book reviews

Book reviews by and for those seeking to understand the human mind for all its strengths, quirks and shortcomings.

Fair Trade without robberies
Fair Trade without robberies Chapter 1 of Dark Memoirs There are at least two types of people in the world: those who write this half-assed introduction to a story that tries to distinguish the unusual from the common, and those who are aware that it is an overused framing device but choose not to use it. I tend to be in the latter camp, not the former. In case you were curious. if you asked the question in your head as if you were praying to God, Santa, or that person who was with you for the first two decades of your existence. You are aware of it. the man who went to bed with your mother that night. Looking back, I believe I was always troubled. No, I am aware of it. issues with being disconnected and detached. I really like people, but they are full of cliches, like they can't be trusted and are always wrong. Because the world is cruel and people have hearts, people are cruel. Their hearts are erratic and dishonest. You are already familiar with the kind of cliches I'm referring to. I rarely look in the mirror. Concerned about what I might see? No. I already know what I'll see, and it's not something I like. It is a waste of time to look through a looking glass for every second. Self-loathing is my full-time job, and I'm good at it without looking at that horrible jerk. As the last person so many people see before they expire, I do feel they're relieved by death's imminent arrival. As a result of the darkened realization that dances across their face as I call time, there will be no robberies. I'd say that it gives me a sense of purpose and even joy, but I'm much more than just driven by basic human needs. Glib. That is a word that is rarely used. It feels appropriate, even in my memoirs, which are heavy on erudition and grandiosity. According to the Collins Dictionary, the term "glib" refers to something that is simple and effortless, but frequently in a deceptive, superficial, or insincere manner. Perfect.
By Silent Truth about 10 hours ago in Psyche
The Speed of Life
We live in an age where speed is celebrated. Faster internet, faster success, faster replies, faster results. From the moment we wake up, life seems to press a silent accelerator. Notifications buzz, deadlines chase us, and comparison quietly sits in our pockets. The speed of life keeps increasing—but the quality of life often does not. This raises a powerful psychological question: Is moving faster actually helping us live better, or is it slowly draining the meaning from our lives?
By Alexander Mind8 days ago in Psyche
The Weight of Ink
Arthur’s desk lamp threw a sickly yellow circle onto the stack of paper, illuminating the same half-finished letter he’d been staring at for the better part of a decade. His hand, gnarled and spotted with age, trembled slightly as he picked up the pen, the cheap plastic cool against his skin. Whiskey sat beside it, amber liquid shimmering in a heavy glass, untouched. Not yet. He always waited until the words, or the lack of them, had thoroughly beaten him down.
By HAADI9 days ago in Psyche
The Night I Understood Football
I didn’t go to the game expecting hope. It was a cold November Thursday. My brother had just lost his job. My nephew hadn’t spoken in days after a school incident. The world felt heavy, and the last thing I wanted was to watch a mismatch—our hometown team facing a dynasty that hadn’t lost in months.
By KAMRAN AHMAD9 days ago in Psyche
The Last Whistle
The platform wind bit at Arthur’s exposed neck, a cold, wet dog nosing for a weakness. It was a miserable hour past midnight, and the only light came from a single, stuttering lantern hanging precariously from a rusted iron beam. His breath plumed in front of him, thick and heavy, like the fog that usually hugged the river on nights like these. He adjusted the strap of his worn duffel bag, the weight on his shoulder nothing compared to the one pressing behind his ribs, a dull, constant ache that had become his only real companion.
By HAADI10 days ago in Psyche
Broken Light on Wet Streets
Elias hadn't meant to be out this late. The rain, a cold, persistent sheet, had caught him three blocks from the bar, the one he’d just stormed out of. The argument, a low, simmering thing with Clara, had finally boiled over, spilling out in harsh whispers and a slammed door. Now, the city's neon signs, usually a garish blur, became something else, something sharper, something almost malevolent in the puddles.
By HAADI12 days ago in Psyche
The Cobalt Tongue
Sarah’s dress was a cruel kind of blue, a shade somewhere between a summer sky and a forgotten bruise. Elias tried to focus on her words, something about her aunt’s cat, but the taste of it filled his mouth, sharp and insistent. Not a flavor like lemon or salt, no, but a cold, metallic tang, like old pennies left too long in a damp palm. Beneath that, a vast, echoing emptiness, a hollow ache that settled deep in his molars. He wanted to spit, but polite society didn’t allow for such things, not in a brightly lit cafe with too many people and their own silent worlds. He swallowed hard, feeling the phantom chill go down his throat.
By HAADI19 days ago in Psyche
The Reverse Tick
Mr. Elias Thorne’s classroom always smelled of chalk dust and resignation. He was a history teacher, fifty-six years old, and had the kind of slump in his shoulders that suggested the weight of all recorded human folly rested squarely there. The fluorescent lights hummed a low, constant complaint above his head. His tweed jacket, a permanent fixture, had frayed cuffs that seemed to unravel with each passing year, much like his own enthusiasm.
By HAADI27 days ago in Psyche
Beauty Can Be Terrifying
Piranesi by Susanna Clarke is, aside from being my favourite fiction book I have ever read, a perfect example of beauty and the sublime. While this is not a review of the book, it serves as a perfect illustration of what we are going to discuss: the limitless and boundless beauty—and horror—of the sublime.
By Avocado Nunzella BSc (Psych) -- M.A.P about a month ago in Psyche
The Town That Forgot to Dream. AI-Generated.
Riverbank, population 387, had exactly one traffic light, two churches, and zero reasons for anyone under thirty to stay. Grace Holloway knew this because she'd watched ninety-two percent of her high school graduating class leave and never return. The ambitious ones went to college and found careers in cities with actual opportunities. The realistic ones took jobs in nearby towns with functioning economies. The unlucky ones stayed in Riverbank, working at the gas station or the diner, watching their dreams shrink to fit the town's limitations.
By The 9x Fawdiabout a month ago in Psyche
The Student Who Stayed Silent. AI-Generated.
Maya Torres hadn't spoken in class for three years. Not because she couldn't. The words existed, fully formed in her mind—answers to questions, contributions to discussions, jokes she'd never share. They just dissolved somewhere between her brain and her mouth, leaving only silence and the familiar burn of shame.
By The 9x Fawdiabout a month ago in Psyche
Behind the Screen: How E-Commerce Is Rewriting Human Life
You probably didn't even notice it. Maybe it was just another night. You were tired, half-asleep, your phone in hand. You opened an app without thinking, browsed through a few products, read some suspiciously similar reviews, tapped "Buy Now," and went back to what you were doing. Somewhere in the distance, a warehouse light came on, you scanned a barcode, and a package arrived. A few days later, a small box arrived at your door, and the moment was complete.
By Sayed Zewayed2 months ago in Psyche