Mom's Letters: Fruits tải về miễn phí cuốn sách

Yat Ming fungyatmin72e0 — The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday By Alexander McCall Smith This is the first book I have read by this author, and I picked it up because I had read a positive review of it recently. In this story, Isabel Dalhousie, the owner and editor of a literary journal, who lives in Edinburgh, is asked to help clear the name of a doctor whose reputation has been ruined due to a scandal involving a drug trial. We also meet Isabel’s lover Jamie, who is also the father of her young son, and who is considerably younger than Isabel. This causes her no end of worry, though he seems devoted to both of them. There is also Isabel’s niece, Cat, who owns a local deli, and used to be romantically involved with Jamie. I wanted to like this book, but as far as I’m concerned, it just never took off. None of the characters were particularly appealing to me, and there didn’t seem to be much of a plot. Though I enjoyed the descriptions of Edinburgh, there was nothing else that really grabbed my attention. By the end of the book, I was trying to figure out how this was supposed to be suspenseful, and wondering what the point of the book was in the first place. I guess if it is supposed to be a narrative of a slice of time in the characters’ lives, it does the job. But my first thought when I finished reading the last page was, “Why was this book written?” I had kept going, thinking that there would be a point where things all started to fall into place, but if they did, I missed it. It also really annoyed me that Isabel spent so much time worrying about whether or not Jamie really loved her, was going to stay with her, found her interesting and attractive, etc. Once again, we have a supposedly independent, educated woman, who seems to worry primarily about a man. I got really sick of that whole thing by about the third chapter. This was a quick read, so at least I didn’t spend a whole lot of my time reading it.

Hannah David hmdavid — This translation of Djebar's Vaste est la prison obscures the intricacy of her language. Blame the translator, not the writer.