u/Odd-Pride-3173

Circe by Madeline Miller is a beautifully written retelling of Greek mythology that tells the story of Circe, a goddess who never quite fits into the world of the gods. From the beginning, she is treated as different and insignificant, especially by her powerful family. As she grows older, she discovers that she possesses a unique ability for witchcraft, which eventually changes the course of her life.

The story follows Circe through her exile to a remote island, where she learns to live independently and develop her powers. During her time there, she encounters many famous figures from Greek mythology, including Odysseus and other characters whose stories we may already know. However, Miller tells these myths from Circe’s perspective, giving them a completely different emotional depth. There are moments of adventure, love, loneliness, violence, and loss, which make the story much more than just a fantasy about a powerful witch.

One of my favourite things about Circe was how strongly feminist it felt. The book explores what it means to be a woman in a world dominated by powerful men and gods. Circe is constantly underestimated, controlled, or treated as less important, but throughout the story she slowly learns to stand up for herself and decide what she wants from her own life. Her strength does not come only from her magic; it comes from her independence and the way she learns from everything she experiences.

I also loved how much Greek mythology was included in the novel. Even though Circe is the main character, the book introduces so many other myths and legendary figures that it feels like you are exploring the entire world of Greek mythology alongside her. I found myself learning a lot about characters and stories that I had only heard about before. Miller connects these different myths naturally instead of making the book feel like a collection of unrelated stories.

The book also does a great job of showing the darker side of mythology. The gods are not portrayed as perfect or heroic; they can be cruel, selfish, and terrifying. This gives the story a much more serious and sometimes disturbing tone. At the same time, Circe’s journey has moments of warmth and hope, which makes the emotional parts of the story even more impactful.

Without giving away the ending, I really liked how Circe’s journey eventually reaches a hopeful and satisfying conclusion. After everything she goes through, she finally gets the opportunity to decide what kind of life she wants for herself. The ending feels like a reward for all the growth she experiences throughout the book and gives the story a sense of freedom and happiness.

Overall, Circe was a fascinating read for me because it combines Greek mythology with feminism, personal growth, and a powerful story about finding your own identity. It taught me much more about Greek mythology while also making these ancient stories feel personal and relevant. I especially enjoyed seeing familiar myths from a woman’s perspective and watching Circe grow from someone who is constantly underestimated into someone who takes control of her own destiny.

Rating 4/5 ⭐️

Circe by Madeline Miller is a beautifully written retelling of Greek mythology that tells the story of Circe, a goddess who never quite fits into the world of the gods. From the beginning, she is treated as different and insignificant, especially by her powerful family. As she grows older, she discovers that she possesses a unique ability for witchcraft, which eventually changes the course of her life.

The story follows Circe through her exile to a remote island, where she learns to live independently and develop her powers. During her time there, she encounters many famous figures from Greek mythology, including Odysseus and other characters whose stories we may already know. However, Miller tells these myths from Circe’s perspective, giving them a completely different emotional depth. There are moments of adventure, love, loneliness, violence, and loss, which make the story much more than just a fantasy about a powerful witch.

One of my favourite things about Circe was how strongly feminist it felt. The book explores what it means to be a woman in a world dominated by powerful men and gods. Circe is constantly underestimated, controlled, or treated as less important, but throughout the story she slowly learns to stand up for herself and decide what she wants from her own life. Her strength does not come only from her magic; it comes from her independence and the way she learns from everything she experiences.

I also loved how much Greek mythology was included in the novel. Even though Circe is the main character, the book introduces so many other myths and legendary figures that it feels like you are exploring the entire world of Greek mythology alongside her. I found myself learning a lot about characters and stories that I had only heard about before. Miller connects these different myths naturally instead of making the book feel like a collection of unrelated stories.

The book also does a great job of showing the darker side of mythology. The gods are not portrayed as perfect or heroic; they can be cruel, selfish, and terrifying. This gives the story a much more serious and sometimes disturbing tone. At the same time, Circe’s journey has moments of warmth and hope, which makes the emotional parts of the story even more impactful.

Without giving away the ending, I really liked how Circe’s journey eventually reaches a hopeful and satisfying conclusion. After everything she goes through, she finally gets the opportunity to decide what kind of life she wants for herself. The ending feels like a reward for all the growth she experiences throughout the book and gives the story a sense of freedom and happiness.

Overall, Circe was a fascinating read for me because it combines Greek mythology with feminism, personal growth, and a powerful story about finding your own identity. It taught me much more about Greek mythology while also making these ancient stories feel personal and relevant. I especially enjoyed seeing familiar myths from a woman’s perspective and watching Circe grow from someone who is constantly underestimated into someone who takes control of her own destiny.

I finished The Song of Achilles with a strange kind of sadness. Not just because the story itself is heartbreaking, but because I couldn't stop thinking about how differently I would have experienced it a few years ago.

I know, with absolute certainty, that if I had read this when I was twenty or twenty-one, it would have absolutely wrecked me. I would have been crying for hours, thinking about Patroclus and Achilles for days afterward. But I've read so many devastating books since then that I found myself anticipating every emotional blow. I could see exactly where the heartbreak was leading, and while it still hurt, I couldn't quite reach the emotional depths I know this book was capable of taking me to.

And yet, that doesn't take away from how beautiful this novel is.

Madeline Miller's writing is simply stunning. Every chapter flows effortlessly into the next, every scene feels intentional, and every emotion is given room to breathe. Her prose is lyrical without trying too hard, and there's a quiet intimacy in the way she tells this story that makes you feel like you're living alongside these characters rather than simply reading about them.

What I admired most was how grounded her portrayal of Achilles felt. Instead of leaning into the larger-than-life image that popular culture has created, Miller stays remarkably faithful to the spirit of Homer's Iliad. This isn't the invincible hero defined by the myth of the "Achilles' heel." He is, first and foremost, a mortal man who is extraordinarily gifted, impossibly strong, and destined for greatness, but still a mortal. His mortality is never forgotten, and that's precisely what makes his story so compelling. His strength is real, but so are his fears, his pride, his love, and the impossible weight of the destiny he chooses.

Through Patroclus' eyes, Achilles becomes more than the greatest warrior of his age. He becomes someone constantly torn between the life he wants and the legacy the world expects of him. The novel beautifully explores how power is never free; it comes with responsibility, sacrifice, expectation, and, perhaps most dangerously, pride. Every choice Achilles makes feels inevitable because he understands exactly what choosing one future means giving up on another.
Knowing how the story ends makes every quiet moment between Achilles and Patroclus feel even more precious. Their love never overshadows the myth; it gives it a heartbeat.

The Song of Achilles wasn't the emotional destruction I had built it up to be in my head, and maybe that's because I came to it later than I wish I had. But it was still one of the most beautifully written retellings I've ever read.

I finished The Song of Achilles with a strange kind of sadness. Not just because the story itself is heartbreaking, but because I couldn't stop thinking about how differently I would have experienced it a few years ago.

I know, with absolute certainty, that if I had read this when I was twenty or twenty-one, it would have absolutely wrecked me. I would have been crying for hours, thinking about Patroclus and Achilles for days afterward. But I've read so many devastating books since then that I found myself anticipating every emotional blow. I could see exactly where the heartbreak was leading, and while it still hurt, I couldn't quite reach the emotional depths I know this book was capable of taking me to.

And yet, that doesn't take away from how beautiful this novel is.

Madeline Miller's writing is simply stunning. Every chapter flows effortlessly into the next, every scene feels intentional, and every emotion is given room to breathe. Her prose is lyrical without trying too hard, and there's a quiet intimacy in the way she tells this story that makes you feel like you're living alongside these characters rather than simply reading about them.

What I admired most was how grounded her portrayal of Achilles felt. Instead of leaning into the larger-than-life image that popular culture has created, Miller stays remarkably faithful to the spirit of Homer's Iliad. This isn't the invincible hero defined by the myth of the "Achilles' heel." He is, first and foremost, a mortal man who is extraordinarily gifted, impossibly strong, and destined for greatness, but still a mortal. His mortality is never forgotten, and that's precisely what makes his story so compelling. His strength is real, but so are his fears, his pride, his love, and the impossible weight of the destiny he chooses.

Through Patroclus' eyes, Achilles becomes more than the greatest warrior of his age. He becomes someone constantly torn between the life he wants and the legacy the world expects of him. The novel beautifully explores how power is never free; it comes with responsibility, sacrifice, expectation, and, perhaps most dangerously, pride. Every choice Achilles makes feels inevitable because he understands exactly what choosing one future means giving up on another.
Knowing how the story ends makes every quiet moment between Achilles and Patroclus feel even more precious. Their love never overshadows the myth; it gives it a heartbeat.

The Song of Achilles wasn't the emotional destruction I had built it up to be in my head, and maybe that's because I came to it later than I wish I had. But it was still one of the most beautifully written retellings I've ever read.

Rating 4/5 ⭐️

I finished The Song of Achilles with a strange kind of sadness. Not just because the story itself is heartbreaking, but because I couldn't stop thinking about how differently I would have experienced it a few years ago.

I know, with absolute certainty, that if I had read this when I was twenty or twenty-one, it would have absolutely wrecked me. I would have been crying for hours, thinking about Patroclus and Achilles for days afterward. But I've read so many devastating books since then that I found myself anticipating every emotional blow. I could see exactly where the heartbreak was leading, and while it still hurt, I couldn't quite reach the emotional depths I know this book was capable of taking me to.

And yet, that doesn't take away from how beautiful this novel is.

Madeline Miller's writing is simply stunning. Every chapter flows effortlessly into the next, every scene feels intentional, and every emotion is given room to breathe. Her prose is lyrical without trying too hard, and there's a quiet intimacy in the way she tells this story that makes you feel like you're living alongside these characters rather than simply reading about them.

What I admired most was how grounded her portrayal of Achilles felt. Instead of leaning into the larger-than-life image that popular culture has created, Miller stays remarkably faithful to the spirit of Homer's Iliad. This isn't the invincible hero defined by the myth of the "Achilles' heel." He is, first and foremost, a mortal man who is extraordinarily gifted, impossibly strong, and destined for greatness, but still a mortal. His mortality is never forgotten, and that's precisely what makes his story so compelling. His strength is real, but so are his fears, his pride, his love, and the impossible weight of the destiny he chooses.

Through Patroclus' eyes, Achilles becomes more than the greatest warrior of his age. He becomes someone constantly torn between the life he wants and the legacy the world expects of him. The novel beautifully explores how power is never free; it comes with responsibility, sacrifice, expectation, and, perhaps most dangerously, pride. Every choice Achilles makes feels inevitable because he understands exactly what choosing one future means giving up on another.
Knowing how the story ends makes every quiet moment between Achilles and Patroclus feel even more precious. Their love never overshadows the myth; it gives it a heartbeat.

The Song of Achilles wasn't the emotional destruction I had built it up to be in my head, and maybe that's because I came to it later than I wish I had. But it was still one of the most beautifully written retellings I've ever read.

Rating: 4/5 ⭐️

I finished The Song of Achilles with a strange kind of sadness. Not just because the story itself is heartbreaking, but because I couldn't stop thinking about how differently I would have experienced it a few years ago.

I know, with absolute certainty, that if I had read this when I was twenty or twenty-one, it would have absolutely wrecked me. I would have been crying for hours, thinking about Patroclus and Achilles for days afterward. But I've read so many devastating books since then that I found myself anticipating every emotional blow. I could see exactly where the heartbreak was leading, and while it still hurt, I couldn't quite reach the emotional depths I know this book was capable of taking me to.

And yet, that doesn't take away from how beautiful this novel is.

Madeline Miller's writing is simply stunning. Every chapter flows effortlessly into the next, every scene feels intentional, and every emotion is given room to breathe. Her prose is lyrical without trying too hard, and there's a quiet intimacy in the way she tells this story that makes you feel like you're living alongside these characters rather than simply reading about them.

What I admired most was how grounded her portrayal of Achilles felt. Instead of leaning into the larger-than-life image that popular culture has created, Miller stays remarkably faithful to the spirit of Homer's Iliad. This isn't the invincible hero defined by the myth of the "Achilles' heel." He is, first and foremost, a mortal man who is extraordinarily gifted, impossibly strong, and destined for greatness, but still a mortal. His mortality is never forgotten, and that's precisely what makes his story so compelling. His strength is real, but so are his fears, his pride, his love, and the impossible weight of the destiny he chooses.

Through Patroclus' eyes, Achilles becomes more than the greatest warrior of his age. He becomes someone constantly torn between the life he wants and the legacy the world expects of him. The novel beautifully explores how power is never free; it comes with responsibility, sacrifice, expectation, and, perhaps most dangerously, pride. Every choice Achilles makes feels inevitable because he understands exactly what choosing one future means giving up on another.
Knowing how the story ends makes every quiet moment between Achilles and Patroclus feel even more precious. Their love never overshadows the myth; it gives it a heartbeat.

The Song of Achilles wasn't the emotional destruction I had built it up to be in my head, and maybe that's because I came to it later than I wish I had. But it was still one of the most beautifully written retellings I've ever read.

Reading this book felt like a warm hug. I picked this book up this morning, and before I knew it, I’d finished it. I couldn’t put it down because it felt like someone had reached into the parts of me that still carry loss and grief and parts that ached and somehow found the words I’d never been able to. There are feelings that sit inside you for years, too heavy, too confusing to explain, just a hollowness, a void staring and this book, for me, gave those feelings a voice. Sometimes all we need is for someone to put a name to what we’re carrying. It doesn’t make the pain disappear, but it makes it feel less lonely. By the end of this book, I felt understood, I felt seen.

People often describe this as a novel about grief, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Grief is everywhere in these pages, yes, but underneath it is an even bigger story about love. The love between siblings who slowly become strangers. The love between friends who become each other’s safe place. The kind of love that never really disappears. Every relationship in this book is touched by loss, but none of them are defined by it.

At eleven years old, Jules loses both of his parents in a car accident. Along with his older brother Marty and sister Liz, he is sent to a boarding school where the three of them begin grieving in completely different ways. Instead of bringing them closer, the tragedy slowly creates distance between them. It is there that Jules meets Alva, another child carrying her own loneliness, and from that moment their lives become intertwined. The novel follows them over several decades as they grow, drift apart, find each other again, make mistakes, lose people, and try to figure out what it means to keep living after life has changed you forever.

What Benedict Wells does so beautifully is write about trauma in multi layered story where one gets to know the stories of other characters closely through the eyes of Jules. Benedict showcased trauma in such a realistic manner that I saw parts of myself riddled with similar loneliness in each character. The novel shows how grief changes people in ways they don’t even notice. It makes them push away the people they love, miss opportunities, and spend years trying to become someone they recognise again. That honesty is what made this book so devastating.
There were moments where I wished certain characters had been explored a little more. I wanted to understand Marty and Liz beyond the fragments we were given, and I would have loved a deeper look into Alva’s life as well. There are also a few moments where relationships shift or people disappear without much explanation. But strangely, I don’t know if I would change that. Life rarely gives us complete stories or satisfying answers. People leave. Relationships change. We never fully understand why, and perhaps that’s exactly what Wells was trying to capture.

This is a sad book, but I never found it depressing. There’s a difference. It reminded me that pain is the price we pay for loving deeply, and while loss is inevitable, so is the possibility of healing. Somehow, this novel left me with hope instead of despair. It made me want to hold the people I love a little closer and be more open with my own heart, because even if love ends in heartbreak, it is still worth choosing.

Rating: 4/5 ⭐️

Reading this book felt like a warm hug. I picked this book up this morning, and before I knew it, I’d finished it. I couldn’t put it down because it felt like someone had reached into the parts of me that still carry loss and grief and parts that ached and somehow found the words I’d never been able to. There are feelings that sit inside you for years, too heavy, too confusing to explain, just a hollowness, a void staring and this book, for me, gave those feelings a voice. Sometimes all we need is for someone to put a name to what we’re carrying. It doesn’t make the pain disappear, but it makes it feel less lonely. By the end of this book, I felt understood, I felt seen.

People often describe this as a novel about grief, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Grief is everywhere in these pages, yes, but underneath it is an even bigger story about love. The love between siblings who slowly become strangers. The love between friends who become each other’s safe place. The kind of love that never really disappears. Every relationship in this book is touched by loss, but none of them are defined by it.

At eleven years old, Jules loses both of his parents in a car accident. Along with his older brother Marty and sister Liz, he is sent to a boarding school where the three of them begin grieving in completely different ways. Instead of bringing them closer, the tragedy slowly creates distance between them. It is there that Jules meets Alva, another child carrying her own loneliness, and from that moment their lives become intertwined. The novel follows them over several decades as they grow, drift apart, find each other again, make mistakes, lose people, and try to figure out what it means to keep living after life has changed you forever.

What Benedict Wells does so beautifully is write about trauma in multi layered story where one gets to know the stories of other characters closely through the eyes of Jules. Benedict showcased trauma in such a realistic manner that I saw parts of myself riddled with similar loneliness in each character. The novel shows how grief changes people in ways they don’t even notice. It makes them push away the people they love, miss opportunities, and spend years trying to become someone they recognise again. That honesty is what made this book so devastating.
There were moments where I wished certain characters had been explored a little more. I wanted to understand Marty and Liz beyond the fragments we were given, and I would have loved a deeper look into Alva’s life as well. There are also a few moments where relationships shift or people disappear without much explanation. But strangely, I don’t know if I would change that. Life rarely gives us complete stories or satisfying answers. People leave. Relationships change. We never fully understand why, and perhaps that’s exactly what Wells was trying to capture.

This is a sad book, but I never found it depressing. There’s a difference. It reminded me that pain is the price we pay for loving deeply, and while loss is inevitable, so is the possibility of healing. Somehow, this novel left me with hope instead of despair. It made me want to hold the people I love a little closer and be more open with my own heart, because even if love ends in heartbreak, it is still worth choosing.

Rating 4/5 ⭐️

Reading this book felt like a warm hug. I picked this book up this morning, and before I knew it, I’d finished it. I couldn’t put it down because it felt like someone had reached into the parts of me that still carry loss and grief and parts that ached and somehow found the words I’d never been able to. There are feelings that sit inside you for years, too heavy, too confusing to explain, just a hollowness, a void staring and this book, for me, gave those feelings a voice. Sometimes all we need is for someone to put a name to what we’re carrying. It doesn’t make the pain disappear, but it makes it feel less lonely. By the end of this book, I felt understood, I felt seen.

People often describe this as a novel about grief, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Grief is everywhere in these pages, yes, but underneath it is an even bigger story about love. The love between siblings who slowly become strangers. The love between friends who become each other’s safe place. The kind of love that never really disappears. Every relationship in this book is touched by loss, but none of them are defined by it.

At eleven years old, Jules loses both of his parents in a car accident. Along with his older brother Marty and sister Liz, he is sent to a boarding school where the three of them begin grieving in completely different ways. Instead of bringing them closer, the tragedy slowly creates distance between them. It is there that Jules meets Alva, another child carrying her own loneliness, and from that moment their lives become intertwined. The novel follows them over several decades as they grow, drift apart, find each other again, make mistakes, lose people, and try to figure out what it means to keep living after life has changed you forever.

What Benedict Wells does so beautifully is write about trauma in multi layered story where one gets to know the stories of other characters closely through the eyes of Jules. Benedict showcased trauma in such a realistic manner that I saw parts of myself riddled with similar loneliness in each character. The novel shows how grief changes people in ways they don’t even notice. It makes them push away the people they love, miss opportunities, and spend years trying to become someone they recognise again. That honesty is what made this book so devastating.
There were moments where I wished certain characters had been explored a little more. I wanted to understand Marty and Liz beyond the fragments we were given, and I would have loved a deeper look into Alva’s life as well. There are also a few moments where relationships shift or people disappear without much explanation. But strangely, I don’t know if I would change that. Life rarely gives us complete stories or satisfying answers. People leave. Relationships change. We never fully understand why, and perhaps that’s exactly what Wells was trying to capture.

This is a sad book, but I never found it depressing. There’s a difference. It reminded me that pain is the price we pay for loving deeply, and while loss is inevitable, so is the possibility of healing. Somehow, this novel left me with hope instead of despair. It made me want to hold the people I love a little closer and be more open with my own heart, because even if love ends in heartbreak, it is still worth choosing.

Rating: 4/5 ⭐️

An autobiography of the first woman elected to lead a democratic government in a Muslim-majority country, Benazir Bhutto daughter of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. She served as Prime Minister of Pakistan twice, from 1988 to 1990 and again from 1993 to 1996, although both governments were eventually dismissed before completing their terms.

This autobiography takes us on the tumultuous journey of Benazir Bhutto from the classrooms of Harvard to the halls of Oxford, from the comfort of her home at Clifton 70 to constant imprisonment, torture, exile, and personal tragedy, before eventually being elected Prime Minister twice.

However, the journey is not as simple as these lines suggest. Without commenting anything on the politics, it is undoubtedly a passionate saga. Passion drives the life of the Bhutto family, be it her father, her mother or her siblings, their love for their country is evident throughout the book.

It is surprising how much hope and faith can keep a person going despite enduring the brutality of a military regime. Benazir fills the book not only with her own political struggles but also with accounts of the people who were tortured because of the support they gave her, highlighting the trauma endured by both individuals and the country as a whole.

The story offers a fairly good insight into Benazir Bhutto’s thoughts, emotions, ambitions, and resilience. However, I remain reserved in forming judgments, as autobiographies can naturally be biased and often present events in a way that emphasises the author’s strengths while overlooking opposing perspectives.

In any case, after completing this book, you will almost certainly admire Benazir Bhutto’s courage. After reading it, I found myself wondering: how can someone love something so deeply that they endure years of literal torture for it? And what drives people like Zia-ul-Haq to become so inhuman that they inflict such suffering? Is power truly that intoxicating?

An autobiography of the first woman elected to lead a democratic government in a Muslim-majority country, Benazir Bhutto daughter of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. She served as Prime Minister of Pakistan twice, from 1988 to 1990 and again from 1993 to 1996, although both governments were eventually dismissed before completing their terms.

This autobiography takes us on the tumultuous journey of Benazir Bhutto from the classrooms of Harvard to the halls of Oxford, from the comfort of her home at Clifton 70 to constant imprisonment, torture, exile, and personal tragedy, before eventually being elected Prime Minister twice.

However, the journey is not as simple as these lines suggest. Without commenting anything on the politics, it is undoubtedly a passionate saga. Passion drives the life of the Bhutto family, be it her father, her mother or her siblings, their love for their country is evident throughout the book.

It is surprising how much hope and faith can keep a person going despite enduring the brutality of a military regime. Benazir fills the book not only with her own political struggles but also with accounts of the people who were tortured because of the support they gave her, highlighting the trauma endured by both individuals and the country as a whole.

The story offers a fairly good insight into Benazir Bhutto’s thoughts, emotions, ambitions, and resilience. However, I remain reserved in forming judgments, as autobiographies can naturally be biased and often present events in a way that emphasises the author’s strengths while overlooking opposing perspectives.

In any case, after completing this book, you will almost certainly admire Benazir Bhutto’s courage. After reading it, I found myself wondering: how can someone love something so deeply that they endure years of literal torture for it? And what drives people like Zia-ul-Haq to become so inhuman that they inflict such suffering? Is power truly that intoxicating?

Rating: 4/5 ⭐️

An autobiography of the first woman elected to lead a democratic government in a Muslim-majority country, Benazir Bhutto daughter of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. She served as Prime Minister of Pakistan twice, from 1988 to 1990 and again from 1993 to 1996, although both governments were eventually dismissed before completing their terms.

This autobiography takes us on the tumultuous journey of Benazir Bhutto from the classrooms of Harvard to the halls of Oxford, from the comfort of her home at Clifton 70 to constant imprisonment, torture, exile, and personal tragedy, before eventually being elected Prime Minister twice.

However, the journey is not as simple as these lines suggest. Without commenting anything on the politics, it is undoubtedly a passionate saga. Passion drives the life of the Bhutto family, be it her father, her mother or her siblings, their love for their country is evident throughout the book.

It is surprising how much hope and faith can keep a person going despite enduring the brutality of a military regime. Benazir fills the book not only with her own political struggles but also with accounts of the people who were tortured because of the support they gave her, highlighting the trauma endured by both individuals and the country as a whole.

The story offers a fairly good insight into Benazir Bhutto’s thoughts, emotions, ambitions, and resilience. However, I remain reserved in forming judgments, as autobiographies can naturally be biased and often present events in a way that emphasises the author’s strengths while overlooking opposing perspectives.

In any case, after completing this book, you will almost certainly admire Benazir Bhutto’s courage. After reading it, I found myself wondering: how can someone love something so deeply that they endure years of literal torture for it? And what drives people like Zia-ul-Haq to become so inhuman that they inflict such suffering? Is power truly that intoxicating?

It's been a few days since I finished We Used to Live Here by Marcus Kliewer, and I'm not even kidding, every time I forget something, a tiny part of me starts wondering if I'm somehow slipping into another reality. That's just my overactive imagination, but if a book can make you question your own memory days later, I'd say it did its job.

This book is an absolute page-turner. Once l started reading, I couldn't stop. I ended up finishing it in one sitting because I just had to know what was going on. It's creepy in a way that slowly gets under your skin.

One thing I really loved is that the book doesn't explain everything. It leaves enough unanswered that you're still thinking about it long after you've finished. For example, early on, when Jenny refers to Eve as “Emma” I start thinking that what if Jenny was aware of the alternate reality and that is why she runs into the basement trying to find a way out?

Then there's Thomas. The more I thought about him, the more suspicious he became. Paige mentions that she used to be more carefree before Thomas led her toward religion, and that little detail made me wonder if he is the one moulding everyone’s reality around him.

Also, this story actually started as a Reddit post (on r/NoSleep) before Marcus Kliewer turned it into a novel.

It's been a few days since I finished We Used to Live Here by Marcus Kliewer, and I'm not even kidding, every time I forget something, a tiny part of me starts wondering if I'm somehow slipping into another reality. That's just my overactive imagination, but if a book can make you question your own memory days later, I'd say it did its job.

This book is an absolute page-turner. Once l started reading, I couldn't stop. I ended up finishing it in one sitting because I just had to know what was going on. It's creepy in a way that slowly gets under your skin.

One thing I really loved is that the book doesn't explain everything. It leaves enough unanswered that you're still thinking about it long after you've finished. For example, early on, when Jenny refers to Eve as “Emma” I start thinking that what if Jenny was aware of the alternate reality and that is why she runs into the basement trying to find a way out?

Then there's Thomas. The more I thought about him, the more suspicious he became. Paige mentions that she used to be more carefree before Thomas led her toward religion, and that little detail made me wonder if he is the one moulding everyone’s reality around him.

Also, this story actually started as a Reddit post (on r/NoSleep) before Marcus Kliewer turned it into a novel.