Book Review: Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur

Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Many of the poems hit you hard in the gut and/or are relatable. I love the raw art that accompanies the poetry.

However, I'd rate this between 3 and 3.5 because the other half of the poems didn't have an impact on me at all.

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Book Review: Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx

Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Being an avid movie viewer, I cursed myself for having watched Brokeback Mountain many many years after its release - Heath Ledger had passed, Jake Gyllenhaal had become a more prominent name and LGBTQ themes were not uncommon in mainstream cinema. But despite my unforgivable delay, the movie stood out as a simple, poignant ode to love. When prompted by the Book Riots Read Harder Challenge 2018 task of reading a "Western", my friends had chosen this. Excited to compare the two works of art, I followed suit.
What a beautiful book! All of thirty pages, but narrating a lifetime of love, loss, longing and tenderness in a way that cuts you open. Mind you, it's not dramatic prose. The descriptions are evocative (some of which prompted me to read twice just so I could transport myself the first time around but admire the language the second time) but the action is restrained and almost spare. And yet, it hits all the right spots and makes you root for Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist.
Once again, I am wondering why I took so long to pick this up. But then, there's just never going to be enough time to relish all the wonderful pieces of art. Maybe, I am just glad that I finally read it!

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One

Every week, a little piece

A writer falters, questioning if only sadness could evoke the pretty words. Happiness, it seemed, filled her cup. She couldn’t draw from it for some reason. When the cup was empty, dried-up: corners cracking, bits of old coffee stuck at the rim and dregs of long-ago teas lying at the bottom, she saw webs in dried froth — of intrigue, mystery, forgotten things and unsaid words; and like a soothsayer, she prodded bits of the dregs, found fortunes and futures in them.

But what could one see in a full cup? A ripple now and then, maybe. But the calm sea stirred no story. It reflected back to her with content, her own joyous face. 

And so, to lament of the past and present, to wonder and ponder over the complete draught of words, she picked her pen to write. 

“A writer falters…,” she began.