Stella
Even trashy books can bring something to the table.
Who would've thought this book would actually make me reflect on something?
It doesn't have any profound life lessons or anything like that, but throughout the reading I realized that maybe we can be less sexually repressed and enjoy the pleasure that sex can bring a little more.
Out of the three books so far, this one was probably the most honest, with a slightly more realistic development than the previous ones (even though most of it happens within just three months).
Dean is the ultimate frat-boy stereotype, but somehow manages to be decent when nobody's paying attention, while Allie is the horny gal ho keeps jumping from relationship to relationship and immediately falls for Dean's game — except he's not actually that bad. And together? They work insanely well. Their chemistry is undeniable.
I'll admit the beginning of the book felt really strange to me. Something I expected to happen halfway through the story already happens by chapter three, which made me a bit put off and worried about where the story was heading. But the progression ends up being really enjoyable — it was genuinely fun to read.
As always, the problems are barely explored, not very deep, and then miraculously solved by the end of the book. My rating comes much more from the excitement I felt while reading than from the depth of the story itself.
Ainda em dúvida se é real ou ficção, o livro tem ares de memórias, mas não é catalogado como tal, então devo aceitar que é pura ficção. A capa, inclusive, é de um leitor real, mas marroquino e não palestino.
A escrita é tão convincente que nos faz refletir sobre como os palestinos perderam sua individualidade, tornando-se meros objetos de notícias diárias sobre a guerra na Faixa de Gaza. Não os vemos como seres humanos que sofrem com falta de moradia, fome, miséria, violência e radicalismo, mas apenas como manchetes de jornais.
O simbolismo dos livros é forte, presente em todos os títulos de capítulos e na leitura como forma de resistência. Se há alguém lendo em meio ao caos, é porque ainda não foi completamente derrotado. Enquanto o ambiente em torno de Nabil tenta desumanizá-lo, ele se torna cada vez mais culto e sensível.
While Garrett and Hannah took some time to win me over, Logan and Grace didn't convince me at all.
I found it very superficial—I didn't even have the motivation to write a deeper review. Even the fight they had at the end of the book felt silly; Grace's reaction was completely disproportionate, and the forced attempt to make Logan constantly prove his love through “grand” gestures honestly got tiring.
Logan's problems are miraculously resolved with about 10% of the book left, and everything works out in the end without much real struggle.
I found it shallow compared to the first book, which isn't exactly deep to begin with. Some of the intimate scenes also made me uncomfortable at times. The first book is better.
It won me over.
I originally abandoned The Deal around chapter 8 because, at first, this light college romance struck me as completely lacking in depth. The narration was full of abbreviated expressions—for instance, in Garrett's chapters, the author repeatedly uses “helluva” instead of “hell of a.” On top of that, the dialogue itself felt far too juvenile for characters who are supposed to be in university. The initial premise for their arrangement also came across as completely stupid to me.
I was persuaded to give it another try because of the upcoming series adaptation, and by my sister and cousin, who both have excellent taste in romance. And surprisingly, once I got past those weaker points, I actually enjoyed it.
I liked the way the feelings were developed—the friendship, the growing vulnerability between them. The narrative holds up largely because of the characters' backstories and how they share and work through their traumas: psychological and physical abuse on one side, and the aftermath of sexual assault on the other. Since it's essentially a college romance, there isn't much deep psychological exploration of these issues, and they're resolved in a rather optimistic and accelerated way. They function more as a starting point for emotional connection between the characters and as a way to balance out the more overtly sexual aspects of the story.
The chemistry between the protagonists is quite convincing, the familiar tropes are used effectively, and the intimate scenes are well executed—I never once felt secondhand embarrassment.
I did feel that some of the secondary characters could have been more developed—Justin, in particular, could have caused more disruption—but since it's part of a series, I assume there will be more opportunities to explore them further.
Esse livro me entregou TUDO! Tédio, surpresa, pena, tristeza, análises psicológicas, choque! Tudo!
Virgínia é uma criança ainda quando entende rejeição, exclusão. Rejeitar e se sentir rejeitada. Os pais são separados e as irmãs ficaram com o pai, ela foi-se com a mãe. As irmãs vivem em condições melhores que as suas e isso gera rancor contra quem não é capaz de prover tais condições a ela, o tio Daniel, que depois, de forma chocante e cruel, descobrimos que é seu pai.
Desde pequena carrega um peso nas costas que é o de ter uma mãe “louca”, dá pra sentir a ansiedade que a saúde da mãe causa na pequenina. Ela, com sua imaginação fértil, pensamentos ora esperançosos, ora alucinatórios, me fez pensar que talvez, qualquer doença mental que a mãe tivesse, ela também poderia ter.
Antes da mãe morrer, ela consegue o que sempre quis, morar na casa chique com as irmãs e o pai, mas logo vê que o sentimento de exclusão se fez mais real no dia-a-dia, nada caloroso ou amoroso entre os familiares e decide se afastar. Preferiu estudar em um internato religioso, sendo que nem religiosa ela é. Conviveu com a verdade sozinha, nunca falou nada pra ninguém, mas quando ela retorna fica claro que todos já sabiam que ela era filha do Daniel, que covardemente se mata deixando a filha nas mãos de um pai que não poderia amá-la pois é o retrato da traição da mãe. Natércio não a maltrata, mas também não se esforça.
No seu retorno é quando o circo pega fogo, Virgínia sabe veementemente que não pertence à própria família. Apesar de ser bem recebida, de ser desejada por todos, há um sentimento de afastamento. Gostam porque gostam mesmo dela? Ou está ali porque tem que estar, porque, quer queiram ou não, é irmã de Bruna e Otávia?
Virgínia é um ser complexo, nas reflexões que faz, nas observações que faz, nas atitudes que toma. Diz que vai se matar, depois que vai viajar, finalmente recebe a declaração de amor que tanto esperou e, mesmo assim, se sabota.
No fim, entendi que a ciranda de pedra é esse círculo rígido de pessoas o qual Virgínia vê de fora por não pertencer, mas que não vai mais tentar fazê-lo.
Só não dou 5 estrelas porque eu PRECISAVA saber o que foi que aconteceu com Chico Bento e família. Não foram pra São Paulo, ficaram em Fortaleza mesmo, em um chamado Campo de Concentração (terrível nome), e arranjou um emprego por lá, por assim dizer. E aí? Tá bem? Conseguiu uma casa? Tá passando fome? Mais algum filho morreu? Eu precisava saber!!!
Conceição e Vicente, coitados, se gostam, mas a Conceição (sendo estudadíssima, muito culta) analisa demais. Vicente acha que ela não gosta mais dele, e nesse desencontro acaba o livro e continuam os dois sozinhos, um pra cada lado.
Falando em Vicente, ele demonstra bem a resiliência de um povo que consegue sobreviver em situações e terrenos áridos como o sertão. Não abandonou sua criação de animais que já estava morrendo, e aguentou até o dia em que a chuva caiu.
Esse livro é lindo, a linguagem, a narrativa, os acontecimentos (a fome, a cabra roubada, o envenenamento de Josias, a doação de Duquinha à madrinha). Me tocou profundamente porque foi o que os meus antepassados viveram — em algum momento, de alguma forma.
Dua Lipa made me read this.
Short, but emotionally dense.
Narrated by Ronja, a 10-year-old child, it shows, in a simple and innocent way, what it is like to be motherless, the daughter of an alcoholic father, and to live in poverty.
At such a young age, Ronja and her older sister experience parental neglect, food insecurity, and emotional instability, and find themselves needing to work in order to eat.
Their father, an alcoholic, loves his daughters, but is unable to break free from the cycle of addiction, and the girls normalize the situation — there is no rebellion on their part, only adaptation.
The story takes place during Christmas, so you expect the Christmas spirit and its miraculous aspect to come into play, but it doesn't, and the atmosphere is reduced to the extreme cold — another factor weighing on the routine of children who were forced to grow up too soon.
There is a moment of tension at the end of the book when they fear being taken away by child protective services, but that also doesn't happen, and they remain under their father's neglect. The Christmas miracle never truly comes.
Despite the restrained narration, I felt the emotional weight in certain moments.
A structural analysis of 19th-century Russian society, morality, desire, and the internal fragmentation of the individual, the novel is built upon two parallel narratives — that of Anna and Vronsky, which emerges from an adulterous affair, an intense and impulsive passion that breaks social norms and follows a linear path from euphoria to isolation, paranoia, and ultimately tragedy; and that of Kitty and Levin, which must overcome pride and disappointment. Here, love is constructed and follows a different path — one of doubt, maturation, and tranquility.
Anna Karenina, although not my favorite character, is a woman far ahead of her time. She chooses to confront everything and everyone in order to live her love with Vronsky, even as she continues to seek external validation and fails to sustain her own choice, ultimately succumbing to paranoia.
Levin captivates me. His storyline feels like a book within a book and, for that reason, can sometimes make the reading feel tiresome. Levin thinks constantly — about his estate, Russian political reform, and about life itself — his faith or lack thereof, and his purpose.
These two narrative cores are psychologically contrasting — Anna displays intense emotional dependency, constantly seeks external validation, oscillates between idealization and despair, and lacks emotional regulation; whereas Levin builds himself as a partner, overcomes his disappointment and pride, and accepts the imperfections of married life. At times, he can be as paranoid as Anna, but he manages to integrate his desires with reality.
Although I find Part 8 unnecessary after the climax of Anna's downfall at the end of Part 7, I understand that yet another contrast is presented — while Anna, driven by her burning passion, undergoes a psychological collapse, Levin continues his life and finds meaning in everyday existence, reinforcing the author's idea that love alone is not enough.
How can this biography be this boring? It only gets interesting when she dies.
Also, how stupid and pointless is the concept of this monarchy? People so self entitled as to think that they NEED and HAVE to and MUST obey this institution that basically has zero importance only but to themselves.
She tried to fit in when she simply wouldn't need to if she was born somewhere else. Pretty stupid the whole thing.
Absolutely juvenile.
Despite really enjoying romance novels, the execution of this one was just painful to witness.
With a derivative structure, it relies on tropes in a mechanical way. It had everything it needed to explore its themes with depth, but instead chose to lean on poorly timed sex scenes that supposedly resolve everything.
The writing simulates complexity, but doesn't hold up. What we actually get are simplistic dialogues, poorly developed internal conflicts, and emotional decisions that happen far too quickly. The premise feels deep, but the execution is shallower than a puddle.
The sex scenes are completely disproportionate and poorly integrated. They disrupt the narrative flow, create artificial emotional peaks, and feel entirely inorganic. There's a clear lack of narrative timing and emotional progression. It feels as if the author thought, “I'll just place this scene here because the genre expects it.”
The book attempts to tackle themes like trauma, identity, and psychological collapse, but relies on simple language, predictable scene construction, and overly rushed resolutions.
To kill an innocent.
This book is about racism—but more specifically, about how racism becomes invisible to those who don't suffer from it.
The story has the tone of a children's book because it's narrated by Scout Finch, who is only eight years old by the end. Everything feels like an adventure, and her father seems almost flawless. But can we actually trust her to tell this story? Much of what she describes, she doesn't fully understand herself. So it falls on us, the readers, to fill in the gaps—to identify injustices she can't yet name, and to grasp the true weight of what's happening in her community.
Atticus, the children's father, is so ethical, patient, and kind that I found myself wishing he were my own dad. At the same time, as a lawyer, he feels like a small irritation in a system he fully understands—and knows he cannot change. He doesn't try to shift public opinion or challenge the structure at its core. He simply operates within it, with integrity, but also with a certain passivity.
During Tom's trial—wrongly accused of assaulting a white woman—we witness Atticus's solitary struggle. He manages to prove the young man's innocence, yet the system won't allow the jury to see goodness in a Black man. We also notice Atticus's acceptance: while his children react with outrage, he seems to resign himself to the verdict.
Nothing changes. Life in the town goes on exactly as it always has. Does being a good person in an unjust system make any difference? Or does it only make injustice quieter?
What bothered me is how the beginning of the book builds up the mystery around Boo Radley, only for him to be forgotten halfway through. Then, near the end, he's given something like a redemption arc—but still without any real explanation of who he is or why he is the way he is.
Almost entirely autobiographical, it tells the story of a love marked by racial, economic, age, and financial differences.
Despite her lover being a much older Chinese man and her being only 15 years old, she knows how to use the power she has over him, whether by making him pay for entire meals for her family or by exploiting his emotional fragility.
A critic once said that reading this book is like flipping through a photo album, and while Duras is very skilled at forming clear images, this photo album made me dizzy because it wasn't in order and because of the back-and-forth between past and even more distant past. One moment we were at this point, in the next paragraph we were at another point without any temporal correlation. This irritated me a little; one moment she was talking about her brother who died, on the next page her brother was alive again, and many scenes were repeated throughout the reading.
A question that remains at the end, after she hears her lover's declaration of love after so many years, is: did she really love him? If so, did she know she loved him?
I concluded that if she had already made drafts in the past about this memory and decided to revisit it after decades and near the end of her life, it's because this memory transcended time and the transactional quality of the thing. There was feeling, importance. Now, whether it was love or trauma, it's not for us to say.
This is not a love story. It's about racism, obsession, trauma, resentment, psychological disturbance, and cruelty.
One thing that really struck me in the narrative construction is that the story is told by two different narrators—one recounting the present, the other the past. And we never truly get inside the hearts of the main characters. We don't know how they think or how they feel; we only see what they say and what they do.
Heathcliff, despite having been through absolute hell, chooses to become hell in the lives of these people—and their descendants. His actions are often incomprehensible. For example: why does he marry Isabella? What does he really gain from that marriage? Making Catherine jealous and tormenting her husband. That's it. But then there's the child, whom he doesn't even like. Is all that scheming really worth it? After Catherine's death, he stops acting out of passion and starts acting purely out of a thirst for power—he can, so he will ruin everyone's lives.
Catherine is just as complex. A spoiled girl who, while showing compassion for Heathcliff, also humiliates him—and it's precisely that humiliation that drives him to return hungry for revenge. She marries a man she doesn't love purely for comfort and status, and Heathcliff cannot accept that.
Catherine dies of sadness/depression/self-starvation, but had she married Heathcliff, she might have met the same fate—whether because of poverty, the toxicity of that love, the humiliation, or even the physical violence that could have occurred.
Wuthering Heights, despite offering a happy ending to the last characters who survive so much cruelty, does not glorify love—it exposes just how destructive it can be.
The way i HOWLED when i understood One, Two and Three were actually THE KING!
Every time Damien's chapter began I felt confused because of the way he would narrate things, and then when we finally find out his secret I was so excited about the whole thing.
And then fact that Penelope loses her virginity in a FOURSOME???? I dont hate it, it's absolutely bold
Não gostei do fluxo de consciência desse livro. Preferia que fosse escrito a história de Macabéa e não o ato de pensar em escrever a história de Macabéa, me deixou cansada apesar de ser um livro pequeno. A história mesmo só começa lá pela página 30 e o livro é minúsculo, uma porcentagem muito grande só dela escrevendo o porquê de escrever.
Quando finalmente conhecemos a moribunda Macabéa percebemos que ela é completamente sem graça—tadinha, uma Zé Ninguém que não sabe nem sofrer de forma satisfatória.
Não sabe falar, não sabe se portar, é muito ingênua e acaba tendo um fim tão pequeno, tal qual a existência dela.
Pra muitos Macabéa é uma quebra de expectativa porque ela não sabe sofrer, já eu acho refrescante ver o sofrimento de uma personagem que não é percebido por ela.
História triste né. Perdeu a mãe que no começo não tinha um relacionamento tão bom e depois passou a idolatrá-lá e perdeu o pai, o qual ainda hoje não tem tanto contato mais. Uma pena como a vida pode nos trazer tanto sofrimento.
Li isso depois de anos que minha mãe ter câncer e eu não consigo imaginar como ela passou pelo tratamento praticamente só. Minha mãe não me pedia ajuda, não levava ninguém aos exames nem sessões de quimioterapia e chegava em casa como se não tivesse sofrendo tanto. Nunca nem vi ela vomitar, me fez me sentir uma péssima filha por não ter insistido mais, de estar mais presente. Hoje sou grata por ela continuar viva e bem.
Nossa, por onde começar?
Enquanto o primeiro livro me fez fazer uma pausa de 1 ano pra continuar a tetralogia, esse aqui me fez querer terminar logo e saber tudo sobre elas.
Ao passo que eu ODEIO essa necessidade da Elena de querer ser o que não é, de querer fazer mais que todo mundo, de querer ser melhor que todos ao mesmo tempo que se sente menor que todos, eu não consigo não torcer por ela.
É errada, é falha, é invejosa, é vitimista, é tudo nessa terra, mas é humana e eu quero que ela encontre paz nessa vida dela.
Me perdi um pouco com os nomes dos personagens da infância delas, mas não acho que tenha comprometido meu entendimento. É que Elena Ferrante é complexa, detalha muita coisa, resgata muitas memórias e momentos e o leitor não aquece que o personagem um dia teve relevância na vida delas.
Gostei muito desse livro e tô na expectativa pro quarto ser ainda melhor.
