Shigeru Ito Ito itibaren Tisdale, KS, Birleşik Devletler
İnanılmaz Destansı bir hikaye.
I finished this last night/this morning. I can't decide how I feel about it. When I tried to describe it to a friend today, I found myself thinking about it very dichotically. There's the first 300 pages, which are very much about forging a place for yourself in the world, about our blindspots and vulnerabilities (and about how well-read the author is--that's almost its own subplot). But when at about 300 pages, nothing much in terms of plot has happened, it goes into overdrive and it's goes movie-of-the-week with body count and intrigue and espionage. Wild ride, I'll give it that. Ultimately, I stormed the last 200 pages from 11 pm to 4 am because I could not put it down, and in the end, I got the breath sucked out of me. I did not expect to end up there, where the author took us. I was stunned like I'd been suckerpunched. So... I liked it very much. I didn't love it. By the last 200 (of 509) pages I was skimming the author's LOOK AT ME intrusions. After a time, they were just too much.
** spoiler alert ** Mountolive Have finished the book. The characters in the entire quartet are sensual and erotic but I think this chapter epitomizes the basis of the sexual desire for each other. Justine is a type of Lilith, a succubus. Justine and Nessim's marriage is a sexual passion based on dominance and control; a power based lust. Melissa is the needy character in all the books thus far. The erotism in the books seems to have no basis in traditional ideas of romance. This is what makes the Alexandria Quartet a fascinating series of stories. The internal plot or agenda behind all the seemingly mindless sex is revealed. Also it all unravels for Justine, Nessim, and Narouz. Pursewarden and Melissa are die or are already dead. They are just brought back in Mountolive's memory to fulfill the convoluted plot. As always keeping track of the characters in the series is a challenge within itself. The first two books of the Alexandria Quartet were the foreplay, lovemaking and orgasm, these last two books; Mountolive and Clea are the climax, then the limp, flaccid state in which one reflects. By this time WWII is raging and the remaining characters are either rendered powerless or spent.