January-March WRAP UP!

So far, 2018 has been a great reading year. I don’t think there has ever been a year where, within the span of three months, I’ve managed to read five books (for pleasure). For me that’s such a win.

I had originally set my 2018 Bookish New Years Resolution to read 30 books but the first couple of weeks in January didn’t go so well, in terms of bookish accomplishments. Then I heard that Ariel Bissett sets her goal to one book every year to take the pressure off. So, I changed my goal to 12 books. That’s one book a month; easy stuff. I am already seeing what a good idea it has turned out to be. According to GoodReads I am three-whole-books books ahead of schedule. It feels good.

Anyway, you came here for spoiler-free mini-reviews of all the books that I’ve read. So, without further ado, it begins:


Half a King by Joe Abercrombie
4/5 Stars
The main character in this book, Yarvi, is a Prince but he is destined for a life away from the throne. That is until his father, the king, is murdered. Thus ensues heartbreak, betrayal, and treason.
      Half a King was not a fast-paced book, although the beginning is the exception– it thrusts you into the events and, before you know it, you’re hooked and rooting for poor Yarvi. There’s a lot of character growth in Yarvi and how could there not be when your family betrays you and you’re forcibly sold to a fierce sea-captain as a slave. Yarvi is resourceful and intelligent and, despite all the hardships he has endured, Yarvi is kind. He becomes a man during the events of this book but I’d have a tough time deciding if Half a King is character based or plot based.
I’d say the driving force for this book (at least for me) is the possibility of catharsis. You can’t wait for Yarvi to get home one day and show his family and his people how strong he is, how much he’s suffered, and how misunderstood he has been. And we get a real treat of what I like to call “double-catharisis” at the end.
My only qualm with his book is that it was too short. I know it’s the first book in a series but this book needed more, especially as a borderline-high-fantasy. It needed more description, more character development of all of the characters, more conflict, more journeying. More of everything. Except the ending. The ending was prefect.


Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
5/5 Stars
When people ask me what I thought of this book I am always struck with how little I have to say. This is simply because my opinion can be wrapped up in a neat little sentence: Reading Adichie’s letters helped me change how I perceive things. If you want me to go on further: it helped me open my eyes and recognize things that I’d buried deep within me. These aspects of life Adichie mentions were things that, as a woman, I’d noticed and some things I didn’t realize that I’d noticed. But in reading this book, all of those underlying details that I’d buried deep within me because of the patriarchal society we live in, came to the surface and now I perceive the world differently. More importantly, I perceive the world more actively.
Everyone should read this book no matter the gender that they identify with, no matter if they have children or not, no matter if they are fifteen years old or ninety-five.


Sea of Shadows by Kelly Armstrong
3/5 Stars
There’s always that one book you want to love but turns out to be a dud. I don’t like to write negative things about books unless they’re really bad like how I felt about The Captive Prince so I’ll keep this “review” short. This books was really lacking in my opinion. Lacking in writing, lacking in character, lacking in plot. I was just not impressed. I think the most frustrating thing about it was that I could not pin down the two main characters: Moria and Ashyn. I think the problem there came from when we first meet Moria. In those first few pages I developed a sense for her character but when we meet again I found Moria’s initial characteristics in Ashyn and the confusion between the two never cleared. Beyond that, I won’t say much. I did find the story to be alluring, in that I wanted to find out what happened next. The writing, on the other hand, left everything to be desired which felt strange considering Armstrong’s status in the literary world.


The Telling Pool by David Clement-Davies
4/5 Stars
This book has many mixed reviews and, as for me, I have very mixed feelings. While the writing was rich and the plot was loaded with many allegories and lessons, I can’t quite pinpoint the story’s nature or it’s intended audience. This is my first David Clement-Davies book so I look forward to seeing how this matches up to the likes of The Sight. I like how real this book was, how close to human nature, and how Rhodri’s thoughts process and develop throughout the book. It was a much slower read, especially having just read Sea of Shadows which takes the form of the most basic writing style and which I zipped through.
I feel like I still need to process the story in order to properly review it. Maybe one day I’ll have my thoughts in order…


Call Me By Your Name by Andre Aciman
5/5 Stars
Besides Adichie’s book (above), Call Me By Your Name is one of my favourite reads this year. I listened to it in the span of three days, I couldn’t get enough. I then proceeded to watch the movie and have declared myself obsessed. I don’t know if my obsession is in the story or in the idea of love. As a twenty-three year old woman who has never fallen in love, this Aciman fed me full of what it must be like to be in love (though Elio and Oliver’s love can also called infatuation– but I cannot argue that with so little evidence from my own life to draw from). This story is filled with so much of what it means to be human that reading it I felt raw at times. It was so beautiful. I want to review this in a separate post at some point because I have so much to say. Beyond that, I will leave you with this: Call Me By Your Name is one of my favourite books, though my impression just after reading it was that I wouldn’t call it one of my top five. Make of that what you will, I suppose.


Currently Reading:

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (re-read)

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

Tulip Fever by Deborah Moggach



Beautiful Book Covers

I love beautiful books so, I  just had to make a video about them. Below you will find the video as well as a list of the editions of the books I mention with direct links to Book Depository. Enjoy! Let me know what you love in a cover in the comments.

Colin Meloy’s Wildwood

Neil Gaiman’s Stardust (Illustrated by Charles Vess)

Tahereh Mafi’s Unravel Me

Michelle Hodkin’s The Retribution of Mara Dyer

Jane Austen’s Persuasion

Naomi Novik’s Uprooted

Ovid’s Metamorphoses

Nancy Horan’s Under The Wide and Starry Sky

Richard Adam’s Watership Down

Erika Johansen’ The Queen of the Tearling

Zachary Thomas Dodson’ Bats of the Republic


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Top 10 SUMMER Reads

Summer isn’t over yet. Forget about the pressures and stresses of the fall season with a last-minute video about my favourite summer reads. Take a look underneath the video below for my ratings for each book and direct links to GoodReads to find out more about each book.

✦ Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt

✦ The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

✦ The Smile by Donna Jo Napoli

✦ The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt

✦ Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell

✦ The Lifeguard by Deborah Blumenthal

 Along For the Ride by Sarah Dessen

✦ Lament by Maggie Stiefvater

✦ Stolen by Lucy Christopher

✦ Sixteenth Summer by Michelle Dalton

✦ The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller


Free Delivery on all Books at the Book Depository


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The Kiss of Deception Review | YouFoundMarina

I hadn’t expected to enjoy Mary E. Pearson’s The Kiss of Deception when I placed the book on my shelf months ago, and I certainly felt no differently when I started the book last week. I began reading it simply to get it off my TBR, though I was curious what so many people were talking about.

My initial impartial feelings towards the tale came when I read the first line of the book: “Today was the day a thousand dreams would die and a single dream would be born.” The line felt forced, like it was trying too hard. I decided then that I would dislike the book.

Boy was I wrong.

Although the going was slow for me, at first, I began to thoroughly like the book. I would find myself at work thinking about Lia, Rafe and Kaden. Now I need the second book. Only, there are three books coming out in the next three weeks that are going to cost me a fair amount of coin. And there are over 100 books on my TBR list. I know, I have a problem. These are good problems though.

As for the book, here are some of my thoughts:

Yes, the book does have a love triangle but it is not what you would expect. Pearson has written her book so that I never ever shipped Lia one of the love interests. Though they had their moments I could never trust him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for the mysterious bad boy in books but this guy, I just can’t ever picture him as a love interest. So, in a way, it’s not an actual love interest. The love only goes one way.

When I began the book and the perspectives changed I struck me hard. I hadn’t noticed the change in perspective that is written beneath the chapter number. I was not prepared. I got used to this after a while, after I was able to discern which character was Rafe and which character was Kaden. IT took me several chapters. After that, though, my enjoyment increased. (Sorry for the dry language; I’m in book withdrawal.)

I also don’t quite understand the cover.

Lia’s crown is made of lavender in the book and on the cover there are pink and white flowers, for one. Who’s the girl holding the horse in the background beside the little tower? Pauline? What is the building supposed to be? Maybe I’m thinking too much. Also, the title does not feel serious enough. For the weight that the book carries in character development and strong plot work, the title seems to lie. The Kiss of Deception feels like a deception in itself. Without the back blurb for guidance, the title suggests that the novel is only about a deceptive love interest. This novel is so, so much more.

Mary E. Pearson is exceptional in her ability to describe and fill up space. I say this with the most admiration because that’s what I find most difficult in writing. The novel is nearly 500 pages and would be considerably– if not a third of the current size– shorter if it wasn’t for all of the descriptions, flashbacks, and change of perspective. Where in some novels this may become tedious and unnecessary, Pearson uses her skill well. It makes the book so much… deeper. (Again my arsenal of interesting synonyms is unavailable because I’m in book withdrawal).

My overall rating 3.5/5. On GoodReads I rated the book 4/5 because 3.5 isn’t an option. But 4/5 is just as good.

I can’t wait to read the next instalment!

Have you read the book? Tell me what you think. Do you have any other book recommendations for me? I’d love to hear your thoughts.


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Adonis | YouFoundMarina Poetry Week Day 2

Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

       I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
       Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears
       Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
       And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
       To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
       And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
       Died Adonais; till the Future dares
       Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!”
       Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
       When thy Son lay, pierc’d by the shaft which flies
       In darkness? where was lorn Urania
       When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
       ‘Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
       She sate, while one, with soft enamour’d breath,
       Rekindled all the fading melodies,
       With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorn’d and hid the coming bulk of Death.
       Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead!
       Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
       Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
       Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
       Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
       For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
       Descend—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
       Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.
       Most musical of mourners, weep again!
       Lament anew, Urania! He died,
       Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
       Blind, old and lonely, when his country’s pride,
       The priest, the slave and the liberticide,
       Trampled and mock’d with many a loathed rite
       Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
       Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.
       Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
       Not all to that bright station dar’d to climb;
       And happier they their happiness who knew,
       Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
       In which suns perish’d; others more sublime,
       Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
       Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
       And some yet live, treading the thorny road,
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.
       But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish’d,
       The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
       Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish’d,
       And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
       Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
       Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
       The bloom, whose petals nipp’d before they blew
       Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.
       To that high Capital, where kingly Death
       Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
       He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
       A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
       Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
       Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
       He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
       Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
       He will awake no more, oh, never more!
       Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
       The shadow of white Death, and at the door
       Invisible Corruption waits to trace
       His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
       The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
       Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
       So fair a prey, till darkness and the law
Of change shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.
       Oh, weep for Adonais! The quick Dreams,
       The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
       Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
       Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
       The love which was its music, wander not—
       Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
       But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
       Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.
       And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
       And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
       “Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
       See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
       Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
       A tear some Dream has loosen’d from his brain.”
       Lost Angel of a ruin’d Paradise!
       She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.
       One from a lucid urn of starry dew
       Wash’d his light limbs as if embalming them;
       Another clipp’d her profuse locks, and threw
       The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
       Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
       Another in her wilful grief would break
       Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
       A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.
       Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
       That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
       Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
       And pass into the panting heart beneath
       With lightning and with music: the damp death
       Quench’d its caress upon his icy lips;
       And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
       Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flush’d through his pale limbs, and pass’d to its eclipse.
       And others came . . . Desires and Adorations,
       Winged Persuasions and veil’d Destinies,
       Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
       Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
       And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
       And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
       Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
       Came in slow pomp; the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
       All he had lov’d, and moulded into thought,
       From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
       Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
       Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
       Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
       Dimm’d the aëreal eyes that kindle day;
       Afar the melancholy thunder moan’d,
       Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.
       Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
       And feeds her grief with his remember’d lay,
       And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
       Or amorous birds perch’d on the young green spray,
       Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
       Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
       Than those for whose disdain she pin’d away
       Into a shadow of all sounds: a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.
       Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
       Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
       Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,
       For whom should she have wak’d the sullen year?
       To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
       Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
       Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere
       Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turn’d to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.
       Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
       Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;
       Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
       Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
       Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
       Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
       As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
       Light on his head who pierc’d thy innocent breast,
And scar’d the angel soul that was its earthly guest!
       Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
       But grief returns with the revolving year;
       The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
       The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
       Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons’ bier;
       The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
       And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
       And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprison’d flames, out of their trance awake.
       Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
       A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
       As it has ever done, with change and motion,
       From the great morning of the world when first
       God dawn’d on Chaos; in its stream immers’d,
       The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
       All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
       Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight,
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.
       The leprous corpse, touch’d by this spirit tender,
       Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
       Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
       Is chang’d to fragrance, they illumine death
       And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
       Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
       Be as a sword consum’d before the sheath
       By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows
A moment, then is quench’d in a most cold repose.
       Alas! that all we lov’d of him should be,
       But for our grief, as if it had not been,
       And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!
       Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
       The actors or spectators? Great and mean
       Meet mass’d in death, who lends what life must borrow.
       As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
       Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.
       He will awake no more, oh, never more!
       “Wake thou,” cried Misery, “childless Mother, rise
       Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
       A wound more fierce than his, with tears and sighs.”
       And all the Dreams that watch’d Urania’s eyes,
       And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
       Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
       Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.
       She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
       Out of the East, and follows wild and drear
       The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
       Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
       Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
       So struck, so rous’d, so rapt Urania;
       So sadden’d round her like an atmosphere
       Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.
       Out of her secret Paradise she sped,
       Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
       And human hearts, which to her aery tread
       Yielding not, wounded the invisible
       Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
       And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
       Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
       Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Pav’d with eternal flowers that undeserving way.
       In the death-chamber for a moment Death,
       Sham’d by the presence of that living Might,
       Blush’d to annihilation, and the breath
       Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light
       Flash’d through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
       “Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
       As silent lightning leaves the starless night!
       Leave me not!” cried Urania: her distress
Rous’d Death: Death rose and smil’d, and met her vain caress.
       “Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
       Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
       And in my heartless breast and burning brain
       That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,
       With food of saddest memory kept alive,
       Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
       Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
       All that I am to be as thou now art!
But I am chain’d to Time, and cannot thence depart!
       “O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
       Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
       Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
       Dare the unpastur’d dragon in his den?
       Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
       Wisdom the mirror’d shield, or scorn the spear?
       Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
       Thy spirit should have fill’d its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.
       “The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
       The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
       The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
       Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
       And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled,
       When, like Apollo, from his golden bow
       The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
       And smil’d! The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.
       “The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;
       He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
       Is gather’d into death without a dawn,
       And the immortal stars awake again;
       So is it in the world of living men:
       A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
       Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
       It sinks, the swarms that dimm’d or shar’d its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”
       Thus ceas’d she: and the mountain shepherds came,
       Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
       The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
       Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
       An early but enduring monument,
       Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
       In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent
       The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.
       Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
       A phantom among men; companionless
       As the last cloud of an expiring storm
       Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
       Had gaz’d on Nature’s naked loveliness,
       Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
       With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
       And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursu’d, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.
       A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
       A Love in desolation mask’d—a Power
       Girt round with weakness—it can scarce uplift
       The weight of the superincumbent hour;
       It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
       A breaking billow; even whilst we speak
       Is it not broken? On the withering flower
       The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.
       His head was bound with pansies overblown,
       And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
       And a light spear topp’d with a cypress cone,
       Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
       Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
       Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
       Shook the weak hand that grasp’d it; of that crew
       He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandon’d deer struck by the hunter’s dart.
       All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
       Smil’d through their tears; well knew that gentle band
       Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
       As in the accents of an unknown land
       He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scann’d
       The Stranger’s mien, and murmur’d: “Who art thou?”
       He answer’d not, but with a sudden hand
       Made bare his branded and ensanguin’d brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!
       What softer voice is hush’d over the dead?
       Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
       What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
       In mockery of monumental stone,
       The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
       If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
       Taught, sooth’d, lov’d, honour’d the departed one,
       Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.
       Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
       What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
       Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
       The nameless worm would now itself disown:
       It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
       Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong,
       But what was howling in one breast alone,
       Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.
       Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
       Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
       Thou noteless blot on a remember’d name!
       But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
       And ever at thy season be thou free
       To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow;
       Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;
       Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.
       Nor let us weep that our delight is fled
       Far from these carrion kites that scream below;
       He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
       Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.
       Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
       Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
       A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
       Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.
       Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,
       He hath awaken’d from the dream of life;
       ‘Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
       With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
       And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
       Invulnerable nothings. We decay
       Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
       Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
       He has outsoar’d the shadow of our night;
       Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
       And that unrest which men miscall delight,
       Can touch him not and torture not again;
       From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
       He is secure, and now can never mourn
       A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;
       Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceas’d to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
       He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
       Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn,
       Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
       The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
       Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
       Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,
       Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown
       O’er the abandon’d Earth, now leave it bare
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!
       He is made one with Nature: there is heard
       His voice in all her music, from the moan
       Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet bird;
       He is a presence to be felt and known
       In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
       Spreading itself where’er that Power may move
       Which has withdrawn his being to its own;
       Which wields the world with never-wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
       He is a portion of the loveliness
       Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear
       His part, while the one Spirit’s plastic stress
       Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there
       All new successions to the forms they wear;
       Torturing th’ unwilling dross that checks its flight
       To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;
       And bursting in its beauty and its might
From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven’s light.
       The splendours of the firmament of time
       May be eclips’d, but are extinguish’d not;
       Like stars to their appointed height they climb,
       And death is a low mist which cannot blot
       The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought
       Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,
       And love and life contend in it for what
       Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.
       The inheritors of unfulfill’d renown
       Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,
       Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton
       Rose pale, his solemn agony had not
       Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought
       And as he fell and as he liv’d and lov’d
       Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,
       Arose; and Lucan, by his death approv’d:
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reprov’d.
       And many more, whose names on Earth are dark,
       But whose transmitted effluence cannot die
       So long as fire outlives the parent spark,
       Rose, rob’d in dazzling immortality.
       “Thou art become as one of us,” they cry,
       “It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long
       Swung blind in unascended majesty,
       Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song.
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!”
       Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth,
       Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright.
       Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth;
       As from a centre, dart thy spirit’s light
       Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might
       Satiate the void circumference: then shrink
       Even to a point within our day and night;
       And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink
When hope has kindled hope, and lur’d thee to the brink.
       Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,
       Oh, not of him, but of our joy: ’tis nought
       That ages, empires and religions there
       Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought;
       For such as he can lend—they borrow not
       Glory from those who made the world their prey;
       And he is gather’d to the kings of thought
       Who wag’d contention with their time’s decay,
And of the past are all that cannot pass away.
       Go thou to Rome—at once the Paradise,
       The grave, the city, and the wilderness;
       And where its wrecks like shatter’d mountains rise,
       And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress
       The bones of Desolation’s nakedness
       Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead
       Thy footsteps to a slope of green access
       Where, like an infant’s smile, over the dead
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread;
       And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
       Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
       And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
       Pavilioning the dust of him who plann’d
       This refuge for his memory, doth stand
       Like flame transform’d to marble; and beneath,
       A field is spread, on which a newer band
       Have pitch’d in Heaven’s smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish’d breath.
       Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet
       To have outgrown the sorrow which consign’d
       Its charge to each; and if the seal is set,
       Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,
       Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find
       Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,
       Of tears and gall. From the world’s bitter wind
       Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.
What Adonais is, why fear we to become?
       The One remains, the many change and pass;
       Heaven’s light forever shines, Earth’s shadows fly;
       Life, like a dome of many-colour’d glass,
       Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
       Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die,
       If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
       Follow where all is fled!—Rome’s azure sky,
       Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
       Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?
       Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here
       They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!
       A light is pass’d from the revolving year,
       And man, and woman; and what still is dear
       Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.
       The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near:
       ‘Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,
No more let Life divide what Death can join together.
       That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,
       That Beauty in which all things work and move,
       That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse
       Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
       Which through the web of being blindly wove
       By man and beast and earth and air and sea,
       Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
       The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me,
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.
       The breath whose might I have invok’d in song
       Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven,
       Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
       Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
       The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
       I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
       Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,
       The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

In the first full week of July 2016, from the 4th to the 10th, I will post a poem, or verse, or snippet from a book a day here on my blog. The purpose of this is to share the words we’ve read in the world that we most love. If you have any favourites leave them below or send me word on Twitter.

Happy reading.


Richard II Monologue | YouFoundMarina Poetry Week Day 1


No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s,
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?


YouFoundMarina Poetry Week Day 1: a monologue by Shakespeare in Richard II.

In the first full week of July 2016, from the 4th to the 10th, I will post a poem, or verse, or snippet from a book a day here on my blog. The purpose of this is to share the words we’ve read in the world that we most love. If you have any favourites leave them below or send me word on Twitter.

Happy reading.


Jonathan Pine | THE NIGHT MANAGER | Tom Hiddleston

Mr. Pine, what happened to Sophie Alekan makes us all involved. What happened in Cairo shames me to the bottom of my soul. I know you can’t forgive a man who did that. The question is, what are you  prepared to do about it? – Angela Burr The Night Manager

The Night Manager is a novel written by John le Caré. It has recently been adapted into an absolutely brilliant television series that is currently airing here in North America. If you live in Europe you might have seen the dazzling finale.

Below is a tribute I’ve made for the character Jonathan Pine and the excellent way Tom Hiddleston portrays him.

*Video Contains Series SPOILERS*


I started watching this series for the brilliance that is Tom Hiddleston but the show truly hooked me by the end of the first episode. The directing, the writing, the acting: all phenomenal.




The Uncaptivating Captive Prince

1/5 stars.

I had heard so many good things about this book that I was excited to give this book a try; I really really wanted to like it. Alas, I did not enjoy the book at all.

To put it simply, I could not come to terms with the constant change of writing styles. In one moment the book was written wonderfully with excellent word choice, and rhythmic sentences but just as soon as I would get comfortable, the writing would become weak and hardly readable. In all, the book felt quite unedited and unclean.

I felt no sympathy for any of the characters and I felt as though I was constantly being torn between an imagined version of ancient Greece and renaissance France; this geographical indistinction did not sit well with my imagination.

Perhaps if this book was cleaned up with some good editing and viewed as a whole book instead of separate sections I might develop a different opinion.

This is probably the shortest book review I will ever write. I do not like to dwell on the negative.

“Uncaptivating” and “indistinction” are two words I have proudly taken from the abyss of words-that-don’t-actually-exist for this review.



14 Perfect Fictional Guys for Valentines ♥

It’s near Valentines, and I’m single. I’ve come to accept that fact this year and I’m enjoying the pink-ness of it. I plan on watching some soppy movies when I get home from work this weekend. The perfect way to unwind.

While scrolling through Tumblr, as you do, I came across Popsugar’s post “24 Hot TV Guys Who Would Be Perfect Valentines This Year.” I decided I had to make one myself. But I think fourteen is more appropriate since Valentines happens on the fourteenth and all.

Mild spoilers for Jessica Jones and The Last Kingdom.

I also have a post called “14 Fictional Women for Valenties” which will be up on Friday February 12, 2016!

Without further ado, and in no particular order:

  1. ALEC LIGHTWOOD, The Mortal InstrumentsalecTV Alec is my favourite. In the books I prefer Jace but like Christine said in her recap of the latest TMI episode, TV-Alec is book-Jace! Perhaps my attraction stems back to just plain old Daddario genes. Have you ever seen Alexandra Daddario? I mean, their parents created beautiful children.

2. ROSS POLDARK, Poldark
Poor heartbroken Ross. While I ship Ross and Demelza I definitely ship this charmer and super-determined-worker with myself…

3. LUKE CAGE, Jessica Jones
luke cage
Luke is like a gentle giant. He has all the rock hard strength (and abs) in the world but he wouldn’t hurt you even if you killed his wife but he’d definitely smash a bus.

4. LUKE DANES, Gilmore Girls 
luke danes
Just look at that face. Actual-puppy-Luke-Danes. Lorelei is one lucky mother.

Jamie is everything. that auburn curly mop of hair, the occasional disarming smile. He’s got his priorities lined up and is a perfect gentleman– a fierce lover and hopeless romantic. He’s the whole package. Je Suis Prest.

6. MATT MURDOCK, Daredevil
He sees a world on fire but I’m sure his heart is aflame for the love of his life. Was that a cheesy thing to write? I don’t care. Matt is my precious avocado with a little bit of pepper.

7. DEAN WINCHESTER, Supernatural 
I used to be so in love with Sam Winchester but Oh MAN. Dean is the one. Dean is endgame. Actually, sometimes I get conflicted. Do I want him as a big brother or husband number seven? You tell me.

8. HOOK / KILLIAN JONES, Once Upon a Time
This guy is Byronic hero perfection. Plus, he has an accent and is trying to be his absolute best. And he probably knows all the best brands of eyeliner. What more could I ask for?

9. BBARRY ALLEN, The Flash
I feel like all I need to direct you to is that smile. The grin says it all.

10. UHTRED OF BEBBANBURG, The Last Kingdom.
alexander dreymon
Untried is frightening. Way different than the other men on this list but I think I would very much enjoy being his companion. Though I would make sure my head stays on my shoulders. Oh the #feels.

11. ICHABOD CRANE, Sleepy Hollow
Look at this clumsy colonialist-turned-patriot. He’s about as hopeless with flirting as I am. He’s got that chivalric complex and an undeniable faithfulness in the things he believes in and the people he loves. 100/100 for Ichabod.

12. MONTY GREEN, The 100
I thought about this one for a long time. It was between Bellamy and Monty. I think I ship Bellarke too hard to include him on this list as a potential suitor. But Monty is just as amazing. Another faithful friend, Monty would do anything for those he loves and that’s enough for me. #MarinaHasHighStandards

If I went into full detail about why Stiles is on this list I might as well write a book. This guy will stick by you come whatever. He’s strong, attractive, compassionate, and human. Human is always good.

14. EDWIN JARVIS, Marvel’s Agent Carter
Jarvis is full of surprises. He’s goofy, attractive, and always loyal. I like him very much. No wonder Stark immortalizes him. He dislikes spider as much as I do, so that could pose as a problem…