André

É fácil imaginar como uma simples ideia, se posta em ação, pode mudar toda a vida de uma cidade pequena, principalmente se você já viveu em uma. Em Sombras de reis barbudos, é exatamente isso o que acontece: a Companhia, criada com empolgação pelo tio do narrador e, mais tarde, tomada dele, altera radicalmente a rotina de uma cidadezinha. O protagonista, Lucas, cresce em meio à opressão dessa misteriosa empresa, sobre a qual o leitor nunca chega a descobrir muito, e vê o mundo mudar à sua volta, sem poder fazer muito a respeito. O realismo mágico de José J. Veiga está presente aqui nos mínimos detalhes e, embora eu, com base em resenhas, tenha adicionado o livro à minha lista de leituras de ficção científica, não acredito que cheguemos a abraçar de vez o gênero — com algum esforço, vemos que os assuntos tocados são semelhantes ao de uma distopia, mas não chega a ser uma de fato. Sombras é, isso sim, um romance curto, competente e de narrativa simples (mas não simplória) sobre liberdade, repressão e sobre a vida que segue em um ambiente opressor.

Pensei bem em deixar sem nota, visto que não é exatamente o tipo de obra que combina com meu ritmo de leitura e que, a grosso modo, eu precisaria de pelo menos mais uma ou duas tentativas para absorver tudo o que tem aqui, mas qualquer outra avaliação seria um desrespeito com o trabalho primoroso de Jacyntho Lins Brandão. Possivelmente um dos melhores trabalhos tradutórios que já vi.

I wish people wouldn't look at non-fiction books as if they were fiction. Redefining Realness is a beautiful and raw memoir by a person who not only survived abuse, rape and transphobia, but a hell of an overall difficult life, getting to a place where she feels comfortable telling us her journey. In these pages, Janet Mock allows us to go through her experiences with her, to get to know not only the person behind the pages, but a rough life many will fortunately never know—and many still do everywhere in the world.

You don't have to like the book, but how can anyone complain that she focuses way too much on romance? When she's telling her story she can damn well focus on anything she wants. Pardon my Portuguese, but eu hein?

Fica difícil comentar e fazer jus ao texto delicado de Natalia Borges Polesso. Embora coletâneas sejam uma coisa complicada em si, desniveladas como são, e apesar dos contos às vezes curtos demais, difíceis de envolver, Amora mantém em seu lirismo o sentimento doído e apertado da existência queer, um mundo de experiências em que só existindo pra saber.

Cara. Os personagens do Nelson Rodrigues são uma coisa maluca, mesmo. O casamento foi um choque, mas O beijo no asfalto, mesmo esperando... ninguém escreve assim, ninguém fala assim, ninguém faz assim. Queria ver isso num palco, qualquer dia — e que inveja de quem pôde ver com a Fernanda Montenegro, lá nos anos 60.

Tinha pra mim que daria 4 estrelas ao Cortiço, estava decidido, mas esse final me pegou de surpresa e me deixou no chão (não tanto pela história em si quanto pela narrativa incrível do Aluísio Azevedo, mas que seja). No todo, meu único arrependimento foi não ter corrido atrás de ler esse livro antes.

Talvez seja só comigo, mas o que mais me causa mais estranhamento nos contos do Poe são os desfechos. Não consigo nem classificá-los como bons ou ruins; são apenas um jeito todo próprio de wrap up as próprias histórias, com uma ou duas frases fatais que, frequentemente, trazem à tona a morbidez ou o aspecto “de horror” que dá o tom do conto. Podemos ver isso muito bem nas linhas finais de Deus (Revelação magnética), o último conto do livro, que, até então, havia apresentado um texto bem mais filosófico do que de terror: "Fiquei pensando: 'Será que o hipnotizado, na última parte de nosso diálogo, não teria se dirigido a mim lá do fundo das regiões das sombras?'"

Esta edição da Nova Fronteira/Saraiva de Bolso traz uma “tradução e adaptação” de Clarice Lispector. Nunca sei o que, nesses casos, querem dizer com “adaptação”, mas, por via das dúvidas, meu próximo encontro com o sr. Edgar será em inglês.

I believe I would have loved Summer of the Mariposas if I was younger. It has every element I used to love—most of them I still do—, it is nice and quick and I would've devoured if I wasn't in a kind of reading slump. I am not younger, though, and I didn't love it. Don't get me wrong, I didn't hate it, either—on the contrary, liked it very much! It's just that, when I found out about this book, I was so sure it would be amazing that I am a little disappointed to see it's just... good. As usual, I'm the one to blame.

The good: The writing is beautiful. Guadalupe Garcia McCall has a way with words that charms you and makes you feel like you're part of the story she's telling. I love every bit of Aztec culture and mythology she decided to add and mix and play with here, and I have too soft of a spot for family stories, the same way I had for friendship ones when I was younger. Yeah, well...
The bad: I could've done without the Catholicism. Yeah, I know it is big in Latin cultures—boy, do I know that—, but Christian religions never fail to bother me and it couldn't have been different here. Also, I really wish the hermanitas' mother hadn't found a man in the end. I always try and remind my own mother that she doesn't need a man in order to be happy, and I think this would've been a nice message for children of divorced parents who happened to read this book. Just a thought.

Anyway, I think it's safe to recommend Summer of the Mariposas to every young reader—or everyone, really—who likes magic and fantasy, as well as ancient cultures/beliefs being used in clever and original ways in new stories.

3.5, actually.
See, it's not a bad book. It really isn't—I swear. It's just not for me, I guess. Although I liked the story, empathized with the characters, and really, truly loved the ending, the pacing was completely off, IMO. It felt like nothing happened for the most part of the story, and I didn't feel like picking it up a lot of the time.

I like that this book exists, though. It's so important to have diverse voices and stories about diverse characters. I had never read anything with asexual characters before, and I understand how great it is that this book is out. For this reason, I was tempted to award it an extra star, but I wouldn't be fair to myself if I did that.

This is a lighthearted, truthful, beautiful, and loving YA story. If that sounds like it's something right up your alley, be my guest to Tash Hearts Tolstoy. I don't think you'll regret reading it.

I don't think A Wrinkle in Time is a bad book, but it's definitely not for me. Maybe I would've liked it as a kid? I can certainly see why someone would—it instigates curiosity and questioning, and it encourages self-thinking, which I believe is very important—, but I don't know. Maybe. At the moment, for me, it's cute and slightly interesting at best, and at worst it's just annoying. What is it with all the Christian references?! I don't know. Maybe I'm just bothered because I expected one thing and got something entirely different.

Amazing story, very well written. I've never seen the film, but I understand it's different, more action-centered. Well, I like this version here. It's a novelette that reads a lot like a short story, with a great concept and a great deal of control where the author's concerned, since you just know the story feels and goes exactly like/where he wants it to.

I walked right into that one, didn't I? You can't blame me—I had a huge PJO phase. Who didn't have a PJO phase? (Spoiler: no one, that's who.) And now Rick Riordan's back! After a quick stop at the Norse Mythology session, that is. And, yes, I liked this book. I liked The Hidden Oracle. There, said it. HEY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT (it's totally my fault and I am sorry).

The thing is that I wasn't sure I would like this book. I mean, it's still repetitive, the main character still talks like Percy Jackson, and there's still a prophecy thing (more Oracles! more prophecies!), but—I love everything so much, I can't help it. I'm not proud, you guys. Not AT ALL. As a reader, as a pagan, as a human being, I am not proud, right? Right. Fine. Okay. I think we can talk about The Good now, because I am dying to. (Possible spoilers ahead.)

THE GOOD: Solangelo (Will/Nico) is probably the best pairing to exist in the history of pairings, hands down. I am so happy they were there, I'm so happy they exist! I crave queer representation in media, guys, and I am so here for it. ALSO ALSO ALSO Apollo is bi/pansexual. CANONICALLY SO. I am happy. Besides, there's Leo Valdez. I love me some Leo Valdez. Leo Valdez is amazing. Give Leo Valdez a book.
THE BAD: It's all very repetitive. Again, it just feels like we've heard it all before (it is less repetitive than Magnus Chase, though... I think?), and, like I said, it reads very much like Percy Jackson's still narrating the story, only now he's got a huge ego. Besides that, now we've got another Annoying Talking Weapon. yikes! I missed Mr. D.
THE UGLY: What the fuck was that with Apolo thinking camp boys and girls were cute and/or considering flirting with them? Gross, dude. I mean: GROSS, dude.

I don't think Ian McEwan is for me.* See, I didn't dislike this novel; I just found it so hard to relate to—anything, really. The situation, the characters, the sex... I don't know. And, again, it's not that I disliked any of that, I just didn't care about it. I didn't feel anything when the fetus tried to kill himself, I couldn't see myself caring if the characters were going to get caught or not. Maybe that's not the point of the book, but what is it, then?

It has a great premise, and the prose is beautiful—it's obvious that McEwan is a talented writer—, but is it enough? I don't know.

*I happened to read one of his other books in 2015. Here's my (very short) review.