Ifehenia's blog

Jodi Picoult is one of my favourite writers ever. I am learning how to tame my youthful exuberance and someone I know pointed out to me that if I claim that something is the best thing ever, I can't then go on and give that title to five or so more things. Adulting is difficult! All these rules. I will, therefore, refrain from calling Jodi 'my favourite writer ever' and add the prefix 'one of'. From experience, I know how crafty Jodi can get. She will get you to care; to invest your feelings in the characters that she weaves around your heart and soul. You will prefer to have coffee with the suspected pedophile from Salem Falls , instead of paying attention to your date. You will get out of your Friday night plans by washing your hair when the real reason is that you can't let that sad, little girl in   Leaving Time spend a Friday night alone. She is all you have You are all she has! I know Jodi and I have been working on building up my defences. I start re...

I have expressed time and again my admiration for intelligent, mature (read old) men who are predisposed towards  the cynical and the satirical. These are not your jolly, good fellows with round bellies and bushy moustaches. My celebrity crushes prove this all too well. Dr. House, Will McAvoy, Denny Crane and Alan Shore rank high in my book while the Robert Pattinsons and Taylor Lautners don’t even feature. This said, it will be easier to understand why I was attracted to Dr. Hannibal Lecter from the first time I set eyes on him in the series ‘Hannibal’ which is based on Thomas Harris’ book: ‘The Silence of The Lambs’. Not all classy men are gay... some are just cannibals. Everything from his well-tailored suits, to his sleek hair and elaborate taste in cuisine demand one’s attention. His vast knowledge of all subjects under the sun just adds to the appeal the man holds. It also does no harm that he is European, with fine tastes in culture, music and books… or that he ...

The worst game of 'Would you rather...' “She was so chaotically in love with Nathan that it was like dementia, and it is more often than not the person one loves from whom one withholds the most searing truths about one’s self; if only out of the very human motive to spare groundless pain.” This observation, made by Stingo, concerning Sophie was what led me to (mistakenly) conclude that Sophie and I were similar. That we were kindred souls, separated by time, distance and circumstances. Fellow psychos in love.   How wrong I was! Sophie is nothing like anyone I know, including me. Through her confidante, Stingo, to whom she pours out her darkest secrets over the summer of ’47, Sophie takes us back to her youth in Cracow, Poland. She weaves us through her experiences during World War II that saw her lose everything that she held dear. In her faltering English, supplemented by French and German phrases, she takes Stingo and I through those difficult years of her l...