The Woodland Witch

Hello all, and welcome back to the cottage.  I feel as though this week's read has been the most intriguing and immersive so far, and though again I write these thoughts before I have even finished the book, this time it's really because I'd like to get these thoughts down before I forget them.  First of all, how curious is it that my mind would compare The Shrouded Woman  to Brontë's  Wuthering Heights ? This may be a funny, even ridiculous thought in hindsight, should I go on to have a greater understanding of both these novels (perhaps even this week, once discussions take place), but the atmospheric energy and voice of the shrouded woman (Ana María, because I would never write a title in intentional lowercase) was to me, reminiscent of Brontë's Catherine--especially in one of Ana María's first memories when she recalls her childhood and Ricardo (is it too ridiculous if I were to call him her Heathcliff?).  Hopefully it isn't ridiculous--or insulting--for...

 Hello all, and welcome back to the cottage.  The stacks are toppling already--not the best of signs, but hopefully I should be able to get these tremors under control with a good spell of focus. I won't dally with describing the organizational troubles I underwent this week, this paper is short as it is and I'd like to get down some thoughts I had about Nadja,  though I've only just begun to delve into it.  So far, the way in which Breton writes is as if he is speaking to himself. I can't recall having knowingly read surrealist novels, though the style of the narration is very reminiscent of another book that I read a few moons ago called Open City, by Teju Cole. Cole's narrator also shows the audience a view of the world only through his own mind, which appears so removed from reality that there is always a question of reliability and truth lingering around his words. The way that Andre (the narrator) almost loses himself following a thread of his own thoughts on ...

Hello all, and welcome back to the cottage. I shall open today's reflections with a quote: "I told myself I would have time to think of what to do" (Proust, 43). In fact, this is what I mistakenly thought when I assumed the first of these entries were due the following Sunday, rather than this one. But no matter--thank goodness that I discovered the truth in an amount of time that permitted me to read the first 48 pages with some degree of leisure, then promptly return to the writing desk to deliver to you this week's entry. I expect to complete the novel in time for our second gathering, by which time I should hopefully have more thoughts to share. Thank goodness, then, that this is a place for first impressions. And what a cozy story it's been so far. The opening notes wherein Proust levels a Tolkienesque description of his room and the multitude of thoughts and sensations that come from the (seemingly) simple occupation of a bed are sufficient to pull the reade...

Hello all, and welcome to the cottage in the stacks (kindly play along, only if you please. You can make up your own woodland character in the comments, but of course you're not obligated to--do what makes you feel comfortable). I'm your local woodland witch, June (and for those who are wondering, I was born in August). This is my second year in the stacks, where I've been studying English literature. To clarify, I'm not the alchemist type of witch, so to speak--the arts are where I'm most comfortable, and it's been a sort of long-running joke of mine that I'd find myself living in the woods with no neighbours for miles around when it gets loud in the town. Indulging my inner escapist, if you will.  Lately however, I've been venturing out a bit more, and acquired a new number of books for my shelves--ones that I'll be reading over the course of the next few moons. I expect these may be somewhat of a challenge, albeit not unwelcome--being a recluse do...