A Poised Quill

Review: Magpie Murders

Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This review is also found on Goodreads! :)
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Actual Rating: 4.5 stars
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I am blown away. A clever book within a book. It offers a retrospective study of the structures and elements of whodunits through the eyes of a publishing house's editor. It's a story and a study all in one volume. It is challenging enough to write one story, but to incorporate another within one is another thing. It shows grit and mastery.

Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume I by Arthur Conan Doyle
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This review is also found on my blog: A Poised Quill! :)
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It took me a few months to finish this, but I pushed on. It took a few pages to get used to. The late 19th century writing style is something I was previously unaccustomed to, hence the slow pace, but soon enough it grew on me. The gothic and gloomy vibe laced each novel and short story with deliciously dark undertones distinctive of Victorian England. I soon learned to love the long-winded and detailed narrations, all with the purpose of building up the feeling of suspense and anticipation of the big reveal.

What is it that I loved about Sherlock Holmes? Obviously, his practical application of logic is a gift I am entirely in awe of. But his sheer eccentricity amplifies that which he is best known for: his undeniable powers of observation and deduction. His relationship with the other characters in the novel provides his character with layers. I have yet to meet and read a more interesting sleuth as he. No disrespect to Christie's Poirot who remains one of the first detectives I've loved and is as formidable as Holmes, but Doyle's detective proves more layered and flawed in personality. One which I am more drawn to and makes an interesting read. Sherlock Holmes will remain as my favorite fictional detective.

A few of my favorites were The Final Problem and the stories under The Return of Sherlock Holmes. I will definitely be continuing with Volume II, but I need a bit of rest and space from Sherlock. I need a change of scene for a while before I accompany him and Watson again on their adventures.

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Strasbourg: A Doorway to Nostalgia

Prelude:

One of my favorite things to do when I was a little girl was read this book of fairy tale collections my dad had bought me. It was a book with a tale for each day of the year. No matter how many times I’ve finished and run through the book--whether religiously keeping up with the fairy tale of the day, or reading with total abandon finishing an entire month’s worth of stories in one night--I would always go back to it and re-read it. Being sickly and socially awkward, I didn’t have the patience for any other more ‘active’ play then, so reading became my most favorite thing to do. That fairy tale book survived a lot of relocation and house transfers. I still have it on my shelves. It contained most of my favorite stories from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, made alive only by the overactive imagination of 8-year old me. I casually browse through every once in a while when I miss my dad.

Earlier this year, I first stepped into Europe when we arrived in Paris. It was a surreal experience, hopping off the plane with a bag full of expectations. Paris was an urban artsy jungle: bigger, badder, and more flamboyant than I originally anticipated. Frenzied but a happy mess. However, nothing had prepared me for what followed when we visited northeast of France.

Strasbourg is the capital of the Alsace Region. It straddles the border of France and Germany, which makes it an interesting blend of French and German influence. When we stepped out of the Gare de Strasbourg after a 2-hour train ride from Paris, what immediately hit me was the cold. The temperature during our visit was 4°C. I tightened the scarf around my neck and buttoned up my coat. The day had just begun and I could already hear my limbs creaking and stiffening from the cold.

Strasbourg, France

As we walked from the station to the Centre-République, I can already see the traces of German influence from the surroundings. Although, it was still predominantly Gallic with its old French elegance--mansard roofs, jutting dormer windows and faux-balconies. But as we drew nearer to Ponts-Couverts, everything gradually turned rustic. The cream colored buildings were replaced by ones with richer reddish-brown walls and roofs with bellcast eaves, white and delicate exterior window shutters were replaced with ones in timber. Romanesque in style, characteristics of 17th-century Germany. Houses that reminded me of The Elves and the Shoemaker, and towers that, oddly enough, reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin.

Setting the Scene: Back To Hogwarts

I approached the scarlet steam engine, my trolley trailing behind me. Dazed and overwhelmed at the sight of it. The last time I saw the Hogwarts Express was at the start of my 7th year many years ago.

The platform wasn't crowded yet; only the early and earnest few were around. My hands quivered, and a queasy feeling made its way from my stomach to my chest. I realized I was having a panic attack. Automatically, my senses keyed in to where my wand was tucked inside my coat pocket, ready whenever I need it. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my breathing. I took out my ticket, desperately clutching it with clammy hands, afraid I'd loose it along with the chance of a lifetime.

A Kiss of Paris

I hauled my heavy luggage out of Ourcq station, and up the Metro stairs. It was starting to rain. Fat drops pelting against my glasses with increasing intensity. I was bone-tired and unprepared. The 18-hour flight made my vision blurry, and all the sugar I've ingested made me fidgety. I looked towards Borgy already struggling with multiple bags. A soft-eyed gentleman making his way up the Metro offered me a hand with carrying my luggage, but I politely refused, not wanting to cause any trouble for anyone. I dashed across the pavement dragging my damp bags. The brown awning of Le Concorde gave us temporary shelter. We looked out at the empty avenue. Hardly any cars passed the street. Only a few people were around, a handful in parkas and coats bent over and, like us, running to the direction of restaurants' awnings, trying to escape the rain. Belatedly, I realized that this dreary day is the first real look I'm getting at Paris.