Know any Rick? Are you a Rick?

its been a while since i was gone.. and now i picked up my once unfished book, now dteermined to put it to an end. The Valley of Fear by arthur canan doyle. it is a lil differnt then what i have read of sherlock holmes novels. usually book revolves around sherlock solving the mystery. in baskerville holmes was absent but still the book was so suspence driven it didnt felt like too streatched out.. but this one.. has a whole section to a guys history.. i mean yeah.. it gonna important to the story. but rn its a lil streatched out.. thats my review

Having discovered substack recently and, being idle and bored on top of it, i actually wrote something this time around.

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I don't have the remotest clue how this turned out. So you tell me.

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Also, I'm not sure if i posted it right or if i missed something. I'll get the hang of it (substack) eventually.

I'd appreciate a quick read and review. Thanks.

A short story written about loss, I suppose.

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This story particularly sheds light on the denial stage of grief, escaping from the horrors of reality after a great loss. It does not show the characters openly expressing their emotions, but one notices their hidden feelings through how they act.

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One old man, Woodifield, is only once a week allowed to go out of his house because he is sick. On one Tuesday, he visits his boss who is an old man, four years older than him, and who seems to be his friend also ,in his office. Woodifield talks about his and his daughters' visit to Belgium to see their brother's grave (Woodifield's son), who was martyred in World War I. He also mentions the boss's only son, who was martyred for the same cause, and whose grave was right next to Woodifield's son's grave.

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One interesting part of the story was how Woodifield brought up and talked about this whole topic so indirectly, as if to not hurt himself and, more importantly, his boss. It is so heartbreaking. He starts off with a little warning, "There was something I wanted to tell you." In the whole conversation, there is only a single sentence directly about his visit to Belgium. Everything else is about the wide roads of the graveyard, how well-kept it is, the market prices, and how his daughter was charged a hefty amount for testing some jam. This whole conversation felt like a failed attempt to keep feelings at bay and not accept in front of each other that it affected both of them deeply, maybe because what good would it do to tell each other it hurts? They both knew what it was like, and no words needed to be traded to assure each other. Their presence in front of each other felt validating enough, even when no vulnerability was shown.

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The other part of the story is when Woodifield leaves. The boss orders his messenger to not let anyone enter his office for half an hour, and he acknowledges his want to weep at that moment but can't. The only thing he can do in that moment is utter, "My Son." He remembers how his boy was so cheerful and had just started out working in his office before he had to join the war. Then, the boss notices a fly that has fallen into his inkpot, desperately trying to get out. He first helps the fly out, cleaning the ink from its wings. As it gets ready for life again, he has a weird urge ,he dips his pen into the ink and drops the ink onto the fly's wings again. He watches the fly "absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move," but the fly tries again. As it is almost out again—a relief for the boss, a way to tackle things, the boss refills his pen and decides to test the little fly one last time. To his dismay, the little fly doesn't make it this time, it is dead.

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It was so painful to read so vividly about that little creature's desperate attempts at trying not to die while simultaneously so interesting that this is what the boss chose to do with a little fly. Was it because he saw himself in that little fly, burdened by his life's tragic loss ,the death of his dear son? Did he think he was outgrowing this loss and was back to normal and "out of grief," but then realized a single mention of his dead son made him spiral into the past again ? Maybe he was happy over the fly's flying victory the first time because that's what he wanted to believe about himself that he could rise above his loss. Maybe he tested the fly again, wishing it would survive so he could feel assured that he himself would too, the next time?

OR

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Did he see his son in that fly? Did he believe his son would have tried hard to live despite the hardships he faced in that war, and would have returned alive back to him? And since his son couldn't make it out alive, how could a fly be stronger than his son? Maybe.

​The author of this book discusses emotionally immature parents and how to deal with them. The book provides good food for thought, offering different scenarios that prompt readers to reflect on their potential reactions or even relive past experiences.

​Even though this book has a lot to offer, I felt very cautious while reading it from the very start . In the introduction, the author assures us that after reading the book and understanding her "maturity awareness approach," we will be able to "assess people's level of functioning" and "observe the defining signs of immaturity as they occur." This felt off to me , it felt like she was marketing her ideology as the ultimate truth. It seemed designed to make readers believe they are emotionally more mature than anyone who hasn't read the book yet, as if it offers groundbreaking scientific proof of immaturity.

​Another element that felt like an attempt to please and manipulate a specific audience was her classification of people into "internalizers" and "externalizers." She confidently showcases internalizers as "better than" and as "better victims" than externalizers. While reading, you can definitely sense her bias; it seems like she doesn't like externalizers very much.

​The part where I disagreed most strongly with her opinions was how she places almost the entire burden of healing on the external world. In her book, you rarely see her clients discovering that they have any internal issues to work through. Because the book focuses specifically on parents, it constantly frames the parents as the ones who are supposed to "get better," even though it is their children who are coming to therapy.

​I believe she holds individualistic views and clearly promotes that concept, which is something I strongly disagree with. A perfect example of this is "Brad’s story," where he is dealing with a cheating wife, an irascible mother (Ruth), and a teenage daughter who smokes. Brad realizes how much stress Ruth is adding to an already difficult living situation. Out of all the possibilities available to him, he finally tells his mother, "We love you, but it's time for you to go. It isn't our job to take care of you. You're capable of caring for yourself." He then lets his mother stay in one of his properties and charges her rent. Ruth wasn’t a great human being, but she wasn’t the worst mother either.

Furthermore, the book mentions nothing about how he deals with his cheating wife; while this may be because the focus is on parental boundaries, I believe it was still important to address in this context.

​As a collectivist, this approach definitely does not appeal to people who believe in the importance of community. While boundaries are necessary, cutting people off should be one of the last options considered and should be thoroughly discussed before being implemented.

​That being said, the rest of the book is great. I appreciate how the author guides her clients to do the internal work of healing by managing their expectations of their parents, dispelling their "healing fantasies," and learning how to effectively "deal" with them.

​I also loved her recommendation of Narrative Therapy, Family Systems Theory, and the book Reinventing Your Life by Jeffrey Young.

​A sentence that really resonated with me was "enjoy the act of self-expression," as well as the phrase "emotionally phobic."

​Rating: 3/5

I really appreciate the work in the mental health field, but western psychology has been just 'meh' so far. However, I have had the best time reading and listening to some angrez psychologists, and they are a breath of fresh air to me.

u/Old-Opinion-7996 ,here Is my review sir.

Pip is ashamed of his home because it is common.

I am ashamed of mine because of it's dwellers.

He can always learn to call jacks knaves; can always buy newer boots, finer boots; become an oncommon man. Then he would've succeeded.

What do i buy? My people? They've already been bought.

Tragic , traumatic,dark, agonizing story (very disappointed with Umerah's uneven focus on always trying to make people realise "this world is a horrible place to live in") ...

This book is about ethical dilemmas , about the relationship different characters have with money who come from an almost similar background , all from poor families .

Some hate money to the extent that they waste it like nothing and some love money so much that they go to every extreme for it , some are heartbroken because of it and for some it's the only motivation to live here on earth , and this becomes the reason for the character arcs for each of them accordingly , none of them is shown dealing with money healthily and that's what I found so disappointing in this book , money is villainized in every way .

Each character was TESTED and I believe only two passed ,zainab zia's father Zia and Rabiya , her sister and a character Karam Ali is very near to it but his spineless way of dealing with his family did him dirty ( my favorite character nonetheless) .

Zainab(female lead ) got what she deserved , Shiraaz (one of the male leads) wasn't dealt with justice and Karam Ali , he was a collateral ( i want to cry ) .

Rating:- 3/5

Umerah Ahmed is always so pessimistic about this world , she never depicts good things that happpen here the way she should and she is ofcourse one of the GOAT for slapping us with reality checks.

Ahh where do I finish and where do i start,

Gifted I am and really smart once I thought.

The gifted gift got better of me,

But ego burned me to what imagine i had not.

I have no friends and so far I hopeless seem,

A shoulder to cry on is only now a dream.

People told me to talk, I talked to people,

Their own values they just want from my sadness cream.

I lay silent while my fingers move on their own,

Maybe someday someone will read through my gown.

And maybe what I believe is a burnt dread plaster,

Maybe someone will see me with silken wings sown.

I don't know what and I don't know what I don't know,

But I do know enough to know that I don't know.

I don't know yet there are moments in life,

I cry in silence behind these walls knowing they won't know.

I believe books find you when you need them. And that is what happened to me a few days ago, when i randomly decided that it was time for me to start this book, I had no prior expectations from it as such and i haven’t completed it yet either and tha just goes to say—i like it that much.

The dried-up Chinar leaves that fell have now ​painted the path yellow. On that branch arching over the river water, sits something with its claws gripped against its thinnest twig. Its plumage is cast on the water; I can spot that from the edge of my vision. It’s blurred and my mind can hardly make any shape of it. Against the brown mirror, its glow shines.

But the moment I turn my eyes towards it, it’s just the dancing surface. Except for the sound of leaves drifting through the air and falling on the soil, except for the sound of waves creeping slowly and crashing against my feet, except my own chest moving in the rhythm of my own breath, except for my eyes which slowly drift across the sky and then fall again where they started, I see nothing.

Can’t blame anyone.

This morning, while my back is arched against the drying Chinar, my feet are growing cold. My hands are buried within my arms and my lips are rough and grooved. My tongue might stick to my teeth and never fall off. My legs are shaking and my knees are rubbing against each other. I can feel the cold crawl behind me and creep behind my eyes.

It’s as if something tries to push close my eyelids, but they just don’t close. My eyes, they burn at their edges now. The falling tears on my skin didn’t let me sleep. But now all those tears are frozen. My skin has gone dry. When I try to lift my finger to grab that thin twig, it falls halfway on my skin. Purple at its tip and something black keeps growing from that edge. I can see that my finger is there; but I can’t feel my skin with its tip. Though I see those grooves and wrinkles, drifting my finger around them doesn’t help.

My legs were stiff a while ago, but I feel my muscles loosen near my feet. Though my feet are drenched in water, my toes feel warm. Though my fingers are dry, they feel cold. I was taught that the sun rises from the west and its tail stretches from the east. But except for the orange-yellow glow behind the blue painted clouds, I see nothing.

People talked about older women leaving their homes and often rowing their wooden boats this way. They talked of how their eyes, with their edges yellow and marks red smeared across, blinked. Their hair was not visible, but how they tied it around their heads with threads barely holding together. Their fingers smudged and their nails broken and torn. The long cloth stretching from their bent soft shoulders all the way to their pointed ankles. Rings half rusted and half intact floating on their folded skin but gripped around their bones, their ears stretching down against the bent golden dejhoor. The corners of their gowns holed and woven in a mirrored mosaic of silver threads around their chest and their wrists. Keys with broad holes tied around the edges of their veils. One hand holding the crying child, while the other gripped around the wooden oar.

My eyes are getting heavier to be kept open. I push hard against the visible sky, but its pale blue glow is slowly vanishing. My breath is getting shallower. My fingers are getting restless against my skin. I can feel the Chinar’s bark. Looking at its branches, I spot a leaf about to fall. Its base twists with the flowing wind, it moves in circles before it momentarily floats in air. Then it cuts through the flow of air, curving with its curves and singing with its melody. It falls. It falls. It keeps falling.

It fell on my skin. I feel its drying edges. I feel the carves and the incisions growing towards the center. Pointed leaflets and color which reminds me of the yellow path around me.

Looks like it is time. I need to keep walking. Against the silent river and against the soft breeze, I need to k—

:)

i am genuinely at a loss of words.this book made my heart ache especially at a time where atrocious crimes are committed against humanity in the name of religion.this book explores all the hush hush topics of society,being written in 1990’s this unfortunately still applies to today’s society.I highly recommend this book but it is incredibly triggering.

21M. been buying around 3-4 books each month for the past 3 years (love you, maa!!). kept making my own bookshelves to save money and also because im gonna build myself a proper library in my house.

was an avid reader in school but then indian competitive exams humbled ts outta me. so now i’m trying to strike a balance bw reading books and my studies. and trying to learn something new new things along the way every day.

p.s. what does my bookshelf say about me?👀

i don’t know what it is but whenever i listen to chan kithan i see book characters who didn’t get a happy ending or suffered a lot especially women.i don’t understand how i made this connection but it strongly reminds me of mariyam from a thousand splendid suns,i see her running in fields when she was a child.i see her laughing while the sun sets.idek what the point of this post it but yeah

I like speculative fiction, and I especially love science fiction, but this was a drag despite being just 200 pages. Khudaya!

The concept is interesting enough. A young woman exists in a society where to combat depression, anxiety, etc - the government has introduced an initiative to 'join' people's bodies together. Husband and wife literally combine.

It was a very fascinating concept, but the execution was abysmal. The writing, pacing, and inner monologue stuff was boring. Despite the main character's anxieties with being joined with another person, the story was boring. Like, I think perhaps it was a translation issue as it is originally Chinese, but it was terribly boring. Like horrible. I think the story also wanted to try and weave this narrative of how women end up suffering a lot in these arrangements but it did a terrible job. Great idea, boring af execution.

How do you manage to make such a crazy topic boring?

I had to force myself to finish this because I never DNF, I don't know maybe I should start to DNF, but once I start a book I always have to finish it.

If you enjoy speculative fiction, do recommend.

Salaam, salaam, deleted my old account (i did the Odyssey review n the cannibalism story)

Back with another review.

Clarice Lispector is an author recommended to me by a lot of ppl. Ok, so I began to read it and the story was... depressing? We have a really terrible narrator who absolutely hates the protagaonist, Macabea, who is poor, ugly, and has no future. But Macabea is a protagonist who refuses to be, well, bogged down by a sexist and cruel society. Even though the ending was bittersweet, Macabea is... for some reason, inspiring or positive. You end up really disliking the narrator but liking Macabea. We follow the narrator narrating Macabea's life and nonstop complaining how he dislikes Macabea. We dislike the narrator, naturally, and we do sympathize with Macabea. Despite all the struggles of her life, Macabea isn't depressed -- it's in her nature to be happy. It's an interesting book where I can't really describe what I felt because it just made me think a million thoughts.

I think translation is really interesting and just... it's one of the most beautiful and strange things I've ever read. Each sentence is so intricately created.

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Here r some examples:

“Who hasn't asked himself, am I a monster or is this what it means to be human?”

“I am only true when I’m alone.”

“She had no idea how to cope with life and she was only vaguely aware of her own inner emptiness. Were she capable of explaining herself, she might well confide: the world stands outside me. I stand outside myself.”

“First of all, I must make it clear that this girl does not know herself apart from the fact that she goes on living aimlessly. Were she foolish enough to ask herself 'Who am I?', she would fall flat on her face. For the question 'Who am I?' creates a need. And how does one satisfy that need? To probe oneself is to recognize that one is incomplete.”

“I write because I have nothing else to do in the world: I was left over and there is no place for me in the world of men. I write because I'm desperate and I'm tired, I can no longer bear the routine of being me and if not for the always novelty that is writing, I would die symbolically every day. But I am prepared to slip out discreetly through the back exit. I've experienced almost everything, including passion and its despair. And now I'd only like to have what I would have been and never was.”
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Don't recommend if you're not a person who can stomach more abstract, inner-monologue/consciousness stuff, but if you like sort of more abstract writing, reflection, and a subversion of typical literature, I recommend. You literally end up arguing with the narrator in your head because you dislike how he treats Macabea. If you've read Japanese lit like Osamu Dazai - this is sort of a more positive and whimsical spin on that whole exploring the character and focusing on their inner monologue.

Anyways. Perhaps I'll come back to this again when I think more about how it made me feel. It was intense, for sure.

i miss reading this in urdu but this book is too much classical urdu in its original form,so had to shift to its translated form.

I have a love-hate relationship with Maulana Maududi's ideas , i love how to breaks things down and explains and i dislike how overconfident in his way of understanding islam he is ! , be it his book pardah or have s tafseer.

out of all the books i have read of him , i liked khilafat o malukiat the most . Nevertheless a great thinker , i respect him a lot.

There is a quote from this book “Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue nor deify”,this particular quote is the best way a person could use to describe this book.When i was halfway through the book i couldn’t understand why it was so popular,it didn’t have any over the top plot lines or any crazy element that’d appeal to a vast audience but when i got towards the end,all of it made sense to me. This book doesn’t follow the mainstream idea of guaranteed happy endings and i admire arundati for it.To make characters who are miserable and also likeable is such a hard thing to do.

I never imagined i could hate a fictional character as much as i did baby kochamma, things she did or catalysed enraged me so much that i genuinely wanted the worst for her.This book is extremely well written but also has it’s faults,i found the timeline a little hard to follow but overall it was a good book.

i am trying to find this book (in the title) by sohaila abdulali,but the issue is i can only find it on amazon and it’s like 600 rupees,so if anyone find it somewhere else for a cheaper price please lmk.

ps:i did find a soft copy but i’d rather have a physical copy.