As an ending to a series this book works incredibly well. It helps to tie everything up in a beautiful knot and pretty little bow. As a standalone story, it’s not as compellingly engaging as the other books in the Chronicles of Narnia series. Which is probably why it took me a little longer to read than most of the other stories in this series…
This is probably my least favourite of the Chronicles of Narnia. It’s still really good, but it just doesn’t have the same adventure spirit and oomph as the other tales. Maybe it’s because the Pensieve children don’t feature in this story at all. They are completely out of the picture, and I really missed them. After all, they are the children that made me fall in love with this series in the first place.
It doesn’t matter how many times I read this story, I still love it. And my heart melts. And I get all gooey and happy on the inside. It really doesn’t matter how many times I read this, it is just as wonderful and amazing as the first time I read it when I was six years old.
I can’t believe that I’ve waited so long to read this book! It’s been on my shelf for so long and I’ve always wanted to read it (even before I bought it), but I just never seemed to have the time… or the inclination. And now I really, really, really don’t know why I took so long. This story was amazing, and heart-wrenching and just so damn knock-your-socks-off that I can’t stop thinking about it.
Heathcliff is a douche. Total and utter, pain in the bum, can’t even get into this story kind of douche. There’s a chance that Catherine might also be a bit of a douche. But I really couldn’t move past my blinding hatred for Heathcliff to even concentrate on the object of his obsession.
I had no idea what to expect from The Jungle Book. I’d honestly only ever watched the Disney movie and hadn’t read any blurbs attached to Kipling’s writing. It was just one of my many impulsive moments where I picked up the book, ready to read it and unsure of what to expect. Which was nice, because I also didn’t have any huge expectations placed upon the words. My main expectation was just that it would be about Mowgli, which was wrong.
I really, really couldn’t get into this. Generally, when I’m reading a classic, it takes me quite a while since I need to be in the right mood for the lyricality of the wording. But, even when I was enjoying the prose in this, I really wasn’t being drawn in by the storyline. I don’t know if it was moving too slowly, or was a little too boring, or just in general not my style of storyline, but I just couldn’t get into it.
I can’t believe that it has taken me until I was almost twenty-six to read this collection! Actually, I can’t believe that it has taken me almost twenty-six years to read anything written by Charles Dickens. Normally I find anything written in the 1800s pleasurable, but a little difficult to get through. Not so with Dickens’ writing. It is so much more accessible and, although it still has the same mouthy, lyrical feel as much of the writing from that time, it is just somehow less formal, and more… real.
I can’t believe it has taken me THIS DAMN LONG to realise that The Nutcracker is actually a novel. Or at least, that it wasn’t originally a ballet. Once I realised this though, it took me absolutely no time to rush to my nearest book store and buy an adorably illustrated version of this classic.
I really liked the imagery invoked by the opening pages of this novella. It was very waxy and set the scene for a haunting story. I think that of all the “Christmas stories”, this is the one that starts off most poetically. There is just something about the repetition of when and the setting of the scene that is incredibly spooky, yet beautiful.