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Revenge: Eleven Dark Tales

Revenge: Eleven Dark Tales

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Revenge: Eleven Dark Tales

avaliações:
4/5 (55 avaliações)
Comprimento:
160 página
2 horas
Lançado em:
Jan 29, 2013
ISBN:
9781250016171
Formato:
Livro

Descrição

"It's not just Murakami but also the shadow of Borges that hovers over this mesmerizing book... [and] one may detect a slight bow to the American macabre of E.A. Poe. Ogawa stands on the shoulders of giants, as another saying goes. But this collection may linger in your mind -- it does in mine -- as a delicious, perplexing, absorbing and somehow singular experience." -- Alan Cheuse, NPR

Sinister forces collide---and unite a host of desperate characters---in this eerie cycle of interwoven tales from Yoko Ogawa, the critically acclaimed author of The Housekeeper and the Professor.

An aspiring writer moves into a new apartment and discovers that her landlady has murdered her husband. Elsewhere, an accomplished surgeon is approached by a cabaret singer, whose beautiful appearance belies the grotesque condition of her heart. And while the surgeon's jealous lover vows to kill him, a violent envy also stirs in the soul of a lonely craftsman. Desire meets with impulse and erupts, attracting the attention of the surgeon's neighbor---who is drawn to a decaying residence that is now home to instruments of human torture. Murderers and mourners, mothers and children, lovers and innocent bystanders---their fates converge in an ominous and darkly beautiful web.

Yoko Ogawa's Revenge is a master class in the macabre that will haunt you to the last page.
An NPR Best Book of 2013

Lançado em:
Jan 29, 2013
ISBN:
9781250016171
Formato:
Livro

Sobre o autor

Yoko Ogawa is the author of The Diving Pool, The Housekeeper and the Professor, and Hotel Iris. Her fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, A Public Space, and Zoetrope. Since 1988 she has published more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction, and has won every major Japanese literary award. Her novel The Housekeeper and the Professor has been adapted into a film, The Professor’s Beloved Equation. She lives in Ashiya, Japan, with her husband and son.

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Revenge - Yoko Ogawa

Copyright

AFTERNOON AT THE BAKERY

It was a beautiful Sunday. The sky was a cloudless dome of sunlight. Out on the square, leaves fluttered in a gentle breeze along the pavement. Everything seemed to glimmer with a faint luminescence: the roof of the ice-cream stand, the faucet on the drinking fountain, the eyes of a stray cat, even the base of the clock tower covered with pigeon droppings.

Families and tourists strolled through the square, enjoying the weekend. Squeaky sounds could be heard from a man off in the corner, who was twisting balloon animals. A circle of children watched him, entranced. Nearby, a woman sat on a bench knitting. Somewhere a horn sounded. A flock of pigeons burst into the air, and startled a baby who began to cry. The mother hurried over to gather the child in her arms.

You could gaze at this perfect picture all day—an afternoon bathed in light and comfort—and perhaps never notice a single detail out of place, or missing.

*   *   *

As I pushed through the revolving door of the bakery and walked inside, the noise of the square was instantly muffled, and replaced by the sweet scent of vanilla. The shop was empty.

Excuse me, I called hesitantly. There was no reply, so I decided to sit down on a stool in the corner and wait.

It was my first time in the bakery, a neat, clean, modest little shop. Cakes, pies, and chocolates were carefully arranged in a glass case, and tins of cookies lined shelves on either side. On the counter behind the register was a roll of pretty orange and light blue checkered wrapping paper.

Everything looked delicious. But I knew before I entered the shop what I would buy: two strawberry shortcakes. That was all.

The bell in the clock tower rang four times. Once more a flock of pigeons rose into the sky and flew across the square, settling in front of the flower shop. The florist came out with a scowl on her face and a mop to drive them away, and a flurry of gray feathers wafted into the air.

There was no sign of anyone in the shop, and after waiting a little while longer I considered giving up and leaving. But I had only recently moved to this town and I did not know of another good bakery. Perhaps the fact that they could keep customers waiting like this was a sign of confidence, rather than rudeness. The light in the glass display case was pleasant and soft, the pastries looked beautiful, and the stool was quite comfortable—I liked the place, in spite of the service.

A short, plump woman stepped from the revolving door. Noise from the square filtered in behind her and faded away. Is anybody here? she called out. Where could she have gone? she added, turning and smiling at me. She must be out on an errand. I’m sure she’ll be right back. She sat down next to me and I gave a little bow.

I suppose I could get behind the counter and serve you myself, the woman said. I know pretty well how things work around here, I sell them their spices.

That’s very kind of you, but I’m not in a hurry, I said.

We waited together. She rearranged her scarf, tapped the toe of her shoe, and anxiously fidgeted with the clasp on a black leather wallet—apparently used to collect her accounts. I realized she was trying to come up with a topic for conversation.

The cakes here are delicious, she said at last. They use our spices, so you know there’s nothing funny in them.

That’s reassuring, I said.

The place is usually very busy. Strange that it’s so empty today. There’s often a line outside.

People passed by the shop window—young couples, old men, tourists, a policeman on patrol—but no one seemed interested in the bakery. The woman turned to look out at the square, and ran her fingers through her wavy white hair. Whenever she moved in her seat, she gave off an odd smell; the scent of medicinal herbs and overripe fruit mingled with the vinyl of her apron. It reminded me of when I was a child, and the smell of the little greenhouse in the garden where my father used to raise orchids. I was strictly forbidden to open the door; but once, without permission, I did. The scent of the orchids was not at all disagreeable, and this pleasant association made me like the old woman.

I was happy to see they have strawberry shortcake, I said, pointing at the case. They’re the real thing. None of that jelly, or too much fruit piled on top, or those little figurines they use for decoration. Just strawberries and cream.

You’re right, she said. I can guarantee they’re good. The best thing in the shop. The base is made with our special vanilla.

I’m buying them for my son. Today is his birthday.

Really? Well, I hope it’s a happy one. How old is he?

Six. He’ll always be six. He’s dead.

*   *   *

He died twelve years ago. Suffocated in an abandoned refrigerator left in a vacant lot. When I first saw him, I didn’t think he was dead. I thought he was just ashamed to look me in the eye because he had stayed away from home for three days.

An old woman I had never seen before was standing nearby, looking dazed, and I realized that she must have been the one who had found him. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale, and her lips were trembling. She looked more dead than my son.

I’m not angry, you know, I said to him. Come here and let me give you a hug. I bought the shortcake for your birthday. Let’s go back to the house.

But he didn’t move. He had curled up in an ingenious fashion to fit between the shelves and the egg box, with his legs carefully folded and his face tucked between his knees. The curve of his spine receded into a dark, cramped space behind him that I could not see. The skin on his neck caught the light from the open door. It was so smooth, covered in soft down—I knew it all too well.

No, it couldn’t be, I said to the old woman nearby. He’s just sleeping. He hasn’t eaten anything, and he must be exhausted. Let’s carry him home and try not to wake him. He should sleep, as much as he wants. He’ll wake up later, I’m sure of it.

But the woman did not answer.

*   *   *

The reaction of the woman in the shop to my story was unlike anything I’d encountered in the past. There was no sign of sympathy or surprise or even embarrassment on her face. I would have known if she was merely pretending to respond so placidly. The experience of losing my son had taught me to read people, and I could tell immediately that this woman was genuine. She neither regretted having asked me the question nor blamed me for confessing something so personal to a stranger.

Well, she said, then it was lucky you chose this bakery. There are no better pastries anywhere; your son will be pleased. And they include a whole box of birthday candles for free. They’re darling—red, blue, pink, yellow, some with flowers or butterflies, animals, anything you could want.

She smiled faintly, in a way that seemed perfectly suited to the quiet of the bakery. I found myself wondering whether she understood that my son had died. Or perhaps she knew only too well about people dying.

*   *   *

Long after I had realized that my son would not be coming back, I kept the strawberry shortcake we were meant to have eaten together. I passed my days watching it rot. First, the cream turned brown and separated from the fat, staining the cellophane wrapper. Then the strawberries dried out, wrinkling up like the heads of deformed babies. The sponge cake hardened and crumbled, and finally a layer of mold appeared.

Mold can be quite beautiful, I told my husband. The spots multiplied, covering the shortcake in delicate blotches of color.

Get rid of it, my husband said.

I could tell he was angry. But I did not understand why he would speak so harshly about our son’s birthday cake. So I threw it in his face. Mold and crumbs covered his hair and his cheeks, and a terrible smell filled the room. It was like breathing in death.

*   *   *

The strawberry shortcakes were displayed right on the upper shelf of the pastry case, the most prominent place in the shop. Each was topped with three whole strawberries. They looked perfectly preserved, no sign of mold.

I think I’ll be going, the old woman said. She stood up, smoothed her apron, and glanced out the window toward the square, as though looking one last time for the return of the bakery shop girl.

I’ll wait a little longer, I said.

You do that, she said, reaching out to gently touch my hand. Hers was callused and wrinkled—made rough by her work—and she had dirt under her fingernails. Still, her hand was warm and comforting, perhaps like the heat from those little birthday candles she had mentioned. I’m going to check on a couple of places where the girl might be, and if I find her I’ll tell her to come straight back.

Thank you, I said.

Not at all … Good-bye.

Clutching her wallet under her arm, she turned to leave. As she stepped through the revolving door, I noticed that her apron strings were coming untied in the back. I tried to stop her, but I was too late. She disappeared into the crowd in the square, and I was alone again.

*   *   *

He was an intelligent child. He could read his favorite picture book from beginning to end aloud without making a single mistake. He would use a different voice for each character—the piglet, the prince, the robot, the old man. He was left-handed. He had a broad forehead and a mole on one earlobe. When I was busy making dinner, he would often ask questions I did not know how to answer. Who invented Chinese characters? Why do people grow? What is air? Where do we go when we die?

After he was gone, I began to collect newspaper clippings about children who had died under tragic circumstances. Each day I would go to the library and gather articles from every newspaper and magazine, and then make copies of them.

An eleven-year-old girl who was raped and buried in a forest. A nine-year-old boy abducted by a deviant and later found in a wine crate with both of his ankles severed. A ten-year-old on a tour of an ironworks who slipped from a catwalk and was instantly dissolved in the smelter. I would read these articles aloud, reciting them like poems.

*   *   *

How had I not noticed before? I rose slightly from my seat and looked past the counter. A doorway behind the cash register was half open, and I could see into the kitchen. A young woman was standing inside with her face turned away. I was about to call out to her, but I stopped myself. She was talking to someone on the telephone, and she was

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  • (3/5)
    Revenge is a story that is divided into eleven parts. Each part on its own is creepy and satisfying in itself, but they are all connected; either by characters crossing paths or working/living in the same space. The readers have to read them all to see the bigger picture, and sometimes find out what really happened to the characters in previous stories.The first couple of stories almost turned me off. There wasn’t much depth to them on their own, but once I got the hang of how the book worked and understood those smaller stories were only bits and pieces of the larger story, the book grew on me. You find all different types of characters: cheating lovers, scorned workers, con-artists, and distant relatives; all plotting some type of revenge on those that had wronged them.The book can be slow at times. You have to read through a story that seems pointless at first, but fits in perfectly when you read all the stories together. Some of the characters are a little bland, but others pop out and you want to know more of their story. Overall, I had mixed feelings about Revenge. The way the stories slotted into place to make the big picture was creative and intriguing, but it was also a bit boring because they’re so disjointed on their own. It’s still a good read, but in order to give it a chance, you have to read the first 3-4 stories to start seeing how it works.
  • (5/5)
    The way Yoko Ogawa weaves the characters and situations together is amazing, and I love the way the novel turned full circle. Its cerebral, literary, floating. Every character was well defined and interesting--a woman with a heart outside her body, a curator of a museum entirely of torture devices, a paranoid old woman. Yoko Ogawa has a way of saying so much in such a small amount of space with equal parts sophistication and simplicity.

    This is a must read.
  • (4/5)
    This grouping of clever and gracefully written stories, I really enjoyed. It was fantastic how the author weaved something from one of the stories into another, it was almost like receiving a King cake at Mardi Gras, and discovering the prize. Some were about revenge but others were just deliciously creepy. I think these are some of my favorites so far.
  • (5/5)
    The quiet tone of these eleven stories is only one thing that belies the disturbing nature of these tales of suffering, loss and people who become "damaged, ruined beyond repair." Normally when I pick up a book of short stories I am expecting the typical anthology where sometimes when I'm lucky, there is a clear thematic structure that binds the narratives together, and I was expecting something along these lines as I started the first page. I wasn't disappointed; frankly, I was quietly surprised when I started to discover connections between the stories. It started slowly at first, but as they started popping up more frequently, I stopped reading, went back to the beginning and grabbed a notebook and a pen. Starting over and reading much more carefully, the connections started leaping out at me and I was sucked right into this strange world of this seaside town. What is also striking about these stories is that each one seems to open rather benignly, inviting you in. Little by little you start to get used to the environment and maybe for a little while feel comfy where you are. The first story, "Afternoon at the Bakery," for example, begins with a look at a nearly picture perfect scene of families strolling through a square during "an afternoon bathed in light and comfort," kids watching a balloon man ply his trade and a woman knitting on a bench. From there the action shifts to a bakery, where "everything looked delicious," with the "sweet scent of vanilla" hanging in the air. Once you've grown accustomed to your surroundings, however, you realize that something is just a bit off-kilter. The first hint comes when there's no one at the counter to help the customer/narrator who comes in, even though the friendly woman smelling of "overripe fruit" who pops in shortly afterward assures the customer that she's sure the girl will be right back. As the two women start making small talk it turns out that the customer is there to buy her son strawberry shortcake for his birthday:"I'm buying them for my son. Today is his birthday.""Really? Well, I hope it's a happy one. How old is he?""Six. He'll always be six. He's dead." Yikes. Not only is the boy dead, but he had died twelve years earlier, suffocating in an abandoned refrigerator. Even stranger is what the second woman says to the boy's mother: "Well,...then it was lucky you chose this bakery. There are no better pastries anywhere; your son will be pleased. And they include a whole box of birthday candles for free. They're darling -- red, blue pink, yellow, some with flowers or butterflies, animals, anything you could want." The story continues to darken and to take strange turns with the mother's memories of the day her son died and how she suffered in the aftermath; and by now you have been jolted out of the comfort of the warm, cozy, vanilla-scented bakery and thrust into a strange and growing darkness. Even the scene in the square takes on a surreal tone as the clock strikes five. People gather to watch the little automata come out of the clock door, but what emerges is not what you'd expect: instead it's a parade of a chicken, some soldiers, and a skeleton, followed by an angel who is "beating her golden wings."I'm not going to go into the other ten stories but the point is that each starts out so normally that you truly can't even begin to imagine what is waiting in store for you as you turn each page. As you read, as each story unfolds, the connections that are found in each and every story only heighten the strangeness -- until the last story brings about quite possibly the strangest tie of all, reminding you that there is no end to it all. Suffering and pain, death and loss are all connected here in this fictional world, just as they are in the real one, but here the author makes the links painfully clear where that's not always possible in reality. She does it in such a way that seemingly normal situations head down a path where these connections all resonate within a bizarre, claustrophobic and eerie atmosphere. I have to say that I have never in my entire life read anything quite like Revenge, and I probably never will again. It is truly a masterpiece of darkness and the best advice I can offer is this: run, do not walk to your nearest bookseller to pick up a copy, or get on your computer and order it online. You definitely do not want to miss this very strange but at the same time magnificent little book.
  • (4/5)
    Exquisitely unsettling. That’s the only description I can come up with for this finely understated story collection that creeps in under your skin, unobserved, and niggles at the subconscious mind until you’re afraid to let a breath out. It’s actually pretty darn scary, how good Ogawa is at frightening you in the most polite way. The stories are all connected: with the one before it, the one after it, the one at the end with the one at the beginning until you finally have so many connections your head is swimming. Her brilliance cannot be denied. The prose is spare and evocative. And when you get to the end you realize that she crafted a unique puzzle.The stories are peopled by seemingly normal characters: a bakery worker, a hospital secretary, a respiratory doctor, an author. But at some point, for varied reasons, they all come unhinged, in one way or another. In many cases, the ordinariness of life itself, grates on the individual with its loneliness, monotony, sadness and loss and finally pushes the character to the edge of insanity where it sits, waiting to go over the brink.In one story, Sewing for the Heart, a woman whose heart is outside of her body commissions a bag maker to make a bag that will neatly hold the heart in place. When he goes to deliver it to her, she informs him that she no longer needs it, because the surgery to fix her problem has finally been perfected. I’ll spare you the gruesome details of his response. In a later story, the very bag shows up in the story entitled Welcome to the Museum of Torture. You’ve probably never been to a museum like this where various methods of torture reside. For instance, there’s a funnel that is used to drip cold water on the victim’s face:”For a torture to be effective, the pain has to be spread out; it has to come at regular intervals, with no end in sight. The water falls , drop after drop after drop, like the second hand of a watch, carving up time. The shock of each individual drop is insignificant, but the sensation is impossible to ignore. At first, one might manage to think about other things, but after five hours, after ten hours, it becomes unendurable. The repeated stimulation excites the nerves to a point where they literally explode, and every sensation in the body is absorbed into that one spot on the forehead---indeed, you come to feel that you are nothing but a forehead, into which a fine needle is being forced millimeter by millimeter. You can’t sleep or even speak, hypnotized by a suffering that is greater than any mere pain. In general, the victim goes mad before a day has passed.” (Page 94)Grim and unsettling. Brilliant and poignant. Elegantly written yet with tremendous emotional impact.
  • (5/5)
    Beautifully interconnected and, in some instances, deliciously disturbing. I would certainly recommend this book to lovers of gentle horror and magical realism.
  • (4/5)
    I decided to pick up this book based on the fact that the author had also written The Housekeeper and the Professor, a novel that I really enjoyed - and I am so glad that I did.Revenge is a collection of eleven eloquent, charmingly dark short stories, all of which are intertwined in different ways. The book impressed me more and more as I continued, and Ogawa’s intricate writing was a treat to read. The writing style is delicate, even cozy - and combined with the more macabre elements of the stories, it’s perfection.Each of the eleven stories is somehow tied to another, usually the one directly preceding it, in some small and often unexpected way. A character happens to glimpse a girl crying over a phone conversation, and in another story we learn the reason that she was in tears. A character finds piles of fruit in an unexpected place, and in the next story, we learn how it got there. These details are not so much defining plot points, but rather puzzle pieces that tie the storylines together in a very satisfying way. Most of the book seems to take place in the same town. Toward the end of the book, a character briefly mentions the town square in passing, and I found myself thinking “Oh, yes - I know that place. I know the bakery there, I know about the customers, I know about the girl who works in it.” It was a pleasant feeling, of having glimpsed into pieces of so many people’s lives - of hearing characters remark upon something that you know more about than they do. Because of the way that these stories seem to so seamlessly fit together, it would be easy to overlook the broad scope of writing abilities that Ogawa demonstrates here.She slips effortlessly between cozy and warm to chilling and creepy, but never abandons the overall tone of her writing: pretty, observant, concise.Some of the stories are sentimentally evocative: a man fondly remembers bonding with his stepmother as a young boy, a mother continues to celebrate her son’s birthday despite his death years ago. And then, there are the tales that are more dark - a woman stumbles upon the Museum of Torture, housed in a forgotten old building on the outskirts of town. A man is commissioned to make a bag to hold a woman’s heart, which is exposed outside of her body due to a medical condition - and he becomes strangely obsessed with it, and with the temptation of being able to kill her so easily. A couple of the stories even capture an ominous sensuality: a girl who works in a hospital is fascinated with one of her female co-workers, imagining sex scenes with her that involve medical procedures, the man crafting a bag for the woman’s exposed heart imagines making love to her so passionately that her heart bursts. The way that Ogawa writes this, stylishly, isn’t lurid at all, but rather seems to flit up to the edge of taboo and elegantly skirt over the boundary before tastefully moving on.In short, this book impressed me, and I will definitely be hunting down more of the author’s writing.
  • (5/5)
    An interlinked cycle of stories about revenge, murder and loss--all hovering just beneath the surface of an eerily normal world. Each story works as a standalone but they grow in power as they are read together--both because of the consistent set of themes but also because elements of each story show up in other stories (e.g., one story is about a writer who is writing one of the other stories, etc.) Many of them are macabre, for example a woman whose heart is outside her body, a bag-maker who sews an elaborate bag to hold it, but then when she decides that surgery will solve the problem and that she no longer needs the bag, the devastated bag-maker kills her. Another story is about a museum of torture--where all the objects were actually used in torture. Yet another is about a widow who grows carrots shaped exactly like hands in her garden--and then her dead husband is discovered buried in the garden, with his hands missing. You get the idea.
  • (5/5)
    These elegantly and intricately connected tales are less about revenge than they are about loss, longing, and jealousy. Vaguely macabre, more than one of the stories actually made me chuckle with appreciation for Ogawa's ability to twist ever so slightly the reader's grasp of reality. After reading the first two tales, I wasn't sure this collection was for me but after the fourth I went back and read those first two again and Ogawa's genius became apparent. The unfolding web of connections between characters, settings, events, and emotions is simply delightful. And Ogawa masterfully exposes the layers upon layers of her scheme. In "The Man Who Sold Braces" the narrator finds himself in a house full of antiques, most of them instruments of torture. He comments, "As I studied the mass more closely, I began to feel that it was not the product of random accumulation but that it actually had a coherent form all its own; and while the individual items were dirty and deteriorating, taken together they were like a strange piece of art." Indeed.
  • (4/5)
    A collection of short stories from the author of Hotel Iris and The Housekeeper and the Professor. Each story stands on its own, but is also linked to one or more of the others, whether by a place, a person or, in one instance, the pages of this very book. There is an uncomfortable undercurrent to some of the stories, akin to that in Hotel Iris. Ogawa's skill with language makes each one seem gentle, almost harmless, so that the horror revealed so calmly feels more unsettling. I found the linking of the stories made me wish it was a novel. It would have been more satisfying that way. A three course meal instead of a buffet.
  • (5/5)
    This is by far the best book I've read this year. Each story intertwines with one another, and every horrifying tale brings you one step closer to the brink of insanity. You constantly find yourself searching for the how's and why's, but you only find yourself asking more questions. This is a great read for anyone daring enough to stare into the darkness and wonder what lies beyond.
  • (4/5)
    Delightfully disturbing, and the interlinking of the stories was exquisitely done. These aren't really horror stories, but the overall effect is indeed horrific. Recommended to fans of Dexter who don't absolutely require the sense of humor.
  • (3/5)
    This strange labyrinth of tales is a representation the way humans are connected to one another - each of us the main character of our own story, and never getting more than a glimpse of somebody else's story. Narrators in Ogawa's tales show up again and again as minor characters in other parts of the collection... so much that they are a confused bundle of people by the end. And is anyone telling the truth?

  • (5/5)
    The first story hooked me but was a little confused going into the second story but seeing how each story connected with the last story was amazing! I loved how it was written. I wouldn't call it a horror novel by any means but a good dark thriller would fit better. Really quick easy read. I had it done in a few hours and didn't want the stories to end!
  • (5/5)
    I was surfing radio stations and happened to pause on an NPR review of Revenge by Yoko Ogawa, which was highly praised as a well-written collection of stories of psychological horror which are linked to one another by various common threads. I have always been drawn to horror, especially when it is not simply genre stuff, but when it steps nimbly out of character and into literature. And recently I have been reading Murakami, so I was intrigued by the prospect of reading another Japanese author. I put the book on my birthday list. It appeared in an Easter Basket from my daughter, on a weekend when we visited her to celebrate both my birthday and the Easter holiday. Meanwhile, my wife had been shopping too, and while she didn’t see Revenge at the book store, she did see The Housekeeper and the Professor, a novel by Ogawa, with a significant plug on the back cover from Junot Diaz, a favorite author of mine. So for my birthday I also received this Ogawa book. I read Housekeeper first (reviewed separately by me elsewhere) and was highly impressed with the style, the content, the writing. It is a beautiful novel. I liked it so much I immediately turned to Revenge, the collection of stories; I wanted more!Boy, was I surprised: as much as I have lauded the novel, the stories are brilliant, and perhaps even better. I say perhaps, because it is not really fair to compare Ogawa’s tales here with her other fiction. This is written with an entirely different structure in a style strikingly at variance from what you encounter in her novel. These stories are not only scary, they are downright creepy. This is the kind of horror at the root of an Edgar Allen Poe tale, or a Stephen King short story that is more about the human condition than about the supernatural, as opposed to the horror residing in Anne Rice, H.P. Lovecraft or the King stuff that features monsters and such. Reading Revenge – which I actually inhaled over a day and a half -- I got that same pit in my stomach feeling of impending creepy terror that I experienced on my first drive-by of Silence of the Lambs. Of course, there are no serial killers here (or are there?). The random elements that link the stories are hard to spot at first – I found myself returning to ones read earlier to more carefully re-read the recurring reference – as the sequence builds the sense of interconnectedness emerges, far more subtly than say, in the movie Crash, but nevertheless there is this sense that we are all (and quite disturbingly the reader gets sucked into it too!) ineluctably wound up in this universe upon which everything is touching upon something else; and it is terrible universe after all. I highly recommend Revenge. Outstanding on every level. And I can’t wait to read more Ogawa!
  • (3/5)
    This book is good and I like how the stories are interconnected; I enjoy the process of speculating whether the main narrative are the characters from previous short stories. Although this book is odd and dark, it is not odd or dark enough to stay long with me; only one or two of them stand out...
  • (5/5)
    What a gloriously strange collection of interlinked short stories. Highly recommended.
  • (4/5)
    I could not put this books down. The stories are interwoven and are beautiful, tragic and deeply disturbing.