Tag Archives: J.K. Rowling

An Extended Musing + ‘Burmese Days’ by George Orwell (read 5/5/14 – 11/5/14)

I have recently returned home from a two week holiday in Mallorca. Staying close to the beautiful Port de Pollenca, the fortnight passed in a blissfully idle blur of the impregnable heat which hit me no sooner had I stepped off the plane, copious amounts of seafood so perfectly fresh as to still retain a taste of the resort’s sparkling salty sea, and, of course, whole days devoted to nothing but reading. For indeed, the beauty of a lack of internet connection (not to mention the fear of racking up extortionate phone bills when abroad), while admittedly something rather discombobulating to a 21st century teenager, is that it enables one to truly be free from distractions for a certain period, not only those caused by one’s social life but also those more stressful ones of work, university research/applications etc. for which a computer or tablet have become almost always mandatory. Continue reading

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‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ by Robert Galbraith aka J.K. Rowling (read 27/11/13 – 11/12/13)

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It was the literary story of summer 2013. The initial verdict had been given in April, yet nevertheless it was apparent that the case was unfinished. Certain elements did not seem to coherently appertain to one another, an undeniable indication that there was more to this than met the eye. The whispers commenced their circulation, uttered behind closed doors in the homes of crime fiction fans and subtly murmured between critics and authors alike at the season’s literary parties (those same parties where, for all they knew, the culprit could have been hiding incognito among them at the very moment they muttered their convictions into their neighbour’s ear). How could he, with his ‘military background’, produce a supposed debut that was as confident and secure in style as this?; how could he, a man, have conveyed with such conviction and candidness those sentiments and a sense of one’s physical awareness that are as intrinsically linked to womanhood and femininity as the XX pair of chromosomes?; how could anyone doubt even momentarily that there was something irrefutably familiar about his writing style, in particular a fondness for qualifiers remarkably akin to the characteristic manner of a certain writing phenomenon? The investigations began, the evidence analysed as the clues were uncovered one by one, until eventually the truth was revealed in The Sunday Times on 13 July: The Cuckoo’s Calling, published three months earlier, had not, after all, been written by Robert Galbraith. Robert Galbraith, as far as we are aware, does not even exist. In actual fact, the act was committed by none other than the queen of British fiction herself, the incomparable J.K. Rowling. Continue reading

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