As part of my inauguration into college life, I have decided to become cool.  Apparently, by choosing this new way of living, I have a whole new set of rules that I now must adhere to at all times.  For example; no longer am I allowed to quote ‘The Inbetweeners’ by shouting ‘’feisty one, you are’’ at random boys.

Also no longer is it acceptable to jump along pedestrian crossings Will Ferrell style.  Wearing my dad’s old hoodies and declaring them ‘my style’ is unquestionably verboten and I must not think that by adding MiWadi to everything, I am getting my five-a-day.  Most pressing though is that no longer am I allowed to publicly admit to reading compulsively, because reading is now ‘’not cool’’.

Passing an hour engrossed in a book is not a form of social sophistication; instead I must at all times appear as if I am suitably content with compulsive texting, even if I’m just updating my Mom on my dinner preferences.

Google searching ‘books’ and finding Facebook as the fifth link cannot strike me as outrageous, and never again can I utter the phrase; ‘’Library?’’ with any form of enthusiastic gusto.  This is my new way of life as a cool kid, and obviously, appreciation for fine publishing is not part of it.

New Cool Cáit wonders how people dare to be excited about literature.  What are they, elderly?  We have Youtube, Facebook, gosh; even Bebo has to be better than sitting down with a dusty, old copy of Jane Eyre.  Inspired by a storybook?  Have you not looked around you to see the glowing face of your friendly neighbourhood monitor?   Books, along with all forms of written tedium, belong in the past, with all things unsavoury, like that ad with the dancing babies or Charlie the Magic Unicorn.

We must take defensive action and in haste, to prevent any further interactions with the written word!  We must make like an organised riot on boredom and burn any tomes left in modern day civilisation!  Quick to the furnace!

While feminists burn their underwear in protest against misogyny, we shall burn newspapers in protest against intellectual stimulation.  No longer will ideas of culture, perception or imagination haunt our children’s dreams, we must act now for them later, or soon they too might fall in love with the classics and be lost to the depths of the alphabet forever.

As he gets up to leave, the old gent across from me on the train gestures at me to indulge in his paper.  I of course scowl (that’s what us cool people do, act like hormonal thirteen year olds, it‘s AWESOME).  For that last hour, the paper just stares at me, begging me to read it.  No, I must resist, this is a test, a trick, do not give in to temptation…resist, resist…

I start to sweat profusely, I’m jiggling my foot like no ones business, my eyes keep darting to the front page, straining to catch a headline before I realise what they are at and pull them away.  My pulse is racing, they were right, absence makes the heart grow fonder.  Just one word, a little word can’t hurt.

A pronoun even, those crisp white pages have all the authenticity that a screen lacks.  One hit, and then I’ll quit for good, it’s nothing, I can handle this.  A woman is staring at me, quickly she picks up her child and drags him to another carriage, why is that baby crying so loud…I’m getting dizzy, my vision has started to cloud, it’s not worth it, just give me the page.

Suddenly I’ve lost control of my bodily functions, my arm reaches out and grabs the crumpled up paper, and then…life returns to its tedious, mundane familiarity, and I return to the bottom of the social heap.

“We are never really alert to our destinies are we?” asks Andrew Marlow, when recalling his mindset on the eve of what he considers one of his greatest experiences.  “But the next day always comes, unless we actually die, and the next day I met Robert Oliver.”

In Elizabeth Kostova’s second novel, Swan Thieves, Robert Oliver, celebrated artist, brandishes a knife at a painting in the Impressionists wing of the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. Psychiatrist Andrew Marlow is then recruited to oversee Oliver’s mental rehabilitation.  Soon after giving Marlow permission to question the people of his past in order to aid his recovery, Oliver stops speaking altogether.

Marlow’s journey takes him to the various women in Oliver’s life, most prominently his ex-wife, Kate, and girlfriend, Mary.  Their experiences depict Oliver as a man whose passion for art is unrestrained and sometimes destructive, compromising the relationships in his life as he frequently loses himself entirely in his work.  His secretive nature draws people to him, until they get so deeply entrenched in his life they can’t escape.  While he moves forward into artistic frenzy, those left behind must pick up the pieces of fragmented relationships.

Kate and Mary both take over storytelling at points in the book—Kostova marks the name of the current narrator at the top of each chapter, starting from the beginning, even though no one but Marlow narrates until chapter 12.  These shifts in perspective are also broken up by letters, centuries-old correspondences between a woman, Beatrice, and her uncle, Olivier, both artists themselves.  Oliver had the ancient letters, written in French, on his person and obsessively rereads them while under Marlow’s care.  They are dispersed within the text in the order that Marlow reads them, as well as when they were written back in the 19^th century.  As the novel moves on, the past becomes more concrete as specific scenes unfold, that help audiences understand the letters in more depth.

Marlow soon realizes that to solve the puzzle of Robert Oliver, he must first uncover the mystery behind the painting he attacked, “Leda” by Gilbert Thomas. Soon the past and present are reconciled into a single story, as the letters of Beatrice and Olivier, written during the time the painting was produced, help to shed light on the situation.

This painting is a depiction of the mythological story of Zeus coming to Leda in the form of a swan.  Leda would then give birth to Zeus’s daughter Helen, whose abduction by Paris would spark the Trojan War.

Kostova describes the array of artwork in this book so vividly, that I felt compelled to look up the paintings online.   I was disappointed to find that Gilbert Thomas, his self-portrait, and the “Leda” painting didn’t exist (the painting on the cover of the book is an 1832 work by François-Edouard Picot).  This makes Kostova’s exquisitely detailed depiction of the painting even more remarkable.  She describes the form of Leda before moving into her vision of the swan.

“The other figure in the painting was not human, although it was certainly a dominant character—a huge swan, hovering over her as if about to land on water, its wings beating backward to slow the speed of its assault.  The swan’s long wing feathers curved inward like talons, its gray-webbed feet almost touched the delicate skin of her belly, and its black-circled eye was as fierce as the gaze of a stallion.”

But Kostova’s ability to express detail vastly limits the pace of the story.  At first you feel as if the descriptions are characteristic of the mind of the main narrator, Marlow, and that his painter’s eye causes him to always be focusing on the minute details.  As others take turns to tell their stories though, the same painstaking descriptions are present.  I appreciate the author’s efforts to depict a scene, but the slow, leisurely way in which the story moved along contradicted Marlow’s urgent desire to get to the bottom of the mystery.  Audiences will read it quickly, not necessarily because it’s an easy read, but because they are more eager than Marlow to see how it will end.

After Kostova’s bestselling debut novel, “The Historian,” won many fans, her second book was highly anticipated.  And while I found “The Swan Thieves” to be a worthwhile read, it was not what I expected based on her first work.  “The Historian” blends history and horror in a fantastic telling of ancient Dracula and modern mysteries.  By the end of that book you are not only convinced that the vampiric stories are based in fact, but that anyone can uncover this truth by embarking on the right treasure hunt.  Past and present events are each given appropriate coverage, creating a smooth tale that makes transitions easily across time.

On the other hand, the time-jumping, historical fiction aspect of “The Swan Thieves,” seems forced. The dynamic relationship between Oliver and his art, as well as the people in his life, is compelling and beautifully done.  The parallel plotline of 19^th century Beatrice and her uncle doesn’t fit as cleanly into the book.  Though Kostova does make clear why she inserted those characters, if a couple details were modified, they could be cut completely without any detriment to the writing.

While jumping between historical facts and present plots worked well for “The Historian” as it referenced true historical figures, the major historical developments and characters in this novel are fictitious, making it more superfluous. More focus could be put on character and relationship development, rather than catching up readers on the necessary history.

While I was disappointed in some aspects, I would still recommend this book, though with that cautionary word for “Historian” lovers.  Possibly if I hadn’t had certain expectations going into this read, I would have been more impressed.  Kostova, a Yale graduate with a MFA degree from the University of Michigan, is still a master at telling a story that is sensational and interesting, without resorting to over-the-top scenarios or cheap dialogue.

“The Swan Thieves” will appeal to your emotions as you relate to the characters and care about their lives, while persuading your intellectual side to delve into art history.  It is one of those novels that will dominate your thoughts until you take the time to complete it—so free up your schedule before losing yourself in this thrilling mystery.

A recent browse of UCC’s bookshop brought me upon a familiar corner from my English undergraduate days. This most visited spot housed the necessary literature of core module texts, some offered at discount prices in bundles. Many of the novels remained the same from years past. Undisputed classics Ulysses and Midnight’s Children stood out with vivid colours like the post colonial peacocks they are.

Others struck me as odd or unique but relatively speaking, all authors present were of the canon one would expect. Bronte, Shelley, and Chaucer perhaps eyed some of their newer acquaintances but every author was well known and had achieved some prestige. Pulitzer Prize winners, Man Booker winners and Nobel Laureates adorned the pile.

‘Classic’ struck me as the most common adjective on the reverse of most texts. Whether it was a long poem, seminal novel or Old English collection, all were classics of some degree. This brought the question, what is a classic? Personally, I viewed some works as classics, without an ounce of hesitation. Often we associate certain works by default, with the status of lofty untouchable masterpieces.

Criteria for a classic may include critical acclaim, as earlier alluded. Other aspects could involve how they have aged or their discernable influence. A more tangible method of course is sales and enduring popularity. Nearly all the college texts were what I considered fine literature. Midnight’s Children appeared the youngest of the group, and even that had won the ‘Booker of Bookers’, to celebrate the awards quarter century anniversary.

To say the term classic has been used liberally of late is an understatement. Certain media outlets use the term so egregiously, it loses worth. The Twilight series has undoubtedly sold astoundingly well, as has the bile of one Dan Brown. That these are called classics is an affront to generations of poetry and beautiful prose.

However, does classic donate merely literature that aged? If so, ‘instant classic’ recurs as the biggest oxymoron of modern literary criticism. When Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was first released, many labelled it an instant classic. It finished off the biggest selling literary series of the century, and in dealing with allegorical Holocaust terms, defied conventions and did not remove an iota of the imaginative landscape in the process.

Italo Calvino and Kazuo Ishiguro had some of their work reach instant success when fist released too. Aimed at adult and a more critically minded target audience, they avoided much of the scoffing that comes with children literature being praised. Overtly playing with literary genre and employing not so subtle tropes of their time, they nicely fit into an easy category.

The ‘easy category’ is that which can be critiqued as serious literature. While I take nothing from their worth, it is almost assumed what is ‘real’ literature and what is secondary. It did not escape my attention that I dismissed two authors earlier as not being worthy of ‘classic’ status. Dan Brown and Stephanie Meyer appear to me banal, exploitive wretches writing to the lowest common denominator.

I am indeed much the literary snob. However, I would always hope my opinions come not as knee jerk assumptions but rather after sincere consideration. The Deathly Hallows is real literature in my opinion, and a classic. Kill Your Friends is another example of modern literature I would consider a classic, acerbically funny, cuttingly satirical and horrifically foreshadowing.

The simple subjectivity of ‘it comes down to opinion’ really cops out of the premise of my article. What makes a classic is a number of things but above all else one defining quality. The intrinsic worth of a novel in being a classic is if it is well written. For some this is an eloquent prose style or for others an engaging plot. For others still it may be three dimensional characters or if a novel offers an exploration of the linguistic parameters of a medium.

One will always find the same set of texts making the rounds of campus life. Catch 22, 1984 and Joyce in general are pivotal to the third level education experience. These superb texts deserve their status, but often I wonder why. Sometimes I fear it is not their actual merits, but rather to be seen reading them or to have read them as a pre requisite of perceived intellectual development. In other words, read for the sake of it.

Classic literature should remain a revered term, and individual discretion should be employed when one sees the term applied. Literature is much more than the best selling shelf, or indeed the classics one. Classic literature should be a peak of prose and not merely a sales pitch or time constrained term.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón is one of those names that excites you to talk about, rings a bell or just sounds like a foreign footballer. Zafón is, in fact, a Spanish author whose book The Shadow of the Wind is the most successful book to be published in Spain since Don Quixote was introduced in the seventeenth century.

The Shadow of the Wind you raise your eyebrows and hear me say? Yes, that book which is always near the tills in Waterstones with the eye-catching orange cover. It has secured itself the title of ‘my favourite book ever to be written’ for many reasons. It may be 480 pages long but the journey you are taken on through the streets and underworld of 1945 Barcelona and the Cemetery of Lost Books is well-worth the ride.

It is essentially a coming of age novel for those who need something to fill the gap between the likes of Twilight and Harry Potter and the more grown up stories from Stephen King and John Grisham. It follows Daniel, the main character, through childhood and adulthood while he tries to discover the secret of a book in his possession which he found in the Cemetery of Lost Books.

With a strong plot Zafón then proves his talents as he cleverly makes every aspect of the book vital in the outcome of the story. This really is a book that you cannot put down and for three days it became an integral part of my daily routine. It is most definitely a recommended read.

Following The Shadow of the Wind came The Angel’s Game, the fastest selling book of all time in Spain. It follows almost the same format as The Shadow of the Wind but with a twist. Barcelona is still the backdrop for this new tale of woe and the Cemetery of Lost Books still features heavily. It does however offer a different array of menacing characters, both real and imaginary to the protagonist David Martin, a struggling writer in the 1920s.

Of course, not everything is as it seems as reality mixes with the stories David writes in his books. The introduction of the mysterious Andreas Corelli offers the grounds for the plot as he presents David with the opportunity of a lifetime; to write a book that will change hearts and minds. The only letdown of this book is that it is set within the world of The Shadow of the Wind with no real link between the two. Perhaps it is simply a setting in which he is comfortable in writing but it is annoying to one who has worshipped his previous work.

The Prince of Mist is surprisingly Zafón’s first novel which was written in 1992; however it is only in more recent times that it has gained its deserved recognition in the English-speaking literary world. Initially intended as a young adult’s novel, the book explores the world of magic, something which I hear the kids are down with these days.

It is certainly darker than the rest of his work, which could also be a result of its translation from Spanish but there is something unnerving about this book that makes it unsuitable for bed-time reading, if you know what I mean. However, it is significantly shorter than the other two so it is a worthwhile read as an introduction to Zafón’s work.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón, despite being a cool name, is in all respects quite an unusual author. It is evident that in the translation process meaning within the text has been lost. I would recommend his works to everyone, especially The Shadow of the Wind because it is addictive to an unhealthy point. People need to get back into the books and discover the pleasure of reading instead of mindless drivel i.e. porn or blowing up stuff on the Xbox. Zófon invites you into a whole new world.

Whenever I told any of my friends that I was reading Life, the new autobiography by Rolling Stones guitarist, Keith Richards, I always got the same response: “He actually remembers enough to write a book?” What I learned from delving into his history is the reason that he could. It’s unforgettable.

Keith Richards is a musical legend. It’s a fact. Being the guitarist for the Rolling Stones, he and Mick Jagger have created some of the best music there is: Keith with the riffs, Mick with the lyrics. Then there are the stories that surround the person behind the music, the person who inspired Jack Sparrow, the person who snorted his father’s ashes.

The notoriety around the band is almost as famous as the music. The arrests, the drugs, the alcohol, they seemed as integral to the band as the song writing and the instruments. The problem lies in establishing what’s true and what’s been blown out of proportion?

When I got this book, I was excited to learn more about the man behind ‘Wild Horses’ and who penned the amazing opening riff to ‘Satisfaction’. I wanted to look behind the drug and alcohol stained exterior and see something more than a vandal, a rebel. Then, he got arrested on the first page. Why? For being Keith Richards.

The fact that the car was filled to the brim with drugs including several kinds stuffed in Richards’ hat but that wasn’t even a factor, the cops didn’t even find them. He was simply arrested for being a Rolling Stone in Arkansas. I quickly realised that this was Richards’ life: the drugs, the arrests and the music.

But, as I read on, I accepted that that was okay because I was still learning about one of my favourite musicians is. His passion was for the music he was involved in and what inspired him is never far off as it merges into every story he tells. Richards doesn’t shy away from any facts in his stories, no matter how repellent they could be. He and James Fox, the assistant writer, have set out to detail a life, and what a life it is.

Starting out from childhood, Richards recalls growing up in a post-World War II Britain, detailing horror stories about the dentist, school bullies and home life. Phrases such as “the first time I was shot” pop up casually and we delve into his life. Richards talks about his family with nothing but affection, especially his mother, who bought him his first guitar and introduced him to the different kinds of music in the world.

The music. This is the addiction. This is what Richards can’t kick and he proudly admits it. The drugs have gone, the arrests have stopped but the music still goes on as he writes about songs that have yet to be written, music that has yet to be played.

As well as documenting the songs that don’t yet exist, Richards openly and fondly writes about his inspirations, the formation of the band and the beginning of the Rolling Stones, a new wave of rock band that brought rebellion in the loop. Money didn’t matter; fame was something to play with and derive humour from, it was just the music that counted.

The Stones wanted to be a blues band that had their beats blown through the London circuit. They resounded throughout the world and a whirlwind of notoriety went with it. The touring began and with it the drugs and alcohol. I read for the music, but on the way I learned a lot more about what it was to be a rock star in the 1960s and 70s.

The story doesn’t just revolve around Richards as it would be impossible to leave Mick Jagger out of the memoir. It’s no secret that the two can be at each other’s throats in seconds but Richards is nothing if not loyal. There are arguments but there’s fondness there too. It’s quite endearing to read when it’s not shocking and not hilarious. I suppose true brotherhood is being able to document what about a person can drive you crazy in a book!

I don’t want to give too much away but I will say that this book was an education in what a real autobiography is and should be. I don’t know about anyone else but I am sick to death of so many “celebrities” today who can come out with five autobiographies before their mid-thirties.

It was completely refreshing to read the story of someone who waited to have a life and a career to have stories to tell and who doesn’t write while wearing rose tinted glasses. It’s Keith Richards, the rebel, the romantic, the addict but above all, the musician. It’s the truth, it’s real and it’s unforgettable. It’s Life. A very fitting title.

The Girl of His Dreams by Donna Leon. I know what you’re thinking when you see the title. Predictable, romantic novel, with happy ever after ending? Thankfully all these presumptions could not be more wrong if any of us tried. The eerie blue cover also disregarded any idea I had of a happy story. This is the 17^th of the Commissario Guido Brunetti series of detective novels, set in Venice, which began in 1992.

I must admit I was not too enthusiastic about this book before I started. It was part of a set of six or seven books I got off my mother last year for Christmas but put off because to be brutally honest they look downright boring.

Part of my enjoyment of reading is going to the book store and walking around the store with my hands full of more books than I know I can afford, (people do give me strange looks at this point), and then sitting down on the floor (this is normally when the strange looks turn to staring!) and going through them trying to find that one special book.

So when my mother presented me with this present I was dubious, also partly because she has no interest in reading at all so I had no idea what she had chosen!

The book is both a portrayal of the private family life of Brunetti and his life as a detective in Venice. The way the two overlap is effortless and adds greatly to the story. We see the change in Brunetti as a family man and then as the detective trying to work diligently.  One of the main things that appealed to me was the strong sense of place and belonging in the book.

The concern the natives of Venice held for their city was warming and their dislike of the tourists was very well done. A lot of people’s livelihoods depended on these tourists but they also saw them as a nuisance.

There is a central role in the novel with it both beginning and ending in funerals. At the start we meet Antonin Scallon, a priest and childhood friend of Brunetti’s brother. He then asks Brunetti to look into the life of Leondardi Mutti a leader of a cult, who he believes is fleecing people for money.

The detective is wary of both characters but the sub plot proves vital to the story’s success, as without it I do not believe that the main plot involving the mystery of the body of the child found floating in the water, was strong enough to stand on its own and be successful.

The discovery of the little girl’s body is even more shocking because no one has reported a child missing. It seems as if no one cares. As Brunetti searches for answers, we see that not all stories, even those in books, have happy endings.

To be honest my initial thoughts about this book were accurate. It is ok. Not awful but nothing special. Would I give it to a friend and suggest they read it? Most definitely not. It is an easy, quick read so if you need something to pass the time this will do. It would also do as fuel for the fire.

I bought An Equal Music, by Vikram Seth after the word “music” in the title enticed me to do so. Upon reading it however, I soon found out that it’s not just about music at all, rather it deals with the impact of relationships and loneliness on the life of an average middle-aged man, who happens to be a violinist in the Maggiore Quartet.

Technically, it’s a love story; but it’s not your average love story. It’s more of a story about obsessing over someone but it’s just about bearable to read. It’s a story of how music acts as fate and frequently pulls two people together, against all odds.

Michael and Julia first meet each other studying music in Vienna and eventually, through music, they fall in love. But like every love story, there are complications and they are forced apart. That is, until Julia turns up again, ten years later, at one of Michael’s concerts. As expected, their love is rekindled but their road to happiness is far more, shall we say, potholed than those in classic love stories.

As a book told in the first person narrative, the reader is granted the opportunity to analyze and empathize with the protagonist, Michael. I thought it was a nice change to read a complicated love story told from the perspective of a man, instead of the usual hormone-ridden, possibly menopausal, over-sensitive female. Another advantage to the male perspective is that you save a lot of emotional stress (and tissues).

Although in parts, the pages are filled with melodramatic statements which influence you to question whether it is actually being told by a male narrator or by the type of female narrator I mentioned above. Thankfully though, they aren’t plentiful enough to make you throw down the book with boredom.

One of my favourite aspects of the book is the way in which it fuses music with the lives of ordinary people. During the text there are many examples where circumstances in Michael’s life are compared to musical compositions. I felt incredibly cultured reading this novel, which has pages upon pages of information about the works of Schumann, Mozart, Schubert and Beethoven, to mention a few, as well as painterly descriptions of Vienna, Paris, Venice and London.

I found this book useful for filling my brain with random facts about music which will no doubt be irrelevant to everything I do in future but might be a good way to impress my friends with my vast knowledge about the quality of a Tononi or the technicalities involved in playing the “Art of Fugue”.

No two people read the same novel: everyone interprets it differently, but this is a novel that everyone can relate to. If you’re someone who’s happily in love, it will show you how fortunate you are, although it could lead to the other extreme and make you realise that you’re not happy in your relationship and you are, in fact, still in love with somebody else. Oops. Perhaps you’re the person who’s still hung up on someone after weeks/months of breaking up?

This book will show you that you’re not as badly off as you may think and maybe prepare the foundations of getting your life back on track. Nah, only messing! This book won’t give you any answers but it makes for a light read to keep you entertained when you’ve nothing else to do. If you’ve no interest in love, this book is good for those who want to increase their interest in and general knowledge of real music.

It is beautifully written, although at times the poetic language seems too forced and inappropriately placed to be credible. I’d recommend it as a divertissement, for those like me, who sometimes have nothing else they want to do other than read a light book. Otherwise, spend your time reading a love story which doesn’t fail so miserably.

What is it about film adaptations that make them so popular and successful? Some of the most critically acclaimed and many Oscar winning performances have leapt from the pages of some of the most prized novels and short stories. Many ask how can such a personal and intimate art-form translate so well onto the big screen, to such an audience-orientated medium?

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Trainspotting, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Pride and Prejudice, Brokeback Mountain (Close Range), Schindler’s List (Schindler’s Arc), American Psycho, The Godfather, The English Patient and Fight Club, just to name a few, have all been adapted from writings.

Seems bizarre when many die-hard book worms (myself included) would testify that nothing can live up to the experience of leafing through a book page by page until finally completing the almost anti-climatic last few pages, sentences and words.

What is perhaps the most disappointing aspect of adaptations is the fact that the fans have no control over what content is included, and what is not. And in many cases the author of the original book doesn’t have a say. That is not to dismiss them as horrific films when some are good and even great films.

Take The Shawshank Redemption (1994) for example. On numerous occasions, it has been listed on countless ‘favourite film’ polls; however, many fans may not be aware that it is in fact adapted from a Novella by Stephen King called, “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption” from his collection Different Seasons (1982). In fact three out of the four short stories in this collection became films; Stand by Me and Apt Pupil being the other two.

Even though the film did remain loyal to the plot it is striking how manipulative the medium of film can appear, as the original story is slightly distorted. Red, played by Morgan Freeman, was originally a red-haired Irishman in King’s vision. It is strange to imagine, given the eminence of the film. When adaptations become as successful as this one, which was nominated for an impressive seven Oscars, they seem to overpower the work of the original author. These Novellas by King are in fact considered amongst his most masterful works, but this is known by few.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) is one of the most critically acclaimed adaptations. Nominated for eight Oscars and winning three, including best adapted screenplay by Horton Foote, it is renowned worldwide. The original book written by Harper Lee was extremely controversial at its time of release due to the racial tensions that it realistically portrayed.

This realism translates magnificently onto the screen particularly through the Oscar-winning performance of Gregory Peck. The fact that the book is still studied today however means the film has not overshadowed the book. It is the book which has remained most famous.

To discuss more modern examples; first came The Lord of the Rings, then came Harry Potter and now it is the Twilight series which seems to be taking over the imaginations of all the fantasy-world fans out there. The Twilight films seem to be just as successful if not more so than the books. And when any Twilight fan, or ‘Twi-hard’ as they are called, is asked, the adaptations seem to meet the expectations.

They have become so enveloped in popular culture that when you ask, “Are you team Jacob or Edward?” almost everyone will know what you are talking about. Series such as these have become such money-making studio favourites that one can only wonder, what is the next series that will be adapted to screen and in the process become a money-making machine?

For some however the experience can never completely translate onto film. There is nothing, like in your own mind, imaging the characters, how they look, walk and talk. When books are adapted to film, that power is taken away and put into the hands of one or a few people. But, perhaps it is this realisation of their imaginations for some that attracts them to see these films.

This is the kind of book that has been passed on from one person to another. Every so often such a book comes along. So amazing that everyone you know that has an appreciation for a good book, must also experience this new discovery of yours. Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows bring us this literary delight. I had never heard of it before, but was excited to start it due to the glowing reviews it received from many friends and their families.  It was one of those books that the moment I read the first page I knew it was going to be a favourite. I must admit the cover of the book, which is normally important for me, was not too exciting, it was slightly bland. The story inside however was anything but.

The story is set in post WWII Britain and is a series of letters from Juliet Ashton and members of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. This unusual society was invented on the spot when a group of locals were caught heading home drunk after curfew, by their Nazi occupiers during World War II. The correspondence between Juliet and the society begin by her out of the blue receiving a letter from Dawsey Adams (a member of the society) saying he had acquired a book that once belonged to her. Their mutual love for reading and interest in an author of the time called Charles Lamb made the decision for them to send each other letters about their lives a natural one.

The heroine of the story, successful journalist from London, Juliet is seeking something new at the beginning of the novel. We see in her letter to her friend and publisher Sidney that she no longer wants to write the light hearted stories she had been writing under the pseudonym of Izzy Bickerstaff. As she is searching for something different she receives the letters from Guernsey and as their correspondence evolves she begins to develop the letters and their stories into the basis of her new novel.

As Juliet receives more and more letters from different members of the society, I began, like her, to become even more interested in this small island in the English Channel and its inhabitants. As the novel developed I began to see the hardships suffered in Guernsey during the German occupation there during the war. These letters are the beginning of a friendship between Juliet and the many members of the society.

The way the letters are written it is very clear to see the different personalities of the different characters in the book. They all seem so realistic, as if you could go out to Guernsey now and find them all seated around the table in Amelia Maugery’s kitchen.  Some of the letters are serious, while others are truly comical, just like the variety of personalities in the book. There is one character from Guernsey that sends letters to Julia called Adelaide Addison who I found thoroughly amusing. She was not a member of the society instead she was someone who completely condemned it. She was so easy to picture in my head. Her displeasure at the thought of all these people being features in an article is thoroughly upsetting for her. She does not believe that the members are “respectful people” bar two. Juliet also gets great amusement from this. Adelaide Addision was even more comical to me because I think every community has a woman like her in it!

The description of the hardships suffered by the polish prisoners the Germans brought to Guernsey with them was thoroughly horrific to read, but also compelling. As Juliet goes to Guernsey to meet her newly found friends, we see how as she discovers more about their past she is altering and shaping her own future.

It was impossible to put this book down! The book had a lovely rhythm to it. While it moved slowly there were moments where it gathered great momentum. The leisurely pace of the book made it seem effortless to read. There are not many books that I can say I completely love but this most definitely is one of them. I cannot find many faults in it, and even the ones that I do find are tiny and fade into insignificance due to the powerful grip this book has on me. Unfortunately I will not be able to read anymore of Shafer’s books as this was the first and last adult novel by her, the book was completed and published posthumously by her niece Annie Barrows so I will have to content myself with re-reading this over and over again! Definitely recommended!

On one of my recent trips to the book shop I found myself drifting away from the sections of fiction and drama and suddenly found myself in front of the art shelf. ‘Art?’ I said to myself as I wondered what could possibly be in amongst this lot that might grab my attention. When you think books you assume that you’ll need some story, some kind of a plot in order to encourage you to turn a page and want to continue to the end. Way to prove me wrong Postsecret.

Set up in 2004 by Frank Warren, the Postsecret project invites people from all over the world to share their secrets on an anonymous postcard. The book is a compilation of a mere few of the thousands upon thousands of secrets which have since been sent in.

It is something that we can all relate to: having something on your mind that burdens you in your day-to-day business or that you just feel like you could never express in fear of what people might say or think about it. It is these things which are then presented to us on the selection of postcards copied onto the pages in front of us.

The book itself opens with the tragic story of Frank Warrens own personal life, which highlights the benefits of the Postsecret project. The Postsecret project is then explained to us in such a way that you cannot help but realise its importance in society and the level of excellence this project presents. It is the truly inspirational content of the introduction that hooks the reader and encourages them to become sucked into the worlds of all the people whose postcards then follow.

Turning through the pages we see a variety of art work, be they sketches, photographs or other. In spite of a clear lack of artistic talent in some cases, this is not what matters and rarely crosses the mind of its reader. It is the knowledge that the piece on display is an insight into the very deepest aspect of someone’s life that encourages to stop and think, questioning what really lies behind closed doors and what it might be that we cannot share with others.

“All of my life people have told me I’m not special… I’m very easy to replace. After 43 years it has finally sunk in. I get it now.”

The range of secrets spoken through the postcards can be found at all levels of secrecy, be that an embarrassing secret or a traumatic event from the past. Whatever their depth we acknowledge their significance in the lives of their owner and therefore Postsecret becomes for us a book of inspiration, intrigue and insight. A fascinating book to have for the light page-to-page flicking when you might have a few minutes to spare.

“I don’t want to go to college. I want to grow shit.”