ellauri033.html on line 243: frissons, elle se crispe, / se tourmente, se contracte, s´exaspère en
ellauri048.html on line 769: His hair is crisp, and black, and long, Nokikepillä on tukka käkkärä,
ellauri051.html on line 809: 229 The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of his polish'd and perfect limbs. 229 Aurinko laskee hänen raikkaille hiuksilleen ja viiksilleen, putoaa hänen kiillotettujen ja täydellisten raajojensa mustille.
ellauri100.html on line 1027: With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.
ellauri106.html on line 126: A committed atheist, Philip Roth feared only one form of posthumous punishment: being trapped for all eternity in a hostile biography. In 2007, Roth, echoing a similar quip from Oscar Wilde, said, “Biography gives a new dimension of terror to dying.” Roth’s had already been the subject of a harsh and unforgiving portrait in Leaving a Doll’s House (1996), the memoirs of his former wife, the actor Claire Bloom. As John Updike noted in The New York Review of Books, “Claire Bloom, as the wronged ex-wife of Philip Roth, shows him to have been, as their marriage rapidly unraveled, neurasthenic to the point of hospitalization, adulterous, callously selfish, and financially vindictive.” This crisp summary ended Roth’s friendship with Updike, even after Updike made clear he was recapping Bloom’s book and not affirming its accuracy.
ellauri106.html on line 386: A committed atheist, Philip Roth feared only one form of posthumous punishment: being trapped for all eternity in a hostile biography. In 2007, Roth, echoing a similar quip from Oscar Wilde, said, “Biography gives a new dimension of terror to dying.” Roth’s had already been the subject of a harsh and unforgiving portrait in Leaving a Doll’s House (1996), the memoirs of his former wife, the actor Claire Bloom. As John Updike noted in The New York Review of Books, “Claire Bloom, as the wronged ex-wife of Philip Roth, shows him to have been, as their marriage rapidly unraveled, neurasthenic to the point of hospitalization, adulterous, callously selfish, and financially vindictive.” This crisp summary ended Roth’s friendship with Updike, even after Updike made clear he was recapping Bloom’s book and not affirming its accuracy.
ellauri161.html on line 950: Les poings crispés dans l'ombre et les larmes de fiel, nyrkkien heristystä varjossa ja sappitippoja,
ellauri365.html on line 163: Jännittyneessä olemuksessani, aisteissani, sielussani, Dans mon être crispé, dans mes sens, dans mon âme,
xxx/ellauri199.html on line 203: Autumn brings crisp leaves and cider
xxx/ellauri417.html on line 546: This is a sequel to 2020's The Morning Star, right? I must have asked myself that at least a dozen times during the first several hundred pages of "The Wolves of Eternity," because it's not at all apparent. At 666 pages, "The Morning Star" was stuffed full of characters. "The Wolves of Eternity," at 800 pages, is really only concerned with two, neither of whom was featured in the previous book. It's not until more than 700 pages in — 700! — that the same star appears in the sky, equally befuddling the characters of this second book. Up until that point, though, "The Wolves of Eternity" feels like it exists in an entirely separate universe from that first one. I'm sorry to say, that's not a good thing. This is the eighth work of fiction I've read by Karl Ove Knausgård, who, following the second entry in his "My Struggle" series, quickly became one of my favorite authors. I loved all six books in that series, and I loved the first entry in this one, the aforementioned "Morning Star." But this? This book feels as soggy as that one felt crisp. Insipid and light whereas that book felt meaningful and weighty. The first book is a thriller of the best sort, a Dostoevsky-like work full of moral dilemmas and gothic horror. This one feels meandering and pointless. An incredibly taxing number of words to no real purpose. If this had been the first book in the series, it would have been my last. Only because the first one was so good will I carry on and read the third part when it's released, but I'll do so warily, much less inclined to forgive than I was going into this one. I mentioned that while "The Morning Star" contained a whole plethora of characters, this one contains only two. Or maybe 2 1/2. There's a barely formed writer character who suddenly begins to be featured toward the end. We're even treated to one of her essays, although "treated" would be the wrong word. It's a bore. Otherwise, "The Wolves of Eternity" rotates entirely around two characters. We spend the first 450 or pages with Syvert in Norway, and 250 or so with Alevtina in Russia before flipping back to Syvert and then back again. It takes a good long while — i.e. 600+ pages — before we learn how these characters are connected but it doesn't really matter because neither one is particularly likable. Knausgård's writing around Syvert is better, which makes this part of the book slightly more readable (not that that's saying much) but Syvert still comes off as something of a charmless oaf. Alevtina, meanwhile, is even more unlikable. Prone to making rash emotional decisions, she's one of the more frustrating characters I've come across. I didn't like her part of the story at all, despite its arguably more interesting setting, and I was very eager to leave her behind. Another real axe I have to grind here concerns Martin Aitken's translation. It's terrible. Like, distractingly bad. For whatever reason, Aitken translates the entire book into what feels like British cockney. Why would a book set in Norway and Russia and consisting entirely of Norwegian and Russian characters have those characters — particularly Syvert — speaking like they're from East London? It doesn't make sense and it is never less than enraging. A book by a major literary star that feels like it was translated specifically for those who like their English in cockney? Why? The awful translation undoubtedly colored my view of the book, as I couldn't help but view Syvert as a lost character from Burgess' "Clockwork Orange." How did this milquetoast Alex DeLarge find himself in a Knausgård novel? I'm not sure I made it clear earlier, but I am a massive Knausgård fan. Truly. But this, for me, is a serious misfire. Perhaps, when the series is laid to rest, this second entry will be redeemed by dint of what comes after, but such redemption would be a miraculous turnaround — tantamount to the appearance of a huge new star in the sky. For now, though, I have to condemn this book not for being such a letdown, but simply for being such a massively dull book on its own. Bloated. Tired. Rudderless. A waterlogged corpse of a book.
10