"If you don't come to me, I'll come to you."

Writing about ghost stories when summer is approaching feels... strange. Especially because ghost stories were traditionally a Christmas thing. At least there's a full moon right now, so maybe this is appropriate after all!

The appeal of James's disquieting stories is in the transition from an ordinary, almost mundane and often academic world into supernatural. The sense of normalcy is interrupted by hair-raising scenes with mysterious figures, and James knows just the right parts where to let the reader's imagination do its work.

My favorites vary according to my mood. This time the ones I liked the most were "The Mezzotint", "Count Magnus", "Wailing Well", "Rats", and "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad". There was also a scene that for some reason freaked me out completely: a man touches a head of hair when there shouldn't be anyone else in the room. I just can't for the life of me remember which story it was.

Recommended to consume with a warm drink in hand and ideally in front of a crackling fire. If the latter is not possible, curled up inside a nest of blankets is a good substitute. There are also loads of adaptations, both old and new (some of them available on YouTube!).

"[W]hile he spoke my very Conscience and Reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. - - - "Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?" Still indomitable was the reply - "I care for myself."

When I first read Jane Eyre at the age of 17, a few months shy of 18, it made me believe that the world is large, and that belief in yourself and your inner life makes a difference. Re-reading it 13 years later made me realize again that, like other big classics, it's so much more than the sum of its parts. So much more than a romance novel (a genre that I would normally avoid like the plague).

Rochester, the master of Thornfield Hall where Jane gets a position as a governess (after a tough childhood and a period of growth in Lowood Institution), is a byronic and wild-tempered character. He's like the night to Jane's morning, but the restlessness swirling within both are similar. To him, short and plain Jane appears as an otherworldly being, a sprite who has bewitched him. An unconventional girl who doesn't get ruffled or confused, but is direct and honest. Someone who's opinions he wants to hear.

As dark as Rochester and his past is Thornfield Hall, practically a concrete representation of its master's nature and a constant claustrophobic presence. The wild storms and secrets bubbling under the surface peek through from time to time in scenes that rival the best gothic novels. It's almost like a part of Jane's rebellious nature has escaped from the chains of social convention and her own doubt. She believes that "women feel just as men feel", and at one point she even states how she has desires that she cannot compromise for anyone.

In the end, companionship is only possible when there's no pretense or baggage. In contrast to the view of an ideal woman in Charlotte's time, Jane takes control and decides what and when her happy ending is going to be. She marries her man, not the other way around. She doesn't try to change him or be his savior, because he's the one who has to make peace with himself instead of relying on another person to reform him. When neither is following love blindly and our heroine has retained her self-respect and is treated as a real person and as an equal, they are on the same level and can ride into the sunset to become one of the most epic couples in the history of literature.

Now THAT is the kind of romance novel I can get behind of.

Re-read: 15.04.2020
Here we are: the volume that made my Dark Tower journey come to a screeching halt last time around. Partly because other stories started to interest me more, partly because Wizard and Glass tired me out. It's not bad per se, and I understand why a diversion to Roland's past is beneficial for character development, but why did it have to be so damn long? It breaks the flow of the series, and I just couldn't bring myself to care about teen love. All the things I did care about were in the beginning: the battle of wits with Blaine the Mono and the chilling peek into the events of The Stand.

"Little Sisters of Eluria" from Everything's Eventual (2002)
Another flashback to Roland's past (chronologically, this leg of the journey happens after the events of Meiji), but because it's a short story and has an interesting plot, I could breathe a deep sigh of relief. I had read this before and the sisters were still as eerie as ever creeping around. More straightforward horror than the series.

"It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down in the canyon. The canyons above Hollywood and Beverly Hills play tricks with sounds. A noise clearly audible a mile away may be indistinguishable at a few hundred feet. It was hot that night."

It's fair to assume that everyone knows who Charles Manson was. In 1969, the Tate-LaBianca murders left Los Angeles paranoid and wondering how one man can manipulate young seemingly innocent kids to murder several people in cold blood. Because Bugliosi was the prosecutor, he and Gentry are able to delve into the case in so much detail (I mean it: this is probably not for true crime beginners), drawing you in immediately by starting with the night of the murders and slowly building the puzzle one piece at a time.

"Was there some reason why you placed your finger on the bloody button that operated the gate?"
[Police officer:] "So that I could go through the gate."

In addition to the obvious feeling of being horrified about the murders, the second strongest feeling was frustration. The police made mistakes from the beginning. Items at the murder scene were moved, officers were stepping on blood, some idiots babbled to the reporters ("It looked ritualistic"), a 10-year-old boy who found a gun handled it better than the officer who touched it all over the place etc. I know it was the 60s, but how devoid of common sense can a human being be? Makes you think whether they messed up other cases to the extent that they were never solved.

The press was no better: they printed rumors and straight up made up stuff, certain things like the drug aspect were exaggerated, some stories were victim blaming etc.

Manson was a delusional POS, but his followers were no better. Yes, they were indoctrinated and controlled with drugs etc., but they weren't innocent little children, stand-up guys or daddy's little angels. Manson just knew which strings to pull, what his cohorts' weaknesses were, and how to take advantage of their nasty sides. Within two years after he was released from prison the last time, he had his Family and they were ready to graduate to murder.

It's fair to assume that cannibalism is one of the reasons, if not the only reason, that the 1972 Andes plane crash is so well-known. When I ran into Read's book, it was the first thing that came to my mind, too. "Right, it was that incident where a rugby team started eating the dead." It's easy to write a sensationalist account of something like this, but Read's approach is matter-of-fact. Not particularly riveting (at least the dated translation I had), but it does its job and seems to be accurate. For those that want a more personal point of view, Nando Parrado's memoir could also be of interest.

Ten weeks high in the mountains, at a spot drowning in snow and practically with no vegetation. It's hard to imagine a situation like this where you're forced to make tough decisions, to decide whether you want to grasp at the tiny chance of survival. At the end of the day, some of the families got their brothers and sons back. If they hadn't done what had to be done, there would have been zero survivors.

Although I knew they would be rescued, I actually started to cry so hard when the ones who were chosen for the rescue trek made contact with outsiders after 10 days and 61 km. The changes and omissions the 1993 movie made to the story felt a bit underwhelming, particularly at this point, but I guess it was a running time thing. In any case, this is an amazing story of survival, humanity, and tenaciousness.

"They kissed each other again and fell asleep. The patch of light on the ceiling now seemed to be assuming the shape of a terrified eye, staring unblinkingly at the pale, slumbering couple, who now reeked of crime under their sheets, and were dreaming that they could see blood raining down in big drops and turning into gold coins as they landed on the floor."

What a difference a good translation makes! That and a few years of reading books in English in between, because re-reading Brian Nelson's new translation of The Fortune of the Rougons was so much easier. The ending was so unfamiliar that I'm not even sure I ever finished the old one. Now I'm so much more excited to read the series!

This is the beginning of everything. The 1851 coup d'état is looming in the background as a young idealistic couple - Silvère and Miette - is contrasted with the poisonous Rougon and Macquart branches of Silvère's family.

The family's roots are established with mentally unstable Adelaide Fouque, whose legitimate son Pierre Rougon is determined to disinherit his illegitimate half-siblings (their father a drunkard and a poacher) and turns against his own mother. He also schemes together with his ambitious wife Felicité to gain fortune and fame in the town of Plassans. Finally, everything ends in a pool of blood.

The Rougon-Macquart series consists of 20 novels. It's not a traditional family saga, because all the novels are standalones despite the recurring characters, so I don't think it's fair to judge the books in relation to each other too much. Fortune has a bit of an introductory air to it and I know there will be even more interesting stories ahead, but by itself it's a fine novel. Just don't read this as your first Zola.

Another collection edited by Stephens that I appreciate as a concept but which I don't feel particularly passionate about. It's just one of those things where nothing is wrong per se, but the selection of stories doesn't impress either, especially because there's a mix of short stories, non-fiction pieces, and excerpts from novels (the latter is my pet peeve; if I want to read the novel, I will read it, not a random chapter). Might work best as an eclectic introduction to mummies. The two things I remember the most about it: the joy of finding out Twain was against graverobbing, and that I still don't care about Lovecraft's babbling.

Four stars for the gorgeous and magical oil paintings, three stars for choosing the diluted Victorian version. I understand the publication was probably meant to be suitable for younger children, hence the lack of references to death and using love as motivation, but that's just not that interesting to me personally.

I was under the impression I liked this as a kid, but the story isn't actually that interesting. It's almost as if it includes all my least favorite fairy tale aspects. There's also a spelling error, which is not good in such a short book.

Although not my preferred version of the story, I'm willing to forget that because the ending in this version is quite good as well.

Spoiler

Instead of melting (aka getting hurt by love), the princess gets to be with Sergei and enjoy the beauty and joy of a mortal life).

Sanderson's illustrations are absolutely magical: the warm glow of an early winter evening, the deep snow blanket of the forest, the ornate clothes (I prefer Father Frost to Santa Claus in that regard)... I'm not a winter person at all, but stories like this bring out the magic of winter.