“…a pro-Zionist lobby…pious Christians who believed in the ‘return of the Jews‘ to Palestine as fulfilment of God‘s will, antisemites who wanted Jews out of Britain, and Anglo-Jewish aristocrats who would have been loath to immigrate to Palestine themselves, but saw it as a suitable destination for working-class East European Jews…communist troublemakers…the only thing these people had in common was wanting to establish a Jewish state.”

The plotline and its progression are phenomenal… i don‘t know what else to say without spoiling it…

“O, ömrü boyunca hep “acele etmiş”tir; bu yüzden de hrp “geç kalmış”tır. Sürekli bir panik vardır hayatında: Bir kitap okur, bir komedi seyreder, yorulur. Birileriyle birlikte olur, derdini anlatamaz, telaşlanır ve incinir. Küçük dertler, bir yerlere ödenmesi gereken paralar, bazı şeylerin tamir masrafı hiç eksik olmaz ve bu panik duygusuna katkıda bulunurlar. Ve hep acele edilir.” Önsöz, 11. sayfa.

“I hope the dogs don‘t bark tonight. I always think it‘s mine”

“Nesnelerin insana dokunmaması gerekir çünkü onlar canlı değildir. Aralarında yaşar, onları kullanır, sonra yerlerine koyarız: Yararlıdırlar, işte o kadar. Oysa bana dokunuyorlar. Çekilmez bir durum bu. Onlara bağlantı kurmak korkutuyor beni. Sanki hepsi birer canlı hayvan gibi…Bu duygunun çakıltaşından geldiğinden, ellerime ondan geçtiğinden kuşkum yok…ellerde duyulan bir tür bulantı bu.”

The plot flowed so subtly; something so horrible hiding itself behind the the façade of a child being a mere child. The spectrum of glory, on which stood one 13 year old and one 30-something year old, mirroring one another, was beautifully done. The exploration of masculinity, obsession and more, through seemingly two different lenses was so beautifully done. I would love to read a book just on each and every single one of the characters on here.

Fusako on Ryuji (ie the prototype of masculinity according to both himself and Noboru): “…what a simple man he was!… First he had misled her with his pensive look ubfi expectibg profound observations or even a passionate declaration, and then he had begun a monologue on shreds of green leaf, and pratted about his personal history, and finally, horribly entangled in his own story, burst into the refrain of a popular song!”

The character development, the maintenance of the flow despite the time jumps…I am once again in love with LeGuin‘s ability to note the intricacies of that period, and I absolutely loved it. It reminded me of how 1984 was apparently banned in both the US and the USSR for spreading counter ideologies. This is definitely a book to be read over and over again and find new details, nuanced you probably missed the previous read.

“He could not force himself to understand how banks functionaled and so forth, because all the operations of capitalism were as meaningless to him as the rites of a primitive religion, as barbaric, as elaboratr, and as unnecessary. In a human sacrifice to deity there might be at least a mistskrn and terrible beauty; in the rites of moneychangers, where greed, laziness and envy were assumed to move all men‘s acts, even the terrible became banal.”

“The rest of us keep pretending we‘re happy or else just go numb. We suffer, but not enough. And so we suffer for nothing.”

One of the best world-building I read in a long time; the intricate detailing of Le Guin does not suffocate; it is as fresh as Winter itself. Same goes for character building. The use of stark contrasting - between countries, between landscapes, between characters - was done so smoothly that I both felt like I was going back and forth yet within the given world of Gethen still - nothing felt detached.

“How does one hate a country, or love one? I know people…I know how the sun at subse tin autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where ghe name ceases to apply? What is love of one‘s country; is it that of one‘s uncountry?…that sort of love does not have boundary-line of hate.”

A biologically androgynous society (p 93-94): “Room is made for sex, plenty of room; but a room, as it were, apart…Anyone can turn his hand to anything. This sounds very simple but its psychological effects are incalculable. The fact that everyone between [17] and [35] or so is liable to be…”tied down to childbearing” implies that no one is quite so thoroughly “tied down” here as women, elsewhere, are likely to be - psychologically or physically.”

“The unknown…that is what life is based on. Ignorance is the ground of thought. Unproof is the ground of action… Tell me, Genry, what is known…the one certain thing you know concerning your future, and mine?” “That we shall die.” “Yes. There‘s really only one question that can be answered Genry, and we already know the answer… the only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.”

The characters‘ struggle with permanence, even as adults, broke my heart - it‘s almost like they use the idea of nothing ever being permanent in video games as a protective lens in experiencing life. The progression from the childish denial to the gradual acceptance of all BUT one thing in life not being temporary - death - will stay with me for some time.

“What is a game?” Marx said. “It‘s tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. It‘s the possibility of infinite rebirth, infinite redemption. The idea that if you keep playing, you could win. No loss is permanent, because nothing is permanent, ever.”

“I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and more tired.”

This books makes me feel tired. Tired of repressing every self-doubting thought, packed in a little pocket of worries in my brain, about the future, myself, and how I allow others‘ opinions on these to shape my own life. I feel like I almost betray Plath with the way I lead my life (as if she would care) - setting a bell jar around my own life, with my own hands. This book paints my Bell Jar bright red, right in my face, and I hate that.

“What is a game?” Marx said. “It‘s tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. It‘s the possibility of infinite rebirth, infinite redemption. The idea that if you keep playing, you could win. No loss is permanent, because nothing is permanent, ever.”

The lover of the protagonist who is a ‘little bit crazy‘ with doing and being anything and everything for the protagonist, and the protagonist whose feelings mainly revolve around lust for a body and desire for connection to escape war.the idea of these characters being in love for me was absurd. I read the story with fascination mainly with Catherine Barkley whom Hemingway did his best in not depicting as interesting but ‘typically hysterical‘.

Very easy read however I am not sure if I would recommend it to anyone

Was an easy read, quite predictable in my personal opinion, with an expected message at the end so it was okay, however I also wouldn‘t really recommend it to anyone.

Firstly, the ending was so frustrating that I actually threw this book away (onto grass so all is well). I really enjoyed the way Gogol breaks the 4th wall and adds his own personality onto the descriptions, yet the ending of this book is full of incomplete sentences and an entirely missing section which is where the chaos built up was supposed to unfold. I‘m upset right now - maybe I‘ll think differently when I‘m a bit calmer. What do you think?

I definitely felt dizzy and confused, as if I had been affected by the Mist myself; it felt like a fever-dream until the end, and I cannot remember spending this much time to try and finish a book. Shame as it was due to, for me, the writing style and too much descriptive detailing. The characters all exited the storyline in a very swift and meaningful way, and I would‘ve liked to have known more about them beyond the last 100 pages…

Would I have continued to live if I, too, knew the ending of my life to be like this? How would it feel to know that even the action of ending my own life would not alter the ending to my existence; that I would remain to be a donor, implying that my life had no meaning? Could I ever miss something, like the ability to divert from a set pathway, I never knew? Then again, having this ability now myself, how much of it have I exercised anyway?

What a beautiful way of exploring loneliness and despair. I have not related to a character as much as I have to Mikage. The writing is so eloquent in its structural simplicity; the ability to convey such extreme emotions through the eyes of a girl who is not-so-extreme herself has really touched me. I wish I could reread this book for the first time.

“As I grow older, much older, I will experience many things, and I will hit rock bottom again and again. Again and again I will suffer, again and again I will get back on my feet. I will not be defeated. I won‘t let my spirit be destroyed.”

“Why is it we have so little choice? We live like the lowliest worms. Always defeated - defeated we make dinner, we eat, we sleep. Everyone we love is dying. Still, to cease living is unacceptable.”

“When was it I realised that, on this truly dark and solitary path we all walk, the only way we can light is our own? Although I was raised with love, I was always lonely. Someday, without fail everyone will disappear, scattered into the blackness of time. I‘ve alwayd lived with that knowledge rooted in my being.”

This book will forever have my heart.

…you see, for Rosa, nothing else in life would be more important than to be married to someone in the position I was in. Perhaps that makes her sound a little shallow…In her own way, in the way that she knew, she loved me deeply…It‘s just that in Rosa‘s case, well, the way she is, she‘s able to love me only under certain circumstances. That doesn‘t make her love for me any less real.