At the beginning of this story, I was very impressed with the author's descriptive and literary style. I think she's a gifted author, and I intend to read more from her. Having said that, as I got into this story I thought, "This must not be her best book." I was intrigued by the characters an...
This was a very easy book to read and follow along to which I really liked. It was a chapter book and it had a few pictures on every other page which in my opinion I think is great for little kids who are being introduced to chapter books. The book is about a little girl named Hannah who named he...
This review is more of me as a reader trying to sort out my thoughts than a summery and "read this!" or "don't read this!" argument. So.Anwell met Finnigan and he scratches his name backwards on the fence. Makes boyhood pact "you be good, or the angel, aka Gabriel, I'll be the bad, Finnigan." ...
Las preocupaciones que asechan a la familia Flute son completamente profundas, las trae el viento, un viento vivo que tiene tantos humores como cualquier persona. De alegres a tristes y trágicos. Túneles es la historia de esta familia, o al menos parte de ella. La mala, puede decirse.La casi nume...
At its base runs a thin greenish thread of never-drying slime, but high on its walls are brown stains testifying to where water has gushed through the drain shoulder-high to torrent out into the creek which trips past the pipe’s outlet. On all sides of this creek there is wasteland, a long verdan...
“Open your eyes. Child, open your eyes.” He wanted to do as she asked — he was so pleased to hear her voice again, so relieved that she’d returned — but his eyes were refusing to obey. “Mama,” he said, and felt a paralyzing sadness because he knew that if he didn’t open his eyes his mother would ...
The stable walls were hung with old harnesses which rattled musically, and the mangers were dusted with chaff that smelt good. Inside large bins with flat metal lids were troves of grain into which the girls plunged their arms to the elbows. Hunks of wood were piled in the lumber-house, packed in...
“Feather who?” Mama inquired, flopping like a length of satin across her chaise longue, fanning her face with a manicured hand. “I’ve never heard of anyone Feather. It doesn’t sound like a particularly good family. Sounds like a tribe of dustmen, if you ask me.” “How does he earn his money?” the ...
But she is not owned by anyone; what he gets, she gives gladly. Except, of course, she had not meant to give love. It was meant to be amusement and now it is love, catastrophic as quicksand. She loves him, so much so that even the shirt he wears — a lime polo sporting the image of a cavorting sna...