Wulf C. Krueger

My expectations were naturally high as I ventured back alongside [a:Michael Connelly's 12470 Michael Connelly https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1539114448p2/12470.jpg] Harry Bosch as he re-joins the force in “[b:The Closers 32505 The Closers (Harry Bosch, #11; Harry Bosch Universe, #15) Michael Connelly https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388262627l/32505.SY75.jpg 590167]”. This novel does bring a different tempo, quite unlike the whirlwind of suspense we often associate with Bosch's live-wire cases. Instead, he delves into a cold case, bringing a slower, perhaps more methodical, feel to this venture. Initially, my excitement ebbed slightly as the urgency I'm familiar with in Bosch novels was subdued due to the nature of a cold case. However, as Bosch's intricate world unfurled, the story's pace began to pick up, rendering my initial reservations (mostly) moot. Detours from urgency can indeed provide new spaces for character exploration and narrative depth. This novel proved that slow-burning embers could have the potential to ignite an inferno.The inclusion, perhaps reintroduction, of Irvin Irving added a nuanced blend to the storyline. Though I found Irving's character portrayal to be somewhat dissonant with previous depictions, it provided a refreshing dimension. It's these unexpected character arcs that might polarise views but undeniably stir the plot's dynamic.Also, Kizmin “Kiz” Rider's return from administrative duties to being Harry's partner on “sixth floor” made for a welcome addition. Sadly, she remains somewhat bland and underused but at least she's back.Lastly, the narrative's gradual acceleration led to a climax that, while not as adrenaline-pumped as some of Connelly's others, was satisfyingly appropriate given the plot's trajectory.Connelly proves with “The Closers” that revisiting cold cases need not be a cold affair; rather, it can kindle new respect for nuances in crime-solving that fresher cases rarely provide the space to explore. While the novel initially felt like a quiet murmur compared to the thunderous exploits of Bosch, it evolved nicely into a rhythmic soliloquy, deserving a solid four-star rating.Blog Facebook Twitter Mastodon Instagram Pinterest Medium Matrix TumblrCeterum censeo Putin esse delendam

I’ve had a hard time reading “The Glass Castle” by Jeannette Walls. Walls describes the horrors (and a few good times, few and far between) of her childhood and adolescence.

While I kept wishing someone had intervened, I still felt thoroughly disengaged from the memoir. Walls describes everything without allowing any emotions to shine through. “Glass Castle” reads like it has been written by a detached observer. It’s a sterile, antiseptic report, which is undoubtedly well-written but, to me, not very interesting.

Only during the very first chapter are there any meaningful emotional components and in her acknowledgements, Walls states being “grateful [...] to my father, Rex S. Walls, for dreaming all those big dreams”. These are the dreams of a man who repeatedly tried to sell his own daughter to strangers to rape her. Moreover, he goes on to victim-blame her.

Walls is also grateful to her mother “for believing in art and truth” - a truth her mother gaslit her children away from, and a truth that includes possession of land worth a million that’s being kept in the family for no reason at all while the kids literally starve, freeze, and suffer from neglect, among other hardships.

Don’t get me wrong: Walls, just like anyone else, is, of course, welcome to feel and think any way she likes. Nevertheless, what precedent does that set for other parents like hers?

In different ways, I have my own childhood traumas caused by my father (and was blamed for them by my mother). I breathe more freely since his death in August 2024. Hadn’t it been for the misplaced piety of others, I would have had him dumped into my mother’s grave, alone with an undertaker.

Three stars out of five for the effort.

Ceterum censeo Putin esse delendam

I was very much looking forward to reading “[b:Evil Games 25067570 Evil Games (DI Kim Stone, #2) Angela Marsons https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1588321125l/25067570.SY75.jpg 44752433]” by [a:Angela Marsons 7942666 Angela Marsons https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1419947389p2/7942666.jpg], having just discovered what an interesting detective Kim Stone is. Sadly, this second instalment in Marsons' long-running series didn't hold up the promise of its predecessor.There are actually two mysteries in “Evil Games” and both are completely unrelated, making the novel feel somewhat disjointed. While in the first storyline, Kim and her team have just apprehended a child molester, in the titular storyline Kim is going solo after a rogue psychiatrist.Both storylines leave much to be desired: The case of the child molester is pretty much solved from the beginning and the team is trying to find a secondary perpetrator. There is no suspense in that part, especially since very basic procedures, e. g. comparing DNA found at the crime scene against easily accessible samples, are not even thought of. The solution pretty much occurs to Kim at the last possible moment in the novel and it's kind of a “deus ex machina” moment of dubious probability (just like the culprit themself...).The investigation against the psychiatrist is even worse: Said psychiatrist, Alex, is not only depicted as a genius-level manipulator who in the course of one single session can talk people into committing major crimes. She also seems to have almost everyone in her pocket under threat of revealing dark secrets. Miraculously, Alex finds out everything about everyone in very short periods of time, gets access even to violent inmates of asylums and easily coerces the staff into violating their confidentiality obligations with just a bright smile.I just cannot buy into that kind of super villain outside of superhero stories.Kim herself knows full well that Alex could unravel her completely, and yet ignores the advice of a former psychiatrist and mentor of hers and doesn't make use of his expertise in any meaningful way. Kim keeps getting triggered by Alex in each and every meeting of the two but at a pivotal moment, she seemingly effortlessly ignores even the worst possible of Alex' attempts to trigger her.Considering Alex' super villain status, that completely defied even the already implausible premises of the novel.And there's one more thing that really annoyed me:»Kim refilled her coffee mug thinking, Jesus, I'm trying to nail Mother Theresa.«(The misspelling is the author's.)Mother Teresa's legacy is deeply problematic and undeserving of uncritical reverence. She glorified suffering instead of alleviating it, denying patients proper medical care and hygiene in her facilities. She opposed contraception and abortion, worsening poverty and systemic suffering, and accepted donations from corrupt individuals while mismanaging funds. Her theology prioritized suffering “martyrdom” over real solutions, and her approach to “charity” often perpetuated misery rather than addressing its root causes. Many still view this despicable and disgusting person as a saint, but in reality, her actions often caused harm. Her legacy should be a cautionary tale about blind hero-worship and unaccountable humanitarian work.Overall, this was a mediocre read, earning three stars out of five.Blog Facebook Twitter Mastodon Instagram Pinterest Medium Matrix TumblrCeterum censeo Putin esse delendam

This is the second time I'm reading “[b:When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit 54283 When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit (Out of the Hitler Time, #1) Judith Kerr https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1339840922l/54283.SY75.jpg 1877851]”. The first time was when it was compulsory reading at school more than 30 years ago. I don't remember much of my reading experience back then but that I felt with Anna, the protagonist and narrator, who had to leave Pink Rabbit back in Germany when her family emigrated to escape the rising Nazism...Now, at 45, I'm impressed for different reasons: First moving from Berlin, Germany, to Zurich, Switzerland, then Paris, France and, finally, London, United Kingdom, both Anna and her brother Max are relatively quick to adapt to their new surroundings.While it's rarely easy for either of them, their resilience in the face of difficult circumstances and optimism is deeply inspiring.Nazism always looms in the background; be it through German tourists who prohibit their children to play with Anna and Max for the sole reason of them being Jewish or the Paris concierge.Both children picture Hitler as personally enjoying the toys they had to leave behind - the eponymous Pink Rabbit and a games compendium - and, thus, make the darkest period in Germany's history ascertainable.The book ends abruptly in a cab in London, shortly after Anna thinks...»“What a pity,” [Anna] thought. “I'll never be famous at this rate!”«Dame Anna Judith Gertrud Helene Kerr, Officer of “The Most Excellent Order of the British Empire”, wasn't too far off the mark: It would take her children's prodding about her childhood to make her publish this semi-autobiographical novel in 1971. This publication and the two following novels laid the foundation for Kerr's fame that she had dreamt of as a child.The Kerr family had escaped Germany just in the nick of time - a day later and they would have been arrested by the Nazis who went on to burn Alfred Kerr's books. Alfred Kerr died 1948 by suicide, aided by his wife, shortly after visiting Hamburg, Germany, for the first time after the war. His wife Julia died in 1965. Judith Kerr wrote children's books and illustrated them, married in 1954 and stayed married for more than 50 years.Judith Kerr died in 2019 at the age of 95. She had outlived the Nazis who wanted to extinguish the entire family by almost 75 years. Poetic justice.Five out of five stars. Blog Facebook Twitter Instagram

“That's true, good lady, but then we boatmen have seen so many over the years it doesn't take us long to see beyond deceptions. Besides, when travellers speak of their most cherished memories, it's impossible for them to disguise the truth. A couple may claim to be bonded by love, but we boatmen may see instead resentment, anger, even hatred. Or a great barrenness. Sometimes a fear of loneliness and nothing more. Abiding love that has endured the years—that we see only rarely. When we do, we're only too glad to ferry the couple together. Good lady, I've already said more than I should.”


Axl and Beatrice, an elderly couple, live in post-Roman Britain. They – like everyone – are suffering from some strange memory loss that prevents them from recalling large parts of their lives:

“Now I think of it, Axl, there may be something in what you're always saying. It's queer the way the world's forgetting people and things from only yesterday and the day before that. [...] Like a sickness come over us all.”

Sometimes, though, either Axl or Beatrice do remember things from their past; just like one morning Axl remembers their son who has moved to a village not too far from their home. Not having seen him for many years, they decide to visit him. The entire book is basically about their journey and the people they meet.


This book is definitely not for the casual reader – you always have to read closely and attentively or you will miss a lot of small details that are not always of great relevance but which help form the “big picture”, e. g. we learn early on that Beatrice and Axl aren't allowed to own and use a candle at their home. When they're talking about a cloak much later on, we learn said cloak was one they “later we lost in that fire”.

Furthermore, the entire book can be read in a number of ways – as a somewhat simple story of the arduous journey of our elderly couple, or maybe that journey itself isn't one of physical hardship but an allegory for their life together and the challenges they encountered.

Even individual encounters and deeds during the journey can often be interpreted in many ways. The more abstract interpretation is all the more plausible as the writing style is very formal, sometimes excessively so:

“Master Ivor told us of it, and we thought it poor news to succeed your brave intervention.”

Nobody – at least today – talks like that. While this is, undoubtedly, yet another means to achieve a feeling of estrangement, it is too much for me.

In addition to this strange formality, the narrator often doesn't directly describe the landscape but how it could or would have been at the time narrated:

“There would have been elms and willows near the water, as well as dense woodland, which in those days would have stirred a sense of foreboding.”

This adds again to the feeling of estrangement from the literal story itself and makes it harder for me to actually enjoy the story. It distances the reader from the story and while that might be the right way if you only care about your art and not your reader, I didn't like that.

I always felt like I was being led by the nose somewhere and tried to anticipate it. I felt like being manipulated to be “educated” and I didn't enjoy it.


The weird forgetfulness everyone is afflicted by makes for very strange dialogue like this one:

““What's this you're saying, princess? Was I ever the one to stop us journeying to our son's village?” “But surely you were, Axl. Surely you were.” “When did I speak against such a journey, princess?” “I always thought you did, husband. But oh, Axl, I don't remember clearly now you question it. And why do we stand out here, fine day though it is?”“

Uh, yes, and why are you tormenting us with repeating dialogues like that all the time?! It's really truly annoying to have to keep reading stuff like that.

On the other hand, it's the most important narrative feature of this book so I do understand the general need to make sure we fully understand it and its implications. Even more so since both Beatrice and Axl do remember additional fragments of memories whenever they talk in length about any given topic. Quite a bit of information is given in that indirect way.

Especially information that has been hidden before – because every character in this entire book is hiding things – some major, some minor – from everyone else. Sometimes with good reason, sometimes we simply don't know and have to find our own answer.

Everything in this book is taxing like that, even down to the names of our heroes:

Beatrice literally means “she who makes happy” - and she is Axl's one and only. The only person for whom he really cares and she makes him happy.

Axl means “father of peace” (or “father is peace”) and even that is quite fitting as we will learn late in the book.


“The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it's time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what's been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day.”

While I was reading “Giant”, I constantly felt like the author was wagging his finger at me and lecturing me. Literature, to me, though, is not about lecturing. I want “my” books to entertain me, to make me think and question things but not by moralising, lecturing, finger-wagging but unobtrusively.

Maybe that's too near to “edutainment” (which I have no qualm with) for some but that's just the way I feel. I don't like reading the old classics (Schiller, Goethe, etc.) either anymore – they're just too far from my life and times.

“Giant” does read like such a classic or, possibly, a play:

“Should I fall before I pass to you my skills, promise me you'll tend well this hatred in your heart. And should it ever flicker or threaten to die, shield it with care till the flame takes hold again. Will you promise me this, Master Edwin?”


At least a few amusing passages found their way into this book (possibly by accident!):

““Let's come away, child,” Axl said. “This is no sight for you or your brothers. But what is it made this poor ogre so sick? Can it be your goat was diseased?” “Not diseased, sir, poisoned! We'd been feeding it more than a full week just the way Bronwen taught us. Six times each day with the leaves.””


Ultimately, though, “The Buried Giant” is lost on me due to its excessively allegorical nature and narrative complexity – if a book is so taxing, I can hardly enjoy reading it anymore, it's simply too much for me. Maybe it's Ishiguro handing us all the essential information to make up our own mind and come to our own conclusions and it's just me.

I didn't give up on this book but I'm giving up on its author for good.