⸻to anybody growing up, having problems, or having forgotten its advice.

Fucking hell, what an cunt this guy is. Everything opportunity in life, every chance turning out lucky for him, fucking hell, fucking hate self-entitled cunts like this, so fucking much. Fuck you.

Spite aside, descriptions were mired, beleaguered with a handful of words used frequently enough to produce a positive afterimage in my when reading other material. Barely tolerable.

The fuck is this⸻Lolita but with boys..? I fucking hate Germans sometimes. Lolita wasn't this cringe-worthy though, no, no. It took itself less seriously, this is supposedly serious lit from early 20. century. Kinda nice, but also insufferable.

If you're the prominent a writer, as your foreword suggest, you fuck, why does nobody know your name? Regardless, the advice seemed at first (didn't leaf through to confirm) to be based on the class of the work with 'short stories' heading it. I assume novels, poems/sonatas, etc., follow but it was dogmatic, authoritarian, pontificating, and one-sided. What some mean by 'academic' in its worse sense, is precisely this.
Inapplicable blather.

Rather malinformed, Marxist cunt presents his opinions and the within the metal community popular, mainstream agreed upon views. Annoying for constantly spewing falsehoods and information that has nothing to do with heavy metal. Worthless if you've listened through majors and minors from the 50s onwards. Personally, I learned nothing, but needed something easy to listen to.

In media, book or movie, I've rarely come across a well-placed, well-purposed amnesia. This book could've been written after all the rest were finished, and it'd've still been apposite, imo; it adds and never subtracts. Branching off the main storyline, this book connects Ripley to the events from Covenant Origins and Covenant, as well as, in the future, Sea of Sorrows. Nice toons, nice goons, nice setting, nice plot.
I'm an awful writer, are I not?

First collection stories, of which all are good or great, I've read. Some remind of observational standup routines: deadpan delivery, absurdist themes and motifs⸻it does well to color them without ever harming the message, and de-pinkifying them, fore they are all mostly love stories, love of one kind or another. Overall great.

I had annoyances with 2 stories, being gynocentric, -apologetic, and -enabling, also featuring degenerate human behavior as normal. Kind of 'leftie', but it's mostly skirting, and the majority of the stories' content is different from others I've read, and good despite the above. And even though others were told from the viewpoint of a female, which is a first for me (a collection of stories some 10 rows about I'd abruptly stopped for being bad, but was also from that POV and was so, so, so very weird, it'd been penned by one too). Lastly, fuck women. F-f-fuck women. Reading shit like this (part of how women are and men interact with women), in addition to seeing what the most 'modern', Marx-ball-sucking countries have allowed them to become (they for political power and financial gain), I've begun nursing a rejuvenated loathing for women. Humanity and evolution weren't enough.

I didn't ask for your boringass, stupid, gay, inane bullshit life stories. Ryan Blumenthal's Autopsy: Life In The Trenches With A Forensic Pathologist In Africa trumps this ten times over. Not being from the faggot, nannystate British of the past 50⸺60 years gives him a bonus trump card to their weak and impotent 2 (assuming few if any card games value low-numbered cards).

WY made a colony on LV-223, where Ripley's crew found the delerict dog ship, the xenos, etc., Alien: the movie basically. Colonial marines and more xenos, but also kinda meh.

Chronologically publication-wise the first to have narration (or just view point) from the other side, that of the xenos. Although the quality of mr. Moore's writing is below that of the Foster and Lebbon, about on par Golden, the storyline, taking place some 300y after the events of the Nostromo (or the David, trimonite mine planet, fuck me if I'm gonna read through 100 pages of alien wiki; also a GIANT fuck you for not have easily comprehensible novel timeline). Has some niceties about how humans fuck up everything, for everybody else and themselves, about the self-propagating and evolving nature of 'life', and other shit to think about.

This section deserves inclusion in its entirety. Dandily a bullseye's bullseye, especially post 202003xx.

IV Between the aims of the post-totalitarian system and the aims of life there is a yawning abyss: while life, in its essence, moves towards plurality, diversity, independent self-constitution and self-organization, in short, towards the fulfillment of its own freedom, the post-totalitarian system demands conformity, uniformity, and discipline. While life ever strives to create new and ‘improbable' structures, the post-totalitarian system contrives to force life into its most probable states. The aims of the system reveal its most essential characteristic to be introversion, a movement towards being ever more completely and unreservedly itself, which means that the radius of its influence is continually widening as well. This system serves people only to the extent necessary to ensure that people will serve it. Anything beyond this, that is to say, anything which leads people to overstep their predetermined roles, is regarded by the system as an attack upon itself. And in this respect it is correct: every instance of such transgression is a genuine denial of the system. It can be said, therefore, that the inner aim of the post-totalitarian system is not mere preservation of power in the hands of a ruling clique, as appears to be the case at first sight. Rather, the social phenomenon of self-preservation is subordinated to something higher, to a kind of blind automatism which drives the system. No matter what position individuals hold in the hierarchy of power, they are not considered by the system to be worth anything in themselves, but only as things intended to fuel and serve this automatism. For this reason, an individual's desire for power is admissible only in so far as its direction coincides with the direction of the automatism of the system.

Ideology, in creating a bridge of excuses between the system and the individual, spans the abyss between the aims of the system and the aims of life. It pretends that the requirements of the system derive from the requirements of life. It is a world of appearances trying to pass for reality.

The post-totalitarian system touches people at every step, but it does so with its ideological gloves on. This is why life in the system is so thoroughly permeated with hypocrisy and lies: government by bureaucracy is called popular government; the working class is enslaved in the name of the working class; the complete degradation of the individual is presented as his or her ultimate liberation; depriving people of information is called making it available; the use of power to manipulate is called the public control of power, and the arbitrary abuse of power is called observing the legal code; the repression of culture is called its development; the expansion of imperial influence is presented as support for the oppressed; the lack of free expression becomes the highest form of freedom; farcical elections become the highest form of democracy; banning independent thought becomes the most scientific of world views; military occupation becomes fraternal assistance. Because the regime is captive to its own lies, it must falsify everything. It falsifies the past. It falsifies the present, and it falsifies the future. It falsifies statistics. It pretends not to possess an omnipotent and unprincipled police apparatus. It pretends to respect human rights. It pretends to persecute no one. It pretends to fear nothing. It pretends to pretend nothing.

Individuals need not believe all these mystifications, but they must behave as though they did, or they must at least tolerate them in silence, or get along well with those who work with them. For this reason, however, they must live within a lie. They need not accept the lie. It is enough for them to have accepted their life with it and in it. For by this very fact, individuals confirm the system, fulfill the system, make the system, are the system.

Rarely is material so stentorian. Rarely am I compelled to reread, rethread, relisten, remember every almost every paragraph. Easily one of the most important books regarding politics for the 20. and 21. centuries, one worthy of rereading a few times.

Amateurish work. It's like observing a person trying his hand at lying⸻details, interesting nobody, serving little-to-no plot purpose, tedious, being offered at every new location, character, plot point, etc. It's like watching people go about their day in anticipation of something, related to the plot of the book, happening. New author, I'd hope, but I'm not checking to get disappointed, enough time lost.

Briefly going over some of the results of "democrats'" policies and decision taking effect in America throughout Obomgo's presidency, being succinct albeit lacking some argumentation (which can easily found in, say, Dinesh D'Souza's books), the book provides the likeliest circumstances with the biggest, simplest solutions and obdurate, infallible reasoning. It's also candidly based.

The same author's The Curse of High IQ would have been been served by this book's solid advice and suggestions over many a topic and issue, rather than bare explanations. I don't wanna say that this is I Know, Right?: The Book: 2: Electic Boogaloo, buuut it does majorly mirror my thoughts around various problems, and solutions and reasonings thereto and thereabout.

To quote myself⸻one ... [could] rather than repeating one's position and arguments therefor, suggest the forgetful parties to read through this short title to get their answers (for the umpteenth time). note to self: reread in 1y.

If ever there was a book for me and my oh,-im-so-gay,-i-wanna-foster-goodfaith-and-long-term-commitment-in-people, this'd be it. The unproductive, or otherwise stated, asshole-y, conversational methods, that I employ in real life, and much more so on the internet (evidenced by my 4chan posts and my neocities page) are featured in many a study by Peter Boghossian (et. al.), showing just how futile, counterproductive, and hence profligate, they are. Boghossian is a professor of philosophy, while Lindsay is mathematician-turned-critic-of-Marxism's-newest-development.

The content of this book is platinum-gilded paladium. Written for man, period; not an adjective man, the this/that group. Advice within is wildly sane and applicable to any person with an IQ above ~80 for any conversation. I feel like I should be rereading every chapter, section, paragraph, going outside, and practicing with so-called 'people'. Some of it seems annoying or coddling, but so far with 3 people it has helped, albeit 2 of which were just more productive and not doubt-in-belief-instilling. I'd highly recommend this, and I'll very soon be rereading it.

Concise presentation of the motivations and reasons (again). Ivor Cummins had a great podcast episode with guest Gabor Erdosi, who explained in more detail the virology and biochemistry in the latter half of it, and the chances of it being 'lmao, just nature, lol. accept the bat facts'. This was in March '21.

Novelization of the eponymous video game. My second meeting with Amanda Ripley, daughter of best mommy Ripley, initial being in Sea of Sorrows name-wise only. While the backstory is plausible and fitting, and pleasant enough, the author doesn't explore new grounds, asks no new questions, and, apart from 'what happened with Amanda?', answers no old ones either. Kind of another 'WY bad' book, albeit more of them are, but at least they had some stuffing... I'd only watched a few playthroughs and speedruns of the game, so I was familiar with the architecture, the setting, the plot, the characters. Again, compared to the game, the book did a poor job of describing various structures, whilst providing unnecessary details to other things, like people. The joes were uncanny or sinister enough. sigh If more liberty were taken and he'd strayed a bit from the game, awkward scenes could've tacitly been omitted for the better.

Uncle Ted book. Examines the characteristics of successful and un-such revolutions/activist things. Of course, propaganda to a degree, but also an educational handbook for how to organize movements. Although I don't think an anti-tech revolution is ever to happen, since what the fuck is a technology and who fucking decides, and all that jazz, just creates more problems than it solves. And given the problem-solving nature of engineers and scientists all around the world for the last several thousand years, I'm sure that them knocking their head against the reinforced concrete will eventually suggest a weak spot, as it has in the past. Kinda sad to see him citing the same things, it's as if the penitentiary won't lend out books, or inquire for more.

How not to tell a story: 1. take your damn-ass time unrolling the exposition with your impotent tiny, gay, woman hands; 2. extend coversations for filler with shit nobody cares about. I was play a game while listening to this, otherwise I'd've launched much sooner. That being said, every minute of the first 1.5h I was reconsidering quitting. This being my second chance to the author of Ghost Virus⸻decent premise, bad execution. This guy is 2 for 2, you could say this is his 'style', unappealing as it may be for me. I'd rather not know how it ends, than have to endure more of this pussyfooting.

The book very lighty explores these themes: race, guilt, duty, respect, entertaining of ideas; sex and love and trustfulness some. I don't know if on purpose, but the future written is filled with misinformation, agenda about the environment, energy and various matters pertaining the that, hence the G.

More an alternative history novel, wherein NatSoc Germany 'wins' WWII, than a detective one, with the majority of the plot focus on events that took place. Eerily similar to present day China and its Uyghurs, or post-revolution Russian. In real life, national socialism's and fascism's apparent mogging of everything attempted in the East (bolshevism, menshevism, leninism, trotskyism, communism, stalinism, socialism, maoism, juche, aaand so on), I think, is due to both nations' prosperity beforehand (compared to despotic, feudalistic states) rather than the ideology, and certainly not any latent demographic superiority (the amount of decent to good or great citizen expelled, expropriated, or exterminated German citizens, let alone the conquereds' ones could have been used for the good of the many⸻instead potential was lost, for the worse of all). Does the ideas of national socialism justice in presenting them honestly, and American leftists' flirtations with them. A nice book on totalitarianism and authoritarianism.

Yet another touch upon the ideal-for-a-scapegoat idea explored in Ursula K. Le Guin's The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, or 1 or 2. Arguably, Huxley's Brave New World and⸻,wait a sec, this has remained unfinished quite a bit 20211221⸺20220212, anyways, it was fine.

The other book I did on Gacy went into detail criminal and or deviant aspects followed by dull milksop. This one, however, portrays a human being, presents a whole lost that had being covered by attorney-client privilege, but that Gacy wanted eventually told by said attorney, the author. Interesting character study, characters. Good read.

My second read, first being the in-the-foreword-somewhat-beshaded one, translated by Stuart Gilbert some years ago. I have both copies, and I compared a few pages. Although I prefer this one's wording and vocabulary, the discrepancies are subtle. The book itself is one I take to heart, about acceptance, about the absurdity of life, of things happening and us going along with them, about shit happening. Could have been of a person doing the exact opposite and likewise caring little.

A tribute to 80s horror/gore flicks à la Cannibal Holocaust. Suspense-release-wise, it does very well, taking many hints from 1987's movie Predator. People die, well, they all die, but it's satisfying most often, not cheap, and all people seem reasonably plausible. Short and sweet, like his other novels.

Uuuh, David Cage's Detroit: Become Human much? However, this was released 2 years prior thereto, and it's actually good, specifically by not ham-fisting you another person's childish moral views via good/evil binary choices. I think, Cage may in bulk buy books, written by indie, unknown, and or new authors, for the total price less than that of a single one by a mediocrely known author. He'd go through them until an idea grabs him, he'll do minor alterations to fit his worldview, change the names, and wa la, a David Cage cage.

Most of Jon Athan's works reside around 40k words, this being one of the very few going to 55k, however, it suffers a few problem. Namely, the harried second half or second and third thirds, leaving no room for showing or telling, character development⸻you could say, these are androids and this is the future, hence rumination would be a calculation, possibly a recheck at a later time, no 'sleeping on it'. Bladerunner 2077 asks/challenges some of the same or similar enough questions/ideas, as does Cage's Detroit, albeit poorly, but the former's pacing is spot-on, latter's⸻goes from okay, to bad, to wtf?. Otherwise, a great read.

9 Months Trilogy Matt Shaw mpw .54 This Is My Funniest: 1 V.A., Mike Resnick (ed.) ✓ 1 Hardwired: 2 - Voice of the Whirlwind Walter Jon Williams mb .06 Naked Statues, Fat Gladiators, and War Elephants Garrett Ryan m 1.15 No Place To Go: How Public Toilets Fail Our Private Needs Lezlie Lowe ♀gm .22 Tesla Prime and the Regulus Event Douglas Equils wpm .54 Effacement Hieronymus Hawkes wm .25 Lincoln in the Bardo George Saunders W .06 People Who Eat Darkness Richard Lloyd Parry mbpa .91 Written by a journalist, you can tell, it's fairly biased. It came in an ~ 13 hour audiobook, often void of critical or crucial information, requiring >3.5x listening speed. Didn't warrant reading, because it's shit. More than half the words are inconsequential, personal tragedy made into milksop, i.e., filler. Information of about the guy is the most interesting, but it comes too late, you're already tired of this shit and just want to get over with it.

Historical fiction well done. Even though the writer is a woman⸻seriously, though, what the fuck, Baltic countries? You call those names?⸻, bad tropes of (present-day) female writing lack, leaving but a small bearing of romance and (over-)dramatization around the climax. The level of accuracy struck me, left me convinced half the book, I was reading a novelized autobiographical work, i.e., sth of a 49-year-old Romanian male. Welp, no, but her research was either very fruitful or he childhood in communistic L. and USSR day has made concrete the austerity of Marxism-based movements.

Just like Darkness Before Noon, though more detailed in the mundanity (mundaneness may beshade Danes?) and grayness, stresses, fears, hopes, disappointments, and minute comforts of daily life, a vivid picture of the persons' lives is painted. I can appreciate how various characters' points of view contrast, depending on their end-goals and knowledge, and omissions, bringing nuance. The book jacket is all the summary you're going to need. No information is prerequisite, and not much action happens, or characters to keep track of, though you need only multiply the boy's, experience permuting lightly, by the whole population of Romania. A damn fine, serious, short read.

Lady's done her job quite well researching Latin sources, constructing an authentic, grandiose tower from which one sees into some 21 centuries backs with quite vivid everything. Quite long though, and goes into historical details I couldn't give a mite's ass about.

Teddy K.'s magnum fucking opus. This being my 2. or 3. reread, I'd like to make some comments: Reads not at all like ideological merry-go-round drivel unlike some later works, but as an essay: claims are stated, argumented, exemplified. Barely does it read like a manifesto, especially for '95.

The name I find inapt, because it may well be argued that first-world countries are currently in the 'information age', that, or the later stages of the instustrial one scarcely resemble the fuliginously heavy-metal-laden, child-laboring, befactoried one of the 18. and 19. centuries. Yes, you could say we've exported all that to⸻and are hence exploiting⸻ 'lesser' countries, but that'd be wrong on a few levels. And, unless we need more time, the predictions about its 'future' are yet to happen, albeit I can't wait 'centuries' alive. Published in 1995, it has turned out as increasing, exceptionally correct in its observations on what it therein describes as 'lefties' and 'leftism' trait-, tendency/behavior-, motivation-wise; on some of the shortcomings of conservatives, and on the problems of the most technologically developed societies. It walks and talks like a harsh criticism with only a vague attempt at a solution. It also suffers from two of the problems that all Marxism-derived movements/ideologies/things share, namely, one, that it doesn't know how (the thing will happen; how we'll get to the utopia), and, two, that not all is clearly defined (what is technology, who gets to define it, why centralize?). He speaks of pre-industrial societies, namely tribal nomadic ones, or or pre-feudal village ones. But who's to say a bow or a wheel or fire aren't technology..? Perhaps I shouldn't be critiquing this as if it were is crowning work, The Anti-Tech Revolution... That had it's own issues, which I'll address on a future reread. For now though, this is a concentrated acid.

Absolute shit. 35% in, void of the respect for that which it rails against has brought to industrial and post-industrial societies, or knowledge of the effects of what it pontificates for will about in these. benefit of the doubt would be horribly written by a child-minded, not would be intended malice.

To the fucking retard, slobbering over this work in /pol/, who would not⸻or if I were more cynical and or despondant⸻, could not engage what I put forth as questions and ideas for the shortest of time spans (the origin topic having but barely passingly in common with the book's)⸻, well, motherfucker, this book better fucking be good, because so far it's so fucking flat, so fucking bad. Fuck me, I hate stupid, naive, predictable, hollow 'people', if you can call these husks of flesh people. Rightoid, or leftoid⸻both historic terms that have little to no meaning, let alone consistent meaning across people, communities, countries⸻, if you rely on bad literature, badfaith argumentation, if you care not about higher ideals but would rather goodboi points from a higher authority of your choosing, your ingroup, or the like, then do humanity a favor and neck yourself, if you're so incorrigible as to listen to another viewpoint, to see reason, to act in goodfaith⸻, I'm tired. I'm too fucking tired. Writer isn't even all that prescient as it may seem to those lacking knowledge of politics and history over the past 200⸺250 years.

Yes, it does make make pertinent criticisms about 'the left', be it the brain-washed or the malicious power-hungry variants, and truths or good arguments don't lose strength when amidst bad, mid-schooler tier prose, but whatever the message or intent, it gets muddled and lost, and will fall on deaf ears. This is not the way to convince a neutral party, let alone the opposing one, this barely is a way. And as literature goes? Well, one'd have to suspend any advanced brain processing, forget facts and logic therewith to make this seem believable. Alternative timeline maybe..? Idunno..., I could've written this fecal smear of a propaganda fanfic within a day or two, that how unnoteworthy this is.

Zaney⸻the (tryhard) novel, only that cartoons and even some movies have done it better, going off of memory. It didn't go in balls deep, lingering too much at times, killing pacing. As as string of skits around the same loose story would've done better. Neither exactly target child and teenagers, nor adult, I can see it failing at keeping either satisfied. The quirks and idiosyncrasies of the settings and characters are its distinguishing features and the lack of character development (in all but one) make this a rather lackluster one-trick pony.

A hey-what-if kind of novel of things that nag at us (or me) in live, doing them, and not getting caught, and continuing exploration of what it is to be alive actually. Why do we do this and not that? Why should we try this? Why can't we be like this? What the fuck is up with people? I loved it, very, very human novel.

Annoying, unappreciative, stup–-, irrational woman main that gets to have her cake several times over. And she doesn't fucking choke to death on it in the end. What a disappoint. Old idea, so-so execution, acts 1 and 2 are meh. Not all women are boring and stupid and predictable children; write a good woman character for fucking woman, for fuck's sack. T_T

Earlier novel, one of of the 3⸺4 that are in a shared universe (dr sadist, mr snuff, and sth else), each exploring the a character, setting, background. Is okay, but somewhat bland and predictable compared to other of his works.

Damn son, this is some boring-ass, trash writing from Norway's supposedly most prominent writer, English-wise.

20h audiobook, would be ~2e5, does meticulous background checks on literally everything, which starts to get annoying given this is supposed to be a narrative, no encyclopedia. At a point, I just stopped caring what happens, to whom, or for what reasons. Great, if you're into history, maybe, I guess..?

Great book. Critique tho: almost everything attempted to be interpolated from the events having occurred around 60s American (Ivy League) universities, which is not only oversimplifying, but missing key branches and looking at leaves only. The chapters on music/culture and abortion are also heavily moralized and one-sided, the former wrongly so, and would easily make one label Bork as 'an elitist old fart'.

Fuck me, this is some really bad writing. Specialitous + annoying woman protag. Insufferable.

At first, I thought it was annoying, or all too perfect, but gradually, mister author washed over his built up sand castle to reveal a withered, sandblasted branch holding the thing together beautifully. The novel's jacket was discouraging, but the second and third acts made up for it. The novel tackles loneliness, addresses its consequences and its sufferers with propositions for undertakings. It reads as believable to a great degree, albeit a too optimistically, too luckily, that is, IRL, it'd be (much) worse. Nevertheless, this is the sort of book to bring people like myself to action, be it for myself, or others. Characters were well-formed, fully formed, that is, with clear motivations for their actions and thoughts, with histories, with un-clear-cut attitudes and relationships. Pondering what I'd want better and how, little stood out before remembering the flashbacks or the episodes taking place in the past. These were prominent in the first two acts, and color in the contours etched by the present's happenings, however, being in the past, they've not the same impact or import, and often felt as if they were diverting attention from the main course more often. Chaining ~85% of these right after the introductory chapter or two would have made for a more straightforwards experience, I would argue. Otherwise great novel.

I got through two and change stories of the total seventeen. Fuck me. The editor's forward lines you up for disappointment. Maybe his editing style, taste, and appraisal ability are very far from mine, stronger in different areas, I don't know⸻but this is some mightily boring shit. I cared not about the setting, the characters, the premises, anything. Exerting yourself to be bored. Verily do I doubt anything would be different had I seen the paintings inspiring these stories.

A play on the psychiatric hospital horror. Characters have some depth and enough distinction from one another to not blend into a nameless, faceless, normal in the statistical sense blob of fictional flesh. This one had some promise and didn't fail too-too badly. Prolongation of the novel again is a major flaw, suspense-release curve is mostly flat.

Mediocre and bland, at the end predictable and just bad.

Annoying, obviously woman, bad writing. Wouldn't recognize depression, if it skullfucked her.

Hm, for once, a decent-to-good novel featuring three females as the main protagonists. It certainly reads as something written during SARS-CoV2 times, or from somebody aware of China-style Marxist takeovers of society. A 60-yo and a 40⸺50-yo are the the bigguns, and a 14-yo smallun. To be honest, our main character, through whom most of the story is told, is predictable and annoying. The the naive, daft cunt of a human. Stereotypically bestial mother, kind of a Karen too, although harmless, meek, and weak. She does one thing well, namely being good with blood, possibly a medical nurse before the first bomb.

Weak point is the false dichotomization at times, and certainly the nigh cartoonish vilification and or characterization of the antagonists. Yes, pile on the hyperbole, the tropes, the stereotypes. Nuance would've not palliated the implied discussion on the subjects of mass subjugation, government propaganda, freedom, the impacts of centralized power and economy.

Way to show you bias, Matt, fisting them in at every obvious hole. Sheesh. Which is to say, the impact of the book is somewhat lessened, the reader put off, if not of the same persuasion and of lower standards of reasoning, which the author transgresses against every time the issue strikes a nerve, which, I'd say, is all too often. What you're talking about isn't bad because you espouse a mainstream religion (e.g., Catholicism, Protestantism, etc.), or whatever-the-fuck, it's bad because it doesn't work, hasn't worked, can't work, because it is internally inconsistent, doesn't hold any predictive power, is vastly more wrong/bad than right/good in its statements, predictions, actions. That small critique aside, I would say this is book portrays a man's attempt at grappling with a currently difficult to answer question by anybody on the Marxist left, anybody politically correct, or etc., and getting sidetracked into gender studies and its effects on children, adolescents, adults; the economy, public policy, and big pharma among others. While Matt doesn't give it a shake as fair as James A. Lindsay, he does try. The book is comprised of his thought process and various interviews with both victims and perpetrators; some history is covered in 2⸺3 individuals, but he got bogged down by the obtuseness of the language (mis-)used in their articles, is my presumption.

Favorite of many TV chef and household name, I finally learn why so many like this bastard: the 60s' sex, drugs, and rock n' roll attitude, that of rebelling against decency, normalcy, or established anything, or its own sake, of beating and poisoning your body, and, ultimately, of being superficial (by which I mean, it was reactionary in being defined through what it opposes, out of which an aesthetic was born, which stuck unlike the attitude towards the' other', which didn't⸻because the latter changed (not gonna say 'evolved', lol)), that is, until he realized he may want to live a little longer and more stably, as he states around the end. He traverses his own history, pressing pause to tell stories, embellish, really, the minutae of the world. Somewhat of a snapshot of 70s, 80s, and 90s (coastal or big-city) America, its culture; and it's your kooky uncle Tony doing the exposé. Entertaining even if you don't like the guy, comme moi, but, to some degree, tolerate/excuse the actions/thoughts. I wish it were more vulgar, and longer, and had more stories, but no uncle is forever.

This hit hard. As hard as Anna Ruston's Secret Slave at its worst. Only, it never lets up, never dangles an opportunity for salvation or even respite. Combine that with some of the plot, methods, or touched points from Jon Athan's Grandfather's House and you get this. Dependent and handicapped child or adolescent receiving physical and mental torture at the hand of mental illness, peer pressure. The fruit from the tree of knowledge, learning to discern between right and wrong, the golden rule, thes. Rarely poignant pacing in that gore-lovers and torture fans won't get their rocks neither from the latter's intensity, nor from its length, it is sobering realistic. It is depressing perhaps, how many curt, local obituaries may involve such experiences.

P.S. Yet another title sharing the main idea/question in Ursula K. Le Guin's The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas featuring a scapegoat, and asking how much is enough, how much is too much, and why, albeit less arbitrary and in the end focusing on mental illness.

Fourth (or still-less-than-tenth) attempt at getting into WH40K literature. The Black Library. The Boring-Cringe Library, more like... For once though, the writing is at least above mediocre and, at times, decent. Trollslayer is a collection of about 4⸺5 interwoven stories, that have naught to do with trolls, but provide the background paragraphs on the settings and the two main characters. There is a noticeable decrease in quality of novels by the same author over time. Extending a few fights taking place over a few days or months or years to 8e5 words with neither character developing anyhow is probably souldraining. The second of the presently nineteen (19) novels sticks way too much to its title. Josh Reynolds, who's written so seriously boring trash for the universe takes the reins from Nathan Long, whom I'm unfamiliar with. I didn't want to write a 1-sentence remark..

Welp, Daemonslayer was, as if, mostly non-combat and more of the same type of writing, slowly getting on my nerves. Again, overly long; in the Wastes several things made no sense as they were described, but that could be excused becuase muh Chaos. You could very well summarize the entirety of plot in 1⸺2 paragraphs. Worse still than Skavenslayer (which was mostly memeing on skavens. Which, it would seem, as I'm writing this after having finished Dragonslayer, exist mostly as a joke in the WH40K universe. Ha-ha, good joke, real kneeslapper⸻let's repeat it at ev-er-y skaven verbal exchange and opining). Every further title, the trend is, reads more unpleasantly than its predecessor, very noticeably so, and this isn't burnout, it's shabby, uninspired, second-rate work.

Orks have British football hooligan/chav language and culture..? And the Adeptus Mechanicus are illogical, hypocritical/inconsistent, self-serving ultimately? These are standard normie, shit human qualities, they only talk like nerds, or try to, rather. It's kinda cringe-y. I wish the universe, its races' languages, dialects, cultures, etc. had been better fleshed out by craftsmen, not amateurs. It takes itself seriously, adding to the internal inconsistencies. Were it at least (more) tongue-in-cheek, had the author introduced some fun, puns (or nuns) it'd've'n better for it. An unwilling to exert themself adolescent might like this or get into the franchise with it, but the hardcore WH40K books are even more stuck-up, cringe-inducing, and annoying or inconsistent. The Black Library's great pollution can be traced to a several names, contributing a surfeit of novels.

Nigh readable, but ultimately too slow and boring. Too English, and hence annoying, English in the stereotypical way, focuses (along with the above two books) on interpersonal relationships, but they're remote from what is human, or normal, or interesting... Altogether, I wouldn't say MS is my cuppa.

Fuck me is this a tedious read: 3⸺4x the length its plot's worth, everything is needlessly prolonged, without throwing the reader a bone for their squandered time. A spoopy, ancient virus infects civilizations or peoples, disappears them in angst, panic, confusion, bloodlust. The last surviving members had had to seal away, burn, destroy, etc., those infected or themselves. And now it's happened again, who could've foreseen it, human arrogance spawning from perceived mastery over nature, over others.

The setting of (Ancient) Egypt I've read of only in Lumley's Kai of Khem, whose story was predictable⸻I wouldn't call it an isekai, but it is both a power fantasy and a time/location-transfer. I like the the descriptions of the geography, nature (significantly wetter 4e3 years ago), traditions or rituals of another people. Ancient Evenings is fucking huge at a third of a million words, and it's books/parts may well have been reworking into 3⸺4 separate novels for how distant to each other they are. Proceeding over a few days in the afterlife of Meni, our protagonist, in the necropolis in the Luxor valley along with his great grandfather (also dead), the Egyptian mythology is laided out, that is, how the gods came to be and what they patroned, their relationships among themselves, with the world, its people. Parts of Meni's childhood we read about, wherein rites and rituals, and the power structure of Ancient Egypt are described or observed, including the latter's various positions' everyday, familial relationships, culture, value system.

This novel was toned down from his usual, and relied much more on the psychology, that is on the emotions rather than gore: fear, anticipation, tension, panic. And it succeeded with the 'if I can't have X, then nobody can' spin. An all too human story given some extra weight is all this is.

Cringy, and getting predictable, and does absolutely nothing new (for, what, 3⸺4 novels now?). I'll tunnel to other two authors in the series. William King is dead to me.

More so a layman's compendium of varying in difficulty dos and don'ts than 'hey, this is the science,man'; not that the claims aren't backed up, just that I'd've preferred a more in-depth examination of the hows. Maybe I'm just whining. Anyway, for those not already privvy to the info, is nice, otherwise, kinda meh. Keep yourself and your close ones safe(r), famalamazoids.

Way to state the obvious, nigger.

Did not expect this variety of English from an author of such a name, but hey, maybe he's versatile? It's very nigga and street/urban, current (early 2000s for sure; 2010s maybe?), kid-friendly, in that it's believable, gets at both the overt and still-buried, under-developed emotions of soon-to-be adolescents and adults. It is quite human and well-written, these knowledge of the subject(s), their language and mannerisms. A few things are off⸻the epistles between the main characters and whoever the fuck they're writing, are abrupt breaks in the story that break the flow and contribute little. They provide backstory, color or enhance already there moments, but they should've been used more delicately, sparingly. Jarring are also the very discongruent moments of clear thought with the druggy, nigger behavior. Still worth a read, tho.

Sadly, attempting to write him an email, his contact page has the following: EVENTS: Please don't put me on a panel with all white men. If I realize that in time, I will drop out, and I don't want to do that!
Big. fucking. yikes.
There were several hints at him being a left drone within the book, this is a confirmation. I'll attempt to read the read of his works, but it doesn't bode well for him.

Rereading recently after having seen it pop up again on audiobookbay, I again liked it whole lot. Some of the above is invalid, a bit, having paid more attention this time around, and reading alongside, the characters don't develop throughout the book, seeing as it's something like a weekend or day, but shows how they got to where they are through correspondences and conversations that allude to the past.

Way to regurgitate very biased, bullish-only level-above-normie info. Did not assuade my uncertainties, did not answer any questions of mine, asked no question. Normie book at best, bad advice at worst; it's another chump riding the hype train.

Very strange novel for Chuck. It reads like a lonely woman's poor, shitty chicklit. Horribly annoying too in featuring everything insufferable about twentieth century women, especially from the last few decades. I really want this to turn around, but how much do I have to invest? Not in the least enjoyable, absolutely nothing novel. Disappointing.

Although it assumes obvious falsehood due to its wide strokes, it nonetheless would be a great starter for knowing what to look for in others.

I picked this up, hoping it'd be over-the-top moustache-twirling as the 2012 movie Iron Sky, which shares the idea of a small group of the the best of the best of national socialist youths being sent to the Moon before the collapse of the third reich. Although I don't recall particularly enjoy that flick, I did finish it, whereas this cartoonish and irrational (with regards to im- and explicit goals of characters and factions) depiction of nazis is stereotypical, predictable, and hence insufferable. It also isn't historically accurate with regards the their traditions, principles, values, seemed to ascribe too much likewise to the 'good guys'. sigh

κινο, also fuck greeks and or greek.

Reading this, my rating when from m to M to ✓ to ✔, it's like Shrek says, layers 'n shiet. Absolute masterpiece in pacing, from 'normal' novel to world-wide conspiracy spanning few millenia. The book is both compelling both as story and as critique at modern-day cinema, and that easily is translated to all (nascent?) artistic media. 'Compelling' is apt, this is a page-turner, it's not a slow-burner, but the tempo does only increase, and not linearly so. 2018's Under the Silver Lake came to mind towards the end⸻they are comparable in how the scope or shadow of the conspiracy/mystery grows over and around the main character, subsuming him ultimately, both not exactly entertaining, but, to reiterate, compelling. I wish I could better express myself... I apologize.

Focuses strongly on the people, but the narrator is boring, although the story is nice. Gave me some outrageous (for the 70s and 80s) fic to read. It'll be shit, I'll do one a later today before retiring to something decent (Beatrice Sparks).

Yeah, no 14-year-old turning 15 uses both 'blah' and 'nary' within 2 paragraphs, right? I know of at best one 15-year-old with a good vocabulary, but This is an American lassie from the 1970s and –80s, publically educated, so⸻err, no. Knowing beforehand that this account is wholly fictional and sensationalized (s. Unmask Alice: LSD, Satanic Panic, and the Imposter Behind the World's Most Notorious Diaries. Rick Emerson., 'tis aboot the author), riding the wave of hippies, Manson's and the likes crimes, aaand it just doesn't read as a youth's. The choice of words, for one, and, for two, it being a placcid, sub-mediocre, middle-aged, religious nut and her friends' experiences of a salad toss. It stinks of pre-owned vehicle dealer.

The first of the two diaries end in an arrest, drug bust. She's run away from home with a one year elder colleague, at 15 to do drugs and works for a living, that is, to quote: Another day, another blowjob., prostitute herself. The rollercoaster ride that is the tone and quality of writing at hand is unconvincing, it's desperate. Beat for beat, it's a 3-bar repetition of: I-love-my-family-and-God-and-church-and-Roger, I-love-list-of-drugs-I-feel-so-list-of-descriptors, I-feel-so-bad-and-I'm-never-doing-this-again-and-self-pity til the end. Ends abruptly on a the good bar of the periodical, with a note serving as epilogue to instill doubt and distrust in all past, present and future drug users. See? This is what happens to your children when x,y,z. This is the first of the anonymous teenage diaries distributed/leaked by B.S.'s agent, so it should get better, but I'm not holding my breath.

Postscriptum Chronologically going through the first 4 four of the diaries, one very same primitive 3-cycle I'd described reoccurs without fail, starting right after the preliminary up to 5 pages. Jay's whatever, published three years after this one, has writing not an ounce of improvement, nor difference. For the third and forth, I increasingly quickly noticed similarities, and could predict there the story was going, not necessarily substance-wise, but still made for an unenjoyable read.
None of the children, adults, living creatures were real or even relatable-to.

Part uno is about alleged harm caused by pornography, most of it is trash. 1. paper was just plain bad, unless I haven't seen enough porn, or 2008 was radically different porn-wise; it's a big heads-up for all the upcoming female 'scholars'. Good to start off with the disappointment. The 2. paper is okay-ish; 3. & 4. feature faulty argumentation and use fallacious studies, which are attempted to be passed off as crime statistics. These all ring like the hysteria stirred up by a few parents, preachers, or otherwise Karens, when rock and metal were gaining footing, becoming normal (or any new, edgier, or more extreme genres). Jack Thompson (campaign against video games) all over again to a significant degree.

The professions of female persuasion are oblivious to the gynocentric Western world they and their clients live in, they only bitch and whine, and possibly make matters worse. Okay, I'm generalizing and strawmaning, fine. It tires keeping with everything wrong in what I'm reading. It is astounding how many unfounded claims about pornography are made, which, I guess, are hoped to be forgotten by piling on new ones..? How any of this could have been published in a journal, or even a proceeding is beyond me: poor scholarship, deficient intellectual humility, arrogance and moralization, arguably lies.

The first point to make is that sexual desire belongs to that aspect of the human being which we summarize in the concept of the person. Many of the things that we experience we experience as animals, and what we feel does not normally depend upon thought, intention, or personality. We feel the same pain from a wound that a dog might feel if wounded in the same way. But there are other states of mind that only persons can experience. While a dog can experience aggression, he cannot experience remorse or shame, cannot wonder about the laws of nature, cannot judge another dog morally, and so on.

A small short story collection, all composed astoundingly beautifully. Bruno Schulz was described in the foreword and his wiki article as a national treasure of a Jewish Polish writer, and even past Celina Wieniewska's translation, I would believe that. Had I the time to learn 1930s Polish, I would, just to read this. Critically however, he goes overboard in description⸻words, wordings, comparisons, literary devices used in every sentence cloy. It is only the virtuosic variety and novelty employed that somewhat mellow it out. As the foreword says, the tales are autobiographical in nature, all about the author's quaint hometown, his childhood memories. Style reigns here, whereas the substance of each could charitably be decocted to a paragraph.
Thank (You) for mentioning him, or should I say lowkey recommending Jewish media. Lastly, two nice quotes:

He walked with an awkward oblique roll in an undecided direction, along a shaky and uncertain line. His usual mood was one of indefinite basic sadness. He had the dejected helplessness of an orphan⸻an inability to fill the emptiness of life between the sensational events of meals. This was reflected in the aimlessness of his movements, in his irrational fits of melancholia, his sad whimpering, and his inability to settle down in any one place. Even in the depths of sleep, in which he had to satisfy his need for protection and love by curling himself up into a trembling ball, he could not rid himself of the feeling of loneliness and homelessness. Oh, how a young and meager life, brought forth from familiar darkness, from the homely warmth of a mother's womb into a large, foreign, bright world, shrinks and retreats and recoils from accepting the undertaking⸻and with what aversion and disappointment!

Father's experiments did not, in spite of expectations, produce any revolution in the life of the community. The grafting of mesmerism on the body of modern physics did not prove fertile. It was not because there was no grain of truth in Father's discoveries. But truth is not a decisive factor for the success of an idea. Our metaphysical hunger is limited and can be satisfied quickly. Father was just standing on the threshold of new revelations when we, the ranks of his adherents and followers, began to succumb to discouragement and anarchy. The signs of impatience became more and more frequent: there were even open protestations. Our nature rebelled against the relaxation of fundamental laws; we were fed up with miracles and wished to return to the old, familiar, solid prose of the eternal order. And Father understood this. He understood that he had gone too far, and put a rein on the flight of his fancies.

So! Second reading of Hopity Scotch, this time the second of the two author-suggested (canonical?) chapter sequences, the one supposedly elucidating the prot's madness. The book can be separated into parts by location: Paris, France and Montevideo, Argentina; by time: past, present; by focal point/perspective: the clochards, the Circle's members, randos, infants, animals, the city. Rather than predictably alternating chapters following protagonists and or antagonists, the frame shifts hecticly, and (almost?) all see some personification, corporification.

At after around half, and mind you, this is a 185k word novel, I'm feeling more lost than found; I'm not the dots, I'm not even seeing the dots. The interspersions, I don't find, color in the blanks created by the misordering. I'm too impatient and am feeling like shit every day, and not taking care of myself, so reading something that prerequisites neuron utilization was perhaps a mistake. Third time could be the charm, I guess..? Anyway, I'm still enjoying this entangled medusa head of a novel.

There is somewhat of a pretentious element too. As well as a Marxist one. They mingle, of course. I'd realized this on listening through two guys' 'opinions' on the books from yt. And, upon rewinding, yes, yes there are such elements. South America had a rocky twentieth century with violent coups d'état, militarism, civil wars, half the Marxist ideologies from Europe, dictatorships, cults, idolatry, and same ol' poverty; so it is understandable that the majority of its faux intelligensia would the same clowns. Julio lived in 1950s Paris, another great procrustean bed of absurd serious silliness. The 'intellectual' conversations held within the Circle mostly constitute dragon-chasing, (auto-)fellating, and garrulous inanity. Exercise for the hell of it. La Maga is perhaps the one worthwhile character in the entire novel.
Still a good read, though. I don't think I'll be rereading it anytime soon, let alone in any new manner, maybe I....
You know, me? This not, especially me, is not worth multiple rereads. Do it once, before it gets tedious, when baker's pa

Note, I seem to have deleted part of the review while editing something else. Not paying attention during work with multiple selections. fixme

Very jewy at times, sure, but it's not pushed, and the whole is a very passionate text about books and their role in human society. Attempts to present a vertical slice of the history of the book, pre- and post-Gutenberg; and the bookstore through accounts. Idealistic and but somewhat successful, which is commendable. I am somewhat ashamed that I haven't since starting reading almost exactly two calendrical years back, bought a single book, material or digital. On the other hand, my wealth and my circumstances have also not in any significant way improved... Nothing has. But solipsism and absurdism are my saviors. Ha-ha.
I'm not laughing :t but then again, I laugh at myself and march on.
The intensity within is often great, similar to what I at times feel, so there's that, anyway, good, bad, tuna salad, pumpkin. alice.

Rarely do I read of, about, from somebody similar to myself. Christopher Knight, a.k.a. 'the North Pond Hermit', fits the bill, not perfectly, more to a good, say, 66⸺75%? The author is journo, with only one other book to his name in libgen. We seems to have done his research relatively well, and to have kept to standard (in the olden days, at least) journalistic practices. Indeed, his extensive reads at the end of the book, which I added without forethought⸻yes, even the female ones⸻, to my booklog, since I have so few of my own exploring this, e.g., the wanderer/hermit novels of Knut Hamsun (among others..?), possibly Cormac McCarthy's Child of God or Samuel Beckett's Molloy, and I'm already blanking.

The books starts off with the setting, the crime and victims, the capture. Bland, uninteresting past prior knowledge of them. The author's conversations with C.K., retelling of these, and further information is provided in the second third, whereas the last one houses the resolution, and the aforementioned reference books. I feel less alone, knowing such people do and have existed, that to shrug off depression I need only escape society. Electricity and internet would be an issue without a job, and most of all, access to insulin. There only so much apothecaries you can rob (with what, bow and arrow?) before you get caught and clubbed to death in a small town square. Anyway, good read, worth a reread in time.

Nice detective procedural in third person, neutral too, and from a woman. Very neutral, in a good way though: without an author's onus of agenda or emotion. Also, 'Straya.

1920s Russia, middle-sized, interior town suffering early twentieth century vice. We are treated to my favorite insufferable Russianism (or is it just snowniggerism?): shallowness, hypocrisy, pseudo and or faux erudition, and inane piffle. But also to whore life. I can't speak as to how truthful it is, given my experience as (a? the? <nothing?>) godcock and his as not a qtp2t, 24-year-old, well-read, pale, lanky Jennochka.
It reminds me the setting of Northern American western or northern frontiers, regarding the lacks law and morals, and encroaching vice. Too munch dandyism, or the aforementioned faux erudition, at times, I think, it grated to the the point of predictability at times, say, a fifth of the whole? The story can takes place over a week, as if, in actually months, and, meta-ly (verily not a word), decades on every frontier. Although not as explicit as I'd like⸻replaying Anna Ruston's Secret Slave⸻, it nonetheless does the job (until something better comes along, I guess...)

Hard science fiction writer. His stories appear mainly in Analog: Science Fiction and Fact looking at the covers of the few stories recorded and included in the torrent alongside the titular one. I'm read textbooks more interesting than this. And it wasn't the all-female cast of characters that sharpened the punjis, I listened through Thanksgiving Day and Communion, both long-ish stories, at 45 and 215 minute read times, both very dull and uninteresting. This guy barely exists online, in libgen, in the bookz irc channel, so I'd chalk it up to him being a not particularly good writer, astrophysics degree or no.

Interestingly, a decent, if forgettable book by a previously blacklisted name. Reminiscent of of Steven King's Rage, more immature and or extreme. Wasn't as predictable and unbelievable, inhuman, as previous titles. So for was, hurrey..?

A deranged, romantic, beatnik stream-of-consciousness about a junky in Mexico. Like, really fucking continuous⸻no pulled punches, no holds barred; achieving a level just below that of Peter Sotos with the following 1926-glyph '''sentence''' (the latter's maximum from the 5-novel Pornography 1991⸺2000 is 584; arguably, Kerouac cheats with his use of em dashes, which, given the capitalized foremost word, suggest separate sentences, but the ⸻s suggest interrupted wholes without pause):

I'm having the fairy tale of Saturday night, having a good time actually because of the booze and the good cheer and the careless people⸻enjoying the little animals⸻noticing the little Chihuahua pup now meekly waiting for a bite of meat or bread with her tail curled in and woe, if she ever inherits the earth it'll be because of meek⸻Ears curled back and even whimpering the little Chihuahua smalldog fear-cry⸻Nevertheless she's been alternately watching us and sleeping all night, and her own reflections on the subject of Nirvana and death and mortals biding time till death, are of a whimpering high frequency terrified tender variety⸻and the kind that says 'Leave me alone, I am so delicate' and you leave her alone in her little fragile shell like the shell of canoes over the ocean deeps⸻I wish I could communicate to all these creatures and people, in the flush of my moonshine goodtimes, the cloudy mystery of the magic milk to be seen in Mind's Deep Imagery where we learn that everything is nothing⸻in which case they wouldn't worry any more, except after the instant they think to worry again⸻All of us trembling in our mortality boots, born to die, BORN TO DIE I could write it on the wall and on Walls all over America⸻Dove in wings of peace, with her Noah Menagery Moonshine eyes; dog with clitty claws black and shiny, to die is born, trembles in her purple eyes, her little weak bloodvessels down the ribs; yea the ribs of Chihuahua, and Tristessa's ribs too, beautiful ribs, her with her aunts in Chihuahua also born to die, beautiful to be ugly, quick to be dead, glad to be sad, mad to be had⸻and the El Indio death, born to die, the man, so he plies the needle of Saturday Night every night is Saturday night and goes wild to wait, what else can he do,⸻The death of Cruz, the drizzles of religion falling on her burial fields, the grim mouth planted the satin of the earth coffin, ...

It is rambley, sure, and nonsensical, yes, indeed-y; but he colors wildly, overzealously with with baroque and nonstandard words, phrases, punctuation, phrasing, wording. I can easily imagine somebody, stoned outta their spine, unable to cogently or at least coherently guide a single thought to the end. I say that having observed my thoughts and thought patterns whilst in prolonged hypoglycemias. Journey not destination, style without substance, that is, I have little fucking clue what really is going on or what he's trying to say, convey, hint at too often; yes, there is a plot; no, I don't really think it'd matter if there wasn't and he was talking about or to Kashan rugs...
Very pretty.

Since beginningless time and into the never-ending future, men have loved women without telling them, and the Lord has loved them without telling, and the void is not the void because there's nothing to be empty of.

I'd initially went into this book and author not knowing true crime was what it was and they wrote, respectively, genre-wise. The thing, that hoisted the red for me, was the complexity, that, in a run-of-the-mill fiction book, could have more easily be achieved through fewer plot lines, using fewer characters and dry details, which ostensibly come from the in the final ~30% of the plain text file (when wrapped at 96) of the book legal documents among other references. I had the feeling that simultaneously a lot of ground was covered, but none of it satisfyingly deep enough⸻characters develop, issues new arise while the old resolve, but the delivery is meager and would leave most readers in want for substance and or detail, even if inconsequential, more fluff.

I've read of coyotes in Sunblind by Michael McBride, but of human smugglers in general or as a singular point of import, I can't recall one book, so this was an interesting an informative read. The ~250-year history of emigration to America is lightly investigated, how and why the demos and its leaders react the way they do, given the nation. I'll take a look at Keefe's other works since he's been rather thorough, he'd even gone to a few of the places and struck up convos with people from the story.

This and Jacob Bronowski's The Ascent of Man service hoi poloi as popsci, although they vary widely in tone and method. The latter resembles a one-off work, stories of triumph of science, of man over this or that, wonder and amazement. This, as the authors expound in the lengthy preface, is a 5-year work encompassing much, with a wide bibliography, although much is left omit, more discourse than story, more questions than answers, it's purpose to leave you wondering is easily achieved.
I may have more when finished; really liked this:

So long as men cherish the dream of getting something for nothing, money without working, knowledge without study, power without knowledge, and virtue without asceticism, so long will pseudosecret and initiatory societies continue to flourish, with their imitative hierarchies and their mumbo-jumbo that imitates the real secret language, the language of technicians.

On the one hand, it exemplifies with the benefit of hindsight (and without the benefit of the scientific method or even scientific knowledge) how divergent thinkers were ridiculed and or ostracized in the past. On the other hand, it praises objectively false (according to all we currently know) hypotheses; inefficient (to put it lightly), inhumane (according to modern standards) past cultures, civilizations; and gives credence to ideas, that are easily demonstrably untrue, wrong, false. A lot of research occurred before and during writing this book, I can see that, but the child-like wonder and fascination is just that, child-like. You can't point of random coincidences of no consequence, and do a hint-hint, nudge-nudge, aliens amarite, fam? It don't work like dat, nigga. Showing them a two-bit magic trick, I'd imagine, could lead them to questioning the all of us take for granted, or concrete, unquestionable. That is its flaw, it is self-aware though:

We shall be citing other facts, establishing other connections, and formulating other hypotheses in due course. Our book, we repeat, will doubtless contain a lot of nonsense, but that is of no importance if it inspires some readers with a sense of vocation and, to a certain extent, opens up new and wider paths for research.

I was aware this going to be a crime committed by posh British cunts by 1, the title; 2, the audiobook cover; and that it was probably not going to be my cup or tea by 1, female author; 2, female reader. I was right. This is the sordid story of lord Lucan, the major points of which I was introduced to in a video by Dankula. The audiobook was 16 hours in length, and the speakers RP, or airs, or I don't really know what, made listening at the usual breakneck speed impossible, because all you'd hear was faux indignation, scoffing and puffed cheeks. Anyway, criticism: too many parentheses opened for not tangents, but also not crucial information. As if its length needed more puffing up?

44 Years in Darkness: A True Story of Madness, Tragedy, and Shattered Love Sylvia Shults bBm 0.49 Eighteenth century, Uhmurrican frontiers. The book handles a Ms. Rhoda Derry, a eighteen-year-old cursed by who beloved's mother, to then have the breakdown of the state. The book is far too thorough for my liking by going into where Illi-fucking-nois fucking is, what the native tribes were paid for their land and what they were eating, what cash crops were, how fertile the land was, that is, what the general situation was like 250 years back, the who/what/when and where of construction and purpose of the very first mental asylum in the state, the history of the Derry family, and then only one generation of the other family, whose name already escapes me. Details about not on the case.

Writing this at the 10% mark, I must admit that the writing of our Korean fellow has much improved since Version Zero, it is actually good, not merely passable. Very good dialog and believable, human characters aside, and the few giggles, chuckles and laughs it got from me, which, granted, is extremely rare, and not insignificant, this novel is ultimately about lose and identity. At 8.4e4 words, is has 7 parts. 3 too many, in my appraisal⸻the narration shortly after the half-way point takes a nose-dive, along with my score for the damn thing, slows down to a crawl, only to pick up a tad towards the very end, the last half of the last part. Filibustering, it seemed unfocused, unsure of where it wanted to go with the story, the tone, the characters, yet it, or rather he, wanted to change things up. Otherwise no development would have taken place since the very first page. Beforehand it read more like a mystery or a suspense novel. Am willing to give his olders a chance as well, and if they prove poor, then whatever he releases in the following year or two.

He'd wondered: What obvious mysteries have we modern humans not figured out yet? How to fly?
How to stop abusing one another?
...
A family of three tumbleweeds, he thinks, just like the family I used to have. Tumbleweeds get to be together. They get to venture forth and roam around freely. No one ever bothers with tumbleweeds.
I wish I were a tumbleweed.
...
But unlike me, tumbleweeds fear nothing, because they are tumbleweeds, which are dead. What kind of freak organism only becomes able to move once it expires? Undead plants, sure, okay!
...
There isn't all that much to prepare, really. He lies on the slope and considers masturbating. The idea floods his loins with dread. How miserable during, how desolate afterward.
...
What Would You Do? And Why Would It Be Fun? The surface of the water in the bucket ripples. He realizes he is weeping. It's not fair that he should be tormented when he's already so low. Nothing about this place is fair. But the world has never been very interested in the notion of fairness, has it? Why would it change now just because humans are gone?
To compound the cruelty, he's just bashed a creature to death. Don't fool yourself into thinking that was some kind of mercy killing, he thinks. You got dealt shit, so you in turn dealt shit to someone else to compensate. They say an eye for an eye, but what they forget to say is that if you can't reach the eye of the one who wronged you, then any nearby eye will do.
Remember the world before. How all its evil was just a ceaseless cascade of misplaced revenge!
I'm so sorry, he says to the crow.
...
Torture? Pff. Vainglorious delusions of grandeur. No one is torturing him. There is no conspiratorial intent here. He is a nobody in the middle of great big nowhere.
. ..
Adam falls asleep.
Fifty-Three
Then Adam dies.
...
Is there even a real answer to that kind of question? Would it even matter? What's done is done, cannot be undone, the world shambles on. It's not like humanity will learn a single thing from it.
...
I am the supernatural force that topples the stones. Just me. God wouldn't bother.

Color me surprised. The man did it. An actually good (note from future: first half of a) novel. An actually creepy or scary at times novel. With actually believable characters. Well, to me, so pinch and salt the jazz. Little anchors it historically other than the extremity of Halloween costumes, that is post-early-2000s candy scare, possibly the homosexual relationship, which is also done okay. Now, to the meat and potatoes, that is, to the meat, because fuck your potatoes and fuck the Irish.

This is a story of a haunting for the most part, two, or rather multiple, worlds coexisting with the house, wherein all occurs, serving as a gate of sort. Stupid arbitrary rules always come into play, so they're excused. The gist is this: children killed by mother, who then suicides, the consequences of this thing play into the rest of the story, the all three of characters speaking up. What for me was the gavel that re-sentenced this to, well, not mediocrity but decent-ness (non-negative twist) was the second act, which was dreadfully languorous. It was a list of simple sentences, descriptions of actions and thoughts of no consequences, little was learned by the readership, protag, or antag; and the change of pace didn't do it any good either. She was in limbo, and so were we. Anywho, the first 40⸺50% deserve praise, compared the two I've read by sgj. He's not exactly pretentious, nor is he mainstream, but might just not be my cuppa.

Character studies.
Damn long. Focused on protag? Not really.
Thinking back, other than the length nothing stands out. Okay.

Third novel of Ryu Murakami, published 1980 in Japan; my second work of his. Beloved by nippophiles, and people without (a refined) taste⸻at least, much more than he deserves to, I think⸻he exemplies what I dislike about heavily westernized Japanese artistic media: trope-heavy, at best with some expectation subversion; mired in symbolism and philosophy, more often foreign, misunderstood and convoluted and sloppily regurgitated all over those fancying any 'Japanese thing' more than 'thing' for no reason, arbitrarily, unsubstantiated. To be quirky, to fit in⸻, sorry for that. I'll leave it in because it is relevant though. Tokyo Decadence, a short story collection by the same is the only other I've read by him, was just boring garbage but in Japan, with Japanese, about Japanese (people). I'm probably convoluting him with others like Dazai, and misattributing. I have the rest of his pirateable shit, and I'll give them a fair shake in due time too. Don't worry about it. Just about everybody gets a fair shake with me.

This was pleasantly unexpected. In the back of my mind, open-minded and without expectations or not, I went into it knowing loosely the person who'd expressed like it, it had provided them comfort. It's a Bildungsroman about these two boys discovered by the general public, locked in coin locker storage boxes. The book can be divvied into 4 parts, I would say, with the first two being an act each, and the latter two comprising a poorly executed, tonally muted, unsaturated, and hobbling third. For the sake of distinction from the mundane, the world is too vibrant, or rather tries to tries to be. I recognize an attempt by its failure: 1, Anemone, the love interest of the one boy, is unrealistic compared to already contrived, puddle-shallow Japanese 'idols'; 2, Toxitown is a few blocks of real estate inside Tokyo, not the greater metropolitan area, guarded by (armed) military police..? And yet a shitton successfully squat there..? Gharials/gavials⸻seriously now? I'd overlook these two among others still, were they not crucial to the plot and its development. Adhocism isn't ever excusable nor acceptable.

I did like its first act, like the person who'd mentioned it. A world unveiled by two lads. Narration happening from the third, yet I didn't feel that extricated from either perspective. Alternation of first-person accounts, I think, could have worked too. I wouldn't call it comforting, but the tone switches from sombre to puerile, at which time it ca be wholesome too. Too little time was spent on them growing up, on experiences particular or generalized. The perspectives of the two were enforced, separate, and made for a more interesting reading, unlike acts two and three, where the narrator's camera, as it were, the framing was increasingly distanced, with me caring not in the least if or how the whole thing would end after passing aroudn 55⸺60%. Their two love interests and the relationships established therewith were also interesting. Both were non-standard, but had they not their histories and quirks and retained their personalities and human qualities, it would have still worked. Reba, Dolarhyde's love interest in Thomas Harris' Red Dragon I was reminded of with the other one, was kind of a sweetheart, and I almost felt something. Anemone⸻fuck me, what stupid Japanese female name⸻, sans Murakami's forced eccentricities could have worked but would have required altering later deus-ex-machina'd moments.

A female Jew's desires stamped. Promiscuity, admiration, adulation, disregard, maltreatment, and arbitrary forgiveness for these. Unrealistic. And rather annoying. Had a few nice lines, as if effort was put in. Showed its grimace quickly. Fucking women are fucking cunts a-fucking-gain. Yes, I am currently angry, how could you fucking tell? If you're a female, give it a try, writing good. If you've a dick, and a man's head, don't bother.

Meaning drivel. Mostly. I'm not sifting through 12h, 105k words for one gem. Writing's shit. Nothing worthwhile, in what was read.
Sontag, you've your first warning.

The vivid memories of a child actor outgrowing mental and emotional trauma, blackmail, abuse, disorders. Poignant, witty, sharp. I like detailed, brutally honest diaries, memoirs written timely, not when memory's fuzzier than a Persian cat, and Death's impatiently tapping his foot, glaring down his sandglass. Hats off to Net, she overcame adversity, the cruel arbitrariness of life. Wasn't a massive cunt along the way too.
5 stars on the almost young adult descriptions of blowjobs and sex, or sexual stuff. My laughbox squeezed 3⸺4 times.

Finished Travels in Siberia. Apparaently the circuit's been done by at least 15 different Ohioans within some decades of the the its writing. As well as as far back as the 13 or 16 century from various other explorers and travelers. Dude did his research and included a bibliography, so muchos kudos for that. Too often long-winded. The Russophilic aspect grates me so obscenely that I'd attached an 'annoying' mark to my rating of 'above mediocre but not quite decent either'. The history of region, that is, the history of the politics of monarchical Russian from its establishment to dissolution was included. In more detail than needed, I'd say. Not much in the way of fun or whimsy or share-worthy-around-the-camp-fire. Plain observation from a guy in his 50s, rarely interspersed with profound or naïve or American. Eh. At 1.8e5, roughly 2 novels' length, could have been decocted into something more potent. The genre of travelog(ue) is⸻, or rather has been too commercialized in the past few 5-ish decade. This is from 2001, so 1 post-collapse. The ones done by George Kennan aroun 1870 should be much more interesting, both are to be found at archive.dot in not great scanned condition. The TTS output is gonna be garbage.

A compilation of his casual-remarks-turned-wittisms on imbued meanings of and connotations in everyday words during his years as a columnist for periodicals. It's short and sweet. A mild bitterness, bad-faith, despondency in humanity I notice. Cynicism perhaps? But uncalled for, too much of it. Up to the letter M, for example, there wasn't one "hey, people can be nice too". The exaggeration is neither subdued, nor cartoonishly overdone, it's half-way between snide and sarcasm.

A how-to on The Way. What is The Way, you ask? Neutrality, balancing opposites, you know the spiel: being Switzerland in China 2500 years ago. Presented by too often alegorical examples rather than doctrinal precepts. 81 lessons ranging from wise to sensible to questionable to insufferable to vexing. 20⸺25% of them I would sacrifice for consistency and clarity. There is both observer and survivorship biases, as well as is-ought-ism. It's been translated hundreds of times yet I can't comment on the translation's quality. I'll try another next time. Good one-time read. If you like analytical, technical, literal text, you'll find issues, like I did. Annoted below are three examples:

43 - Water and stone

What's softest in the world rushes and runs over what's hardest in the world.

The immaterial enters the impenetrable.

So I know the good in not doing.

The wordless teaching, the profit in not doing⸻not many people understand it.

60 - Staying put

Rule a big country the way you cook a small fish.

If you keep control by following the Way, troubled spirits won't act up. They won't lose their immaterial strength, but they won't harm people with it, nor will wise souls come to harm. And so, neither harming the other, these powers will come together in unity.

61 - Lying low

The polity of greatness runs downhill like a river to the sea, joining with everything, woman to everything.

By stillness the woman may always dominate the man, lying quiet underneath him.

So a great country submitting to small ones, dominates them; so small countries, submitting to a great one, dominate it.

Lie low to be on top, be on top by lying low.

I'm disappointed this supposed big-dick scholar hasn't more of many published works amidst libgen's stores. And the one bot on #bookz on undernet on IRC, who did have something else, namely Dreamwatcher, didn't respond. Despite that, this is my second novel of his, and third work. Again an interesting premise: progeria kid turns wunderkind turns his own cupid. Explore sexuality, and age, disease, mortality, time and their relationships. Greek mythology and some prominent art throughout the past 2500 years as well. Ones encountered not by my senses, my mind. I'll get around to them. I apprehend callow I still am and will inimically sour these so-called classics for the future or forever. I'd rather shun incertainly surmountable first impressions. Food for thought. Questions I'll tooth myself since I'm unacqainted with the worthy. I bid you, prove me wrong! I'd be delighted.

tfw no commasticant :t ikr? Kino word. Also, why the fuck do we need: co-, con-, com-? The answer is usage and history. You know this. This aufbügels not that desire to have more unchanging-lings in (human?) life. The thing I seldom successfully remind others of. Permanence itself is neutral and few would agree with language is perfect as it is, and there come to mind languages that have barely if at all improved in centuries: Arabic and Japanese come to mind. Not developing (in any direction)⸻mind you, I say not 'not improving'⸻implies not a perfected state.
Tangent aside, Roszak introduces questions without dichotomous, nor straightforward, inconsequential answers:

• What is the role of placebo in medicine? In the human world?
• How much do we ourselves quash our hopes and dreams? How much does society?
• Charlatanism, scientism, fraud versus stagnant science and philosophy, thought?
• Mythology hearkens many generation back, contains an epoche's collective worldviews, morals, moral knowledge, wisdom.
• What is a disease and what is one? Who decides? Who agrees with him/her? Who
• How and why do organisms age? Should they?
• Direction and speed, that is, both quality and quantity matter. With your current heading and velocity will your goal be reached? Should you do a 180° (assuming 2D Euclidean space), ac- or decelerate?
• What is purpose of life self-imposed or biological?
• The framework where work and thought is done is important. Is yours for your tasks suitable?

What is this about? I have no idea. From the start no discernible to me order I read: a chronologically descending countdown by year about her love life and selfimage around mastectomy or cancer; a her anxious break-up thing which is dubiously mutual; her moving out; her brother being introduced caring for her after her breakdown due to hormones due to, and I quote, 'baby-kill-pills' she willingly, knowingly took; a childhood flashback with pet and friend, who she was envious of, with 1-2-3 exposition dump of poverty, missing father figure, strained relationship family; lesbianism and or feminism..? The chapters comprizing the first almost third of this work share only the main character. Too episodic with sparse continuation. Mental baggage? Okay, but show character, something admirable. Development of something somewhere. There's little to care about; presentation is bad.

John Niven, I think, wanted to use all the puns, jokes, stereotypes, any miscellaneous religion knowledge from the past 250 years of America's white-man-settled existence. And he kind of succeeded. A sitcom with development in 4 (OR 5??) arcs. How the 3 standard acts fit over these⸻the first 20% are the exposition, plot commensement of intoduction, and the second and third are very intensity plot-wise. I'm reminded of this manga/anime. This lends predictability to the characters, you're not brining anything new to table, not subverting expectations, knowledge. Since all characters⸻yes, even the tertiary ones⸻are cookie-cutouts, the positive strong initial impression is unimpressed; the story and humor lose steam. After a third, I stopped caring about anything, or being able to. As did the author, realizing he's out of easily insertable memes, Bible excerpts, etc.

A 16-year-old in navy. Swell gig for a poor English fuck. When you were 16, how vibrant, eye-popping was everything, assuming you're not a chemical sedate? The 15% I'd read of this, is had the tone and cadence of tiring-from-life, 40+-year-old man. The blonde lad from the Master and Commander movie, which is based on a books series, was what I expected.

What is says on the tin. Like Keith Phipps' Age of Cage: Four Decades of Hollywood Through One Singular Career has is rather biographical in the its first third stiching together information from various sources: interviews, others' biolgraphies, anecdotes, public records. The second part is, again, a chronological filmography with short summaries and morsels for the fan reader. A very readable on the shitter, if that's your think. Come to think of it, the 'm' rating is exactly that: books for the white house.

Disappointing to me in having little of her escape, everything surrounding it, conditions in the DPRK, or crimes against humanity therein. The books shines in constrasting the people who've suffered under Marxist governments with and 'first-world' or 'Western', humanities-educated, contributing-nothing-of-value-to-society cunts who haven't.

Badly written in that in 3⸺4*1e4 words you said nothing. Not quite fluffef up platitudes. But nothing new, nothing too old either. I listened only. That there was no download over at libgen speaks for the desire of the public for this non-fiction, almost self-help (in that it's common knowledge) collection of vowels and cononants that left no impression. And what there was, wasn't good.

The most normie of stories. What I'd hear riding a train in this country, or in Germany. Anonymity would allow for some lies, tall tales⸻you'd think, and you'd be wrong. It's just boring shit. Imagine 15⸺25-year-olds? Bore them up. And basic, human stories? Pass that through bad 100 IQ writing you'd do for a fucking CRAIG-FUGGIN'-LIST AD, and you get this shit. Fuck me. No, seriously. I need to jerk off. AND EVERYTHING IS SO. FUCKING. OFF-PUTTING. FUCK ME IN MY SLEEP.

Uuuuh, I was playing tetris, but still, I remember NOTHING of this. Not 48 hours have passed. I remember nothing. Wambaugh, you best be churning this shit out like Matt Shaw is, because you'll be hungrier and poorer than I am.

Blake, what were you going for here? Because a quarter of those 9e4 words and I was more confused than invested by too many characters and too many (possible) plotslines. Time-travel, western, haunting/curse, family reunion. 6 in the present, about 8⸺12 in the past? Like I had trouble keep tabs on who's who in Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring before they left the damn shire, this is way many for me. Maybe it was written for women..?
Setting was a least nice: high Sierras.

The Suicide Club: You Are Not Alone Matt Shaw Wm .96 Oh my, another log by the turdmeister? And a recent one no less. He redeemed himself with the cromulent The 8th. I've already forgotten what it handled so many times, but that I finished it at as-much-fold speed spake for itself. Not quite airport trash, but this will be my 32 novelette of his. If you've not guessed, I'm writing the intro first, beause I want to speak to the void: Hey, Void waves. Hey there yourself, stud wink.

A too brief explor⸻, glance at the possible value of existence. As contrasted with nullibiety. I'm still reading Adam Phillipps' Missing Out, and plan on rereading David Benatar's Better Never to Have Been soon, besides the rest of his work. So the topic is near and dear. It's not been a major point in anything I've read, from what I recall and from scanning my booklog. On wizchan's /hob/ board, somebody had mentioned seeing Suicide Club, which is based on a book by Sion Sono. I found no downloadable file, so I just downloaded everything by everybody else found. Five books shared the title, including The Suicide Motor Club What the fuck is that? Beat me too.

All characters his standard jumble of emotional, irrational, inconsistent, often of low IQ normies. I mistaken then format. No, it's no a novella, no. Matty splits 3.9e4 words across two novelettettes. Two long short stories. The second prequeling something the first barely invested in or interested the reader in. Because no character tasted more than a lick of paint. The tempo in the first is jarring. Abrupt ending with most unresolved. Did my dude just get bored? Have to hand in draft with the tight deadline of 'in 2 weeks'? I assume according to him emotionally or actionally intensive scenes read to me as their counterparts and vice-versa. What is this black magic, bruh? Unfinished and unpolished. Retroactively solving future problems is not a thing, so he's getting another kidney-fucking after I finish that shit.

The second deal is the manifestation of the author's being stuck in a hotel around Heathrow around UK's wondrous handling of SARS-CoV2, his annoyance therewith, and his upcoming deadline. A character introduced late in the previous part with less than a dozen short lines of dialog is our main here. Tying these together seems an afterthought. Replacing names of under- or non-developed characters is easy, no fitting required. And fit it don't, and a prequel it ain't as he confidently stated in the last paragraph of the first story. We deal with a different character here. The first was a little-hewn, twice failed suicidal without im- or explicit reason for being so, with little history, detail, or context. Unlike the rest of the group, he be special for no reason, in that the magical (actual magic à la poof) nullibiety, that affects the everybody else than the group's leader and everything else, doesn't affect him. He's in his late 30s⸻Also, please tell me, what man this age attempts suicide by wrist wounds? By bitchy extremity hemorrhage? I'm increasing more convinced Matty has the mental development or your average 15-year-old.⸻, they are both members of the same group with weekly meets. They form a verbal contract, wherein one party is deceptively granted nullibiety by Death rather than peaceful or agreeable death with all personal matters settled from without and the other party receives 10000 local currency units on termination day. The group is call the suicide club. The first guy tries to investig⸻, no, oto strong a word. Throws hissy fits left and right, in attempt to learn something. Unbeknownst to him, our author doesn't know either. And can't even be bothered to plagiarize. To throw his readers a bone. The second main is a woman. Why does she want to die? Fuck knows. How is she planning on doing it? Fuck know. She is unhappy with her job, and is stuck in a hotel and is getting horny and masturbating. Irrelevant to everything before. Then a bit more about the leader of the group.. Eh, underwhelming, I was lost at 30-something percent. Slash 67⸺80%, build upon the characters, the setting, the ideas. Do something.

x. time's the charm, it'd seem. And from a male, female-targeting romance writer no less (reviews' first sentences and books' blurbs didn't preent it as 'chic lit'). While the writing isn't praiseworthy, it does its job. The title fits better than the last two. Characters and plot cohere and develop. Little fluff, decent length. Its one sex scene with pre- and postludes was in comparison to all others prolonged a chapter. 31 in toto, assuming equally lengthy, that'd be almost 4%. Was he flexing on lesser authors or something? Didn't sit well with me. Would've'n so without knowing his writing domain. Nigh fully plot-irrelevant. The next chapter is of a plot-relevant funeral. It was not as detailed, the various emotions of the 2⸺3 characters and the mass are more off-handedly handled. The second time it was handled appropriately to tone and context, to the plot: 9 sentences, 90 words. Well, spoken too quickly: post-coital sex is a thing for 40-year-olds in Gayle's mind. A few more paragraphs, though not a chapter. The quality of writing is noticeable when he deviates. He write suspenseful romance novels for women. This is neither police procedural, nor an antangonist-focused character study, nor an ego stroke, nor an orgy, nor a romance, nor a detective novel anyhow boiled. The few (as of 80%) 4-ish times the antagonist's perspective was taken, made it feel cheaper in a way. It'd be like watching a criminal expostulate his uncommited crime and make mistakes in perpetrationg, and watching Holmes firstly gloss over these then going 'aha!'. Because it's a choice by the author to focus briefly in the intent, but he chickens out as if. 'Cheesy' could be said of the ending; inexcusable despite being expected given what he writes to pay rent. Also, only two suicides? 'Club' is also deceptive; last 3 chapters tie together the antagonists, who've most acted outside the page up til the final showdown. One serving as an exposition, or rather debriefing, mule. The result is a 5⸺5.5/10 slightly 'suspenseful' police detective novel.

Okay, this time's the charm. An actual suicide club! The protagonist is a 15-year-old boy in this sleepy little town in the heart of Middle England in the mid-to-late 00s, gathering from the references. His clique, 'friends', whateverthefucks (defo not what I'd paint with that word in 15, nor at 28) are the secondary characters filling in, they're important. Rhys is a 29-year-old Welshman, so the cultural milieu needn't've'n researched, he lived in it. And this is his first novel published. Bravo. This is my second discovery, first being Jon Athan. He's a few others I'll check out too. Now, off to the CriticismMobile! Or the RemarkMobile..? Anyhoo.
Having been a teenager amongst teenagers, as most other survivors, the reader is very frequently accosted with teenagerisms. Less often the cringy, more the emotionally peaky, the unthoughtful and regretful acerbic ones. Author bullseyes the hormonal, experiential rollercoaster of those year. Salinger's Holden Caulfield was molded when he'd been 26, with some editorial work the next 3, the novel was released, again, at when he'd been 29; reminiscent of it in tone somewhat, though I don't know how much rereadable this would be for me. He gets right the adolescent dialog and narration:

Then, all of a sudden, Craig Bartlett-Taylor started saying something from the back of the class. Lots of kids in my school have double-barrelled surnames because I go to a very good school.
...
‘Sir, Mrs Kenna sent me. There's been the most terrible incident.' It was a ridiculous thing to say but sometimes I can't help saying ridiculous things to people I consider ridiculous.
...
Apart from that though the only big difference between my house and other houses is that the fairly long hallway is full of books. Not just a few books, I mean hundreds of books. My mother's obsessed with them.

I like books and I don't like books. Books are certainly good as storytelling devices because you can get really involved with one. But people whose houses are lined with books I think should spend more time living and less time reading, you know? It's like they have books instead of walls and they think it's really impressive, but it doesn't impress me. I'd rather be fooling around with a girl than reading a book.
...
‘You never even fucking loved me,' she would scream, her voice all warbly. It is such a shocking thing to hear your own mother using the F word.
...
I wanted to hug him and protect him from the world, apart from, of course, there's no protecting anyone from it – it will get you in the end, no matter what.
...
Jenny was there with her warm colours but her insides were all twisted up and rotten.
...
He had that tired look on his face like little kids have when they have to concentrate like crazy on the most mundane of tasks.
...
‘Because you're a fucking moron,' he said calmly, ‘and it has nothing to do with you whether we go or not, you abominable cunt.'
...
‘It will haunt you for ever if you don't.'

‘Good,' I said.

‘You think that's good?'

‘Yes,' I said childishly, but what else was I supposed to do?

‘Richard, studies have shown—'

And then I stopped listening.
...
I'd say he was about nine. I instantly despised him.
...
I believe that the first day that child realizes that he's not going to make it is the day he dies. That's when he joins the masses on the road to the Middle.

Like Holden, he oscillates from manic to depressive, from soft to cruel or harsh, though H. wasn't ever intently from what I recall; a bit too smart or sharp (for his breeches) to childish, or kid-ish⸻those pre- and first teenage(-r) years from, say, 11 to 14? Too stark it seems to me, unsmooth; ultimately unnatural. I can't fathom how much editorial toil would be required to get this 'perfect', were such a thing possible. All in all, a good-to-great first novel on humans in their most turbulent years.