“We all come into existence as a single cell, smaller than a speck of dust. Much smaller. Divide. Multiply. Add and subtract. Matter changes hands, atoms flow in and out, molecules pivot, proteins stitch together, mitochrondria send out their oxidative dictates; we begin as a microscopic electrical swarm. The lungs the brain the heart. Forty weeks later, six trillion cells get crushed in the vise of our mother’s birth canal and we howl. Then the world starts in on us.”
Incredible.
Like a diamond, this book ebulliently gleams —a gem made to enchant whoever flits their eyes on even a single sentence. Its magnificent imagery, broken yet beautiful characters, exalted subjects and poignant prose put All the Light We Cannot See into a whole new level when it comes to historical fiction. I am exceedingly astounded, in love and hurt.
When a book hurts me, it will retain a starking presence in my heart and its beauty will continue to linger till the end of me, so it seems.
We rise again in the grass. In flowers. In songs.
P.S.
Marie-Laure LeBlanc and Werner Pfennig: a love that never was.
I can’t say I had high expectations for this book.
Over the stretch of time that has lapsed between her last and latest publication, my senior writing peers have taken up the responsibility of removing Lang Leav from the immeasurably high pedestal in my heart. I fell in love with her first book, you see. Love and Misadventures became my holy grail in poetry when I read it when it was first published. Her points when it came to love and loss was so acute, she put stars in my eyes.
after that, I bought more of her books as soon as they were published (despite the obvious hole it left in my wallet). The magic of her words slowly faded. I know where her words were coming from, but I’m not that sure if she was writing for herself now. That’s how I felt after Lullabies, Memories, and The Universe of Us but I brushed the thought the instant it came to mind and thought,
Nonsense. I’m reading too much into it. All writers struggle to write for themselves to justify the truth they know and want to impart.
But deep inside I still asked myself,
Is her poetry the only poetry I know?
And it was true, I never knew the classics. Name one famous dead poet and I wouldn’t even have a clue.
But let’s put aside the matter of my doubts regarding her credibility as a poet, let’s talk about her new book.
In the dying embers and blackened twigs of a ravaged forest, who could distinguish where the first spark was lit? Only the arsonist knows the exact location on which the first match was struck.
It is Audrey Field’s final weeks in school when she shatters the already precarious nature of her life and of everyone she knows with a single, repulsive lie. It leads to a dangerous chain of events -the death of her melancholic classmate Ana, the start of her breathless panic attacks, her best friend Candela throwing her life away, the spark of an ill-timed romance with Ana’s enigmatic boyfriend Rad, and the revelation of a deadly secret.
“I think it’s because we romanticize the past. We give it more than it deserves.”
Sad Girls revolves around writers, the mass effect of uttering a thoughtless lie, the value of friendships, the meaning of true love, freedom, finding one’s place in the world, heartbreaks, (wasting) second chances, dreams, uncovering false appearances and the significance of the truth -which brings me to my admission that I didn’t quite like this one.
Audrey is one of the biggest reasons. You could imagine my incredulity upon finding out what kind of horrible lie that caused, not only hers, but everyone’s lives to fall apart. INCEST. Between her classmate and her OWN father. No lie is more disgusting and I couldn’t believe she said it, so casually and I quote, earnestly to her best friends (one of which was Ana’s close friend), just for the heck of it and didn’t even bother to take it back right then and there. No sane person would ever do that, and I felt that the remorse and guilt that attacked her until the end of the novel wasn’t enough punishment for her ridiculous tongue.
There were handful of times where her words went far out of line. She also didn’t endeavor to completely mend her rocky relationship with her mother. She surreptitiously sneaked around her boyfriend’s back to hung out with the boyfriend of the sad girl whose demise was brought upon her revolting lie. She wasn’t the least honest about her obligated relationship with Duck to him, to everyone and to herself.
There were also a lot of loose ends to tie up. Like the ambiguity of Candela’s relationship with Ana.
Candela:
“I know what you’re implying about me and Ana, and do you know what? It’s none of your fucking business.”
Ana (about Rad):
I know he thinks he’s in love. But he has no idea what love is. Not yet anyway.
So, it’s safe to assume that Ana wasn’t really in love with Rad, and Candela saw her as more than a sister figure from the way she got into a bad crowd, resorted to drugs and became highly sensitive when anyone brought her up. Seeing how intense her grief is, affection for her deceased close friend is definitely possible since Candela’s first fling was also a female, and maybe, Ana also reciprocated her feelings since she had a picture of her in the locket she immensely treasured (enough to be used as a bookmark). Most likely Rad had suspected it, knew it wasn’t him in her locket all along and only looked inside for confirmation and to appease Audrey’s suggestion.
If Duck’s man periods level on extremes (pitiful Audrey putting up with every single one of it), he becomes downright terrifying in post breakups, especially when he’s drunk. He was blinded by love (obsession?) for Audrey, and it was almost touching until he raged in front of her window, his chivalry evaporated into thin air.
I wanted to see more of his character development from when Audrey broke up with him because no matter what, even when there were several moments where I adored his tenderness and sweetness, his lasting impression was a psycho (from his bipolar mood swings), even after he found a new girl and quoted to Audrey,
“Everything happens for a reason.”
Also, WAS I THE ONLY ONE WHO ABSOLUTELY ADORED GABE? I mean, he was the normal one out of all Audrey’s love interests. Optimistic and funny, he was a ball of sunshine and he deeply respected her boundaries as well, completely unassuming and only acting upon his feelings as long as Audrey allowed it. Bittersweetly, he chose to let her go, wishing for nothing but her happiness.
“I don’t think I can do the friend thing. Not with you.”
HE WAS SUCH A KEEPER. AUDREY, YOU IDIOT. YOU MISSED THE ROAD TRIP OF YOUR LIFE.
Rad, on the other hand, was your typical enigmatic hottie with heterochromatic eyes which only intensified the mystery that veiled around him. Witty and well-acquainted with the woes of a writer, he charmed his way to Audrey’s broken, guilt-ridden heart.
From the start, I was always skeptical about him. Initially, I thought that his refusal to talk about anything regarding Ana, his easygoing attitude and his desire to frequently spend time with Audrey were commonplace actions of one who was grieving the death of his love. I believed he was trying to move on from her by ignoring the fact, but it was so much more. He was trying to bury the guilt —through writing, finding someone new, ripping a suicide note from his girlfriend’s diary and keeping it, maybe to convince himself that she wanted the accident.
He was the most cowardly of all the characters in Sad Girls, I concluded. The only answer I could piece together from his inhumane decisions was that his mental health degraded during his relationship with suicidal Ana. It’s toxicity retained in himself and jumbled up the meaning of what’s right and wrong. I mean, after unintentionally killing your own lover and staging it as suicide, guilt was bound to eat you up and squeeze the truth from you. But his conscience didn’t work or maybe, it was long dead anyway. He had no decency, even continuing his life, pursuing his aspirations and a girl who was obviously taken. (She matched his standards —sad, lonely and broken.)
Though the book ended on a really disturbing note, I could say Audrey and Rad were perfect for each other, running away from the grave sins they had committed to start over a clean slate, neglecting their conscience, fulfilling their dreams like the past was just nothing and Audrey leaving her doting friends in the dark.
Two wolves bound to devour each other alive.
The liar and the killer. Bonnie and Clyde. Harley and Joker. Bring on the titles.
And before I come into a conclusion, let me express my rage: WHY DID MY CINNAMON ROLL FREDDY HAVE TO DIE? WHY DID SWEET SWEET LUCY HAVE TO BE MISERABLE? THEY’RE THE MOST DESERVING COUPLE WHEN IT COMES TO HAPPINESS, WHY BREAK THEM APART? The truth will come out eventually. No need to destroy the most lovable (and cheesiest) couple in the book.
Sheesh. My gut was right when it was feeling uneasy as I went through Lucy’s odd mini-speech:
“But he was my first real boyfriend. I don’t have anyone else to compare him with. What if he isn’t the love of my life and I’m just sticking with him because I’ve never known anything else?”
There you go, Lucy.
In Sad Girls, Lang Leav skirts through sensitive subjects with the aloofness and subtlety of a freight train. But I greatly appreciated her raw tribute to writers.
“But I don’t think all writers are sad. It’s the other way around —all sad people write. It’s a form of catharsis, a way of working through things that feel unresolved, like undoing a knot. People who are prone to sadness are more likely to pick up a pen.”
As a debut novel, it wasn't so much of an okay shot, but I would’ve loved it more if she imposed the writing style she uses when composing prose. Despondency, Dead Butterflies, Rogue Planets, The Professor and Three Questions were some of my favorites. Years back when I first read them, I believed I was given a glimpse of how she would write her novel in the near future and I was considerably excited. Now, it’s not that she disappointed me. It’s just that somehow I just knew it would come to this and it’s okay. I’m a patient girl. She will overcome herself, especially when everyone is given chances and has the right to use them (excluding Audrey and Rad though, unless if they did it the right way).
I am always rooting for my childhood favorite and I hope to see her considerably grow in the next years to come. Meanwhile, let me say:
My youth (and money) is wasted on this book.
This has been a quite long review, and I thank anyone who has spent time to read my thoughts!
And one last thing, Ana’s notion of love, though maybe solid truth to others, will continue to haunt me:
The truth is, everyone wants to believe they’re in love but no one really is. So to all the girls out there who are stuck between two minds about some stupid crush, I have news for you. If you have to wonder, if you have to question what you feel, then deep down you actually don’t give a shit. As for the rest of you who don’t get it, welcome to the club. If you know what it’s like to want someone so much you would kill for them. If you know what it’s like to feel someone so deep under your skin you would sacrifice everything to protect them —even if it screws up your own moral compass so you can’t see right from wrong. If you’re like me, then let me leave you with this: That’s what love is. Don’t let them tell you any different. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.
She was supposed to be away from all of this cat-astrophe, safely perched on the rooftop of an abandoned, decrepit building where he had left her, stomping all over the place and cursing his name for being so overbearing.
But no, she had to be herself. So heroic and completely selfless, endearing traits that usually reduced his heart into a dysfunctional pumping mess (Wasn’t it already?), but right now he was seriously considering the choice of wedging yoga back into his already hectic schedule as her petite form emerged from the thick dust clouds, scaring the living hell out of him.
He had been fighting with Excalibur, an akumatized sword-fighting instructor who was opposed to the usage of firearms as means of weapons. (Seriously, it’s the 21st century. Did he time leap or something?)
Excalibur was determined to bring back the nobility of swords. His hatred for guns had escalated when a veteran soldier mocked him for his choice of weaponry, proudly brandished his old, trusty rifle from the past wars and branded him as a blade maniac. Enraged, the instructor was left vulnerable to akumatization, allowing him to morph every gun into a sharp sword and change his main blade into any kind of sword he wishes.
Before confronting Excalibur, Chat had immediately requested for a TV broadcast and promptly asked every Parisian to vacate the streets and seek refuge indoors. He had leapt through buildings then, scanning every sidewalk and street for ignorant citizens, but thankfully there were none, or so he thought.
He was about to sigh in relief when he had heard faint footsteps and to his horror, his Princess rushed into view, running on the asphalt road, pigtails in disarray and determination marred her features.
“Chat!” she had called. He would’ve had swooned at the sight of her if it weren’t for the fact that she was nowhere near safety. He had not given her any chance to protest when he swooped down to carry her (her stubbornness left him minor bruises) to the safest building he could possibly find.
“Stay,” he had said firmly, matching the intensity of her glare, and she huffed. He had taken that as a sign of resignation and then he turned to leave, but not before hearing her mumble.
“The akuma, it’s in his sheath.” He had smiled at her insight and then he was gone.
Excalibur was a formidable foe, exhibiting his prowess with the sword at every swing and thrust. Chat had been barely keeping up, dodging and deflecting the attacks with his bo-staff.
He had not gotten close enough to snatch the sheath that was dangling distinctly on Excalibur’s belt, and in some of Chat’s attempts, he had been rewarded with minor cuts on his cheek, arms, and shoulders, slightly thankful that none of them had been fatal, or at least yet.
It was when he abruptly swerved to the left to avoid another swing that Excalibur conjured up another blade in mid-air and poised it above his head to slice downward, so quick that Chat had no time to defend himself.
He had been sulking at the fact that he was going to die without so much as a kiss from his Princess when he was roughly shoved out of the way, grunting as his rear connected with the ground. Excalibur’s sword had collided with the asphalt, its momentum shaking the ground and diffusing clouds of dust.
And there she was. His Princess, his sweet, sweet Marinette, who was incapable of defeating a powerful akuma, who was no Miraculous superhero, who was as delicate and fragile as any other girl but was the most precious to him, stood in front with a rigid defensive stance, a long metal pipe in hand.
Chat wished he was seeing things, but that set of eyes that rivalled the color of sky was unmistakable. But now, a storm brewed in them. Her mouth was pressed into a firm line, her jaw tight and her vicious glare focused on the akuma. Her hands were clenching the metal tube so hard that he thought that it must hurt. (His heart fluttered at the thought that she was downright worried about him.)
He was absolutely dumbstruck, eyes rapidly blinking and his mouth agape. No sooner, dust made him choke and he sputtered into coughs. She spared him no glance, no doubt slightly irritated about his recent attempt to whisk her away from danger.
Worry replaced bewilderment, and anger intermixed with desperation.
“Princess, what the hell?!” he all but shouted and then struggled to get back on his feet, his tail flicking furiously on all directions.
What was she doing here? Can’t she see the imminent danger? Can’t she see that she could possibly die?
She shrugged, an action that further swelled his silent rage, exasperation, and fear –a plethora of more foreign emotions bubbling in his stomach. It certainly didn’t help that she wasn’t even looking at him. “You were taking too long.”
Excalibur’s laugh reverberated from a few meters away. “Poor little kitten needs to be saved by a girl.” He smirked as he pulled out the sword embedded on the ground. “But, hold your whiskers, Chat Noir. She’s the one who needs saving now.”
Chat snarled, eyes glinting dangerously and claws bare. Not a second, he was standing protectively in front of her.
No one can ever hurt Marinette. He will make sure of that.
But before he could charge, a soft hand settled on his shoulder. He stopped.
“Chat, I have a plan,” she said tersely. Firm, stubborn resolution swirled in her eyes and Chat wanted to throw or break something in frustration because no matter how he pleaded, she would not listen.
“No. I won’t let you fight,” he almost hissed, not minding how cold he sounded, but her fire only burned brighter. He was bound to melt.
“I can help you. Trust me,” she entreated now, blue eyes softening just the slightest. “Adrien, please,” she whispered.
Despite the dread and fear that grew in the pits of his stomach, he always trusted her above anything else, even now.
“Fine.”
She smiled a bit, blissfully unaware that he was hurt because all he wanted to do was to protect her, the least he could do for all the kindness she had graced him, but it was something she refused from him the most and it was his job, leather suit and all.
“You are not my shield, Chat,” she had said. “You’re my friend.”
“Distract him.” And like any good cat, he did, throwing himself at Excalibur before the akuma could remember the girl and attacking more vigorously now that he had something very precious to protect.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as she snatched a rope from an abandoned van and a large rock from the sidewalk, tying them together as tightly as she could. He couldn’t help but radiate with pride when she propelled the rope in the right motion, encircling Excalibur’s ankle and pulling him flat on the ground.
Chat immediately kicked his swords away, grabbed the brown sheath and broke it in half. The akuma innocently flew out and he wasted no time to cleanse it with his bo-staff, his power restoring Paris back to normality.
The sword instructor blinked at his surroundings, deeply confused, and Chat was about to approach him out of pity when his miraculous furiously beeped and he fled, dragging Marinette to a dark alley beside a deli.
Green flashed and an obviously perturbed Adrien appeared in Chat’s stead, an exhausted Plagg floating to the pocket of his charge’s jacket. Marinette smiled at the little kwami and gave a little wave.
He turned to her, one of his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You never listen, do you?” It wasn’t even a question anymore. Marinette was incredibly stubborn, fierce and protective, and now he was once again regretting the day she found out his identity. Her recklessness soared even more.
She haughtily crossed her arms and raised her own eyebrow. “Not even a single ‘thank you’?”
He ignored her and ran his fingers through his hair. “How many times do we have to talk about this?”
Her beautiful bluebell eyes glowed. “You of all people should know that I won’t just stand around when my friends need help.”
“I’m a superhero, Marinette. You’re a civilian. I have powers. You don’t.”
She was still unfazed. “And your point is?”
He was beyond irritated now. “You could get seriously hurt! Did you see how dangerous Excalibur was? If I wasn’t there, one of those swords could’ve pierced you, Marinette!”
“Correction, it was you who was almost sliced if I wasn’t there,” she sassed.
Adrien let out a frustrated groan and frantically woven his fingers in his hair, tugging at the strands, as he slid down to a crouch in the ground. Why can’t she understand? Why can’t she see how important she was to him?
She bent down to his level and gently took his face in her hands. The stubbornness was still there, but she looked apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Kitty. I understand that you’re trying to protect me, but you’re important to me as well.” His heart leapt. “I’ll be careful next time. I promise.”
He was still skeptical, but he believed in her and kissed her palm. “Okay.”
A red flush conquered her cheeks and she stood up hastily, holding out a hand to him. He smirked. “The cinnamon rolls should be done by now. Let’s go.”
He took it and stood up, but before she could pull away, he laced his fingers through hers, feeling the boldness of Chat rushing in him.
Her blush intensified and he felt smug, pulling her arm. “Come on, Purr-incess.”
She stared at him in disbelief, her blush fading a bit at the pun, and she groaned. “Not again.”
He kissed her knuckles and pulled her along the direction of the bakery, leaving her shrieking behind him, “Stop teasing me!”
He laughed genuinely, his concerns momentarily forgotten as he felt the warmth of her hand in his, squeezing it ever so gently like it might vanish, but when she smiled that beautiful smile that was only reserved for him, the one where her delicate pink lips would curve the slightest and her bluebell eyes would crinkle and sparkle for him like he was everything in the world to her (he liked to believe) just as much as she was to him, he could only hear fervent thumps of his heart and he wondered if her heart was the same, if it was begging to be with him.
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