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 “Time is not outside us but within us.”

Reading Find Me felt like standing in a familiar landscape after a long absence — the light is the same, the shadows fall in roughly the same places, but something’s shifted. The ache is still there. So is the beauty. But the rhythm has changed.

This sequel to Call Me By Your Name isn’t quite what I expected. Rather than simply picking up Elio and Oliver’s story, it’s divided into four movements, spanning decades and perspectives, beginning with Elio’s father, Samuel. The prose is unmistakably Aciman’s, languid, philosophical, intimate, but the emotional centre feels more diffuse this time.

The first section, “Tempo,” is where I struggled most. Sam’s whirlwind romance didn’t resonate with the same depth or poignancy I found in CMBYN. It’s wistful, yes - full of longing and sudden intensity but it didn’t quite earn my attachment.

And yet, there were moments when the writing shimmered. Elio’s section, especially, brought back that familiar melancholy and introspection. And Oliver, always a little unknowable, returns with his own weight of memory and yearning. There’s something undeniably moving about the quiet gravity of their final section, even if it doesn’t land with the same ache.

Find Me is more abstract than its predecessor. More meditative. It plays with time and memory and the lives we might have lived. It’s about second chances, and also about never quite escaping the pull of a single summer. For me, it didn’t fully recapture the magic of Call Me By Your Name - but it did offer a soft echo of it. And sometimes, an echo is enough.

Favourite quote:
"People never talk about the almost moment. Yet it’s the almost moment that gets you in the end."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐✨ (3.5 stars)
A quiet, longing sequel — imperfect but reflective. Best read with soft music, a slow heart, and the memory of peaches still in reach.

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 “Is it better to speak or die?”

Returning to Call Me By Your Name felt like stepping back into a dream - golden-hued, intimate, and still quietly aching. Set in the sun-washed days of 1980s Italy, this story of first love between Elio and Oliver unfolds slowly, like fruit ripening on a windowsill: lush, uncertain, tender, and intense.

On re-reading, I was struck even more by the introspection - the depth of Elio’s inner world, his obsessional thinking, the constant circling of desire and self-consciousness. It’s not always comfortable, but it is beautifully done. Aciman captures the intensity of a youthful crush turned all-consuming romance with a kind of breathless clarity, the language both intellectual and sensuous.

There were moments I found overwrought, especially in Elio’s emotional spirals but perhaps that’s part of the point. Love at that age is everything, and Aciman never lets you forget it. There’s also an undeniable melancholy threaded through the book: the what-ifs, the missed chances, the inevitability of loss. And yet it lingers - in the citrus trees, the classical music, the quiet afternoons - with such grace.

A rich, sun-drenched story about the ways people imprint on each other. And how some summers, and some people, live on long after the heat fades.

Favourite quote:
"We had the stars, you and I. And this is given once only."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (4 stars)
A lyrical, intimate novel about first love, memory, and longing — even more powerful the second time.


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“Secrets have a way of simmering beneath the surface, like herbs steeping in a hidden brew.”

The Lost Apothecary is a compelling historical thriller that weaves together two timelines - the 18th-century story of Nella, a secret apothecary dispensing poisons to women seeking justice, and the present-day narrative of Caroline, a museum curator drawn into unraveling the apothecary’s mysteries.

Sarah Penner crafts a richly atmospheric tale filled with intriguing characters, shadowed alleys, and the scent of herbs and danger. The alternating perspectives provide a layered experience, as past and present entwine around themes of power, revenge, and female agency.

What I especially appreciated was the attention to detail in the historical setting, which brought 18th-century London vividly to life, along with the nuanced exploration of women’s choices in a patriarchal world. The mystery kept me turning pages, and several moments of suspense and revelation felt genuinely satisfying.

That said, there were times when the pacing faltered - particularly in the present-day storyline, which occasionally felt slower and less gripping than Nella’s arc. Some of the secondary characters could have been more fully developed, and a few plot threads felt a bit predictable.

Still, The Lost Apothecary is a solid, engaging read with a unique premise and a compelling emotional core. It’s a story that lingers, much like the scent of an herbal remedy - subtle but persistent.

Favourite quote:
"Even the smallest potion, brewed in secret, can change a life forever."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐¾ (3.75 stars)
A well-crafted blend of historical intrigue and modern mystery - not perfect, but definitely worth the journey.

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 “We are not separate from nature. We are nature.”

Coming back to Raynor Winn’s voice in The Wild Silence feels like returning to a quiet cove you once walked, barefoot and full of questions. It carries the same raw honesty and reverence for the natural world as The Salt Path, but this time the journey is inward — a slower, softer reckoning with home, healing, and the life that follows after survival.

This book begins not on the coast, but in the quiet aftermath. Raynor and Moth, having completed their epic walk, are still searching — not just for somewhere to live, but for a sense of peace, belonging, and purpose. Much of The Wild Silence is about what it means to try and settle when you’ve been reshaped by loss, by wildness, by walking.

There’s a deep tenderness in the way Raynor writes about Moth — his illness, his fragility, his strength — and how their relationship bends and grows under new pressures. There’s also a lovely thread about reconnecting with her mother, and a remarkable project that sees Raynor and Moth return to the land in a different way — by rewilding a neglected farm. These moments are where the book shines.

The prose remains lyrical and sincere, though at times the structure felt a little meandering. Some sections felt slightly unfocused or repeated certain beats from The Salt Path, and I occasionally wished for a tighter arc or more clarity. But then again, life after trauma is messy and non-linear, and perhaps the book’s form reflects that truth.

It’s not quite as immediately striking as The Salt Path, but it’s a worthy continuation — quieter, but just as brave. If The Salt Path is about losing everything, The Wild Silence is about relearning how to live in the aftermath. About finding meaning not just in wild places, but in stillness, in roots, in tending the land with your own hands.

Favourite quote:
"The wild silence isn't empty. It’s full of memory, of heartbeat, of breath. It listens to you, if you listen back."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (4 stars)
A reflective and deeply felt continuation — The Wild Silence is a book about returning, restoring, and remembering what it means to live with the land.

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 “Words can wound and words can heal. I love you is the root of all battle.”

Reading This Is How You Lose the Time War feels a little like wandering into a half-remembered dream — vivid and poetic, but with moments where you’re not quite sure where you are or what it all means. And yet, that’s part of what makes it so special.

This novella follows two rival agents, Red and Blue, as they leave secret letters for one another across the strands of time. What begins as taunting and tension becomes something intimate and tender, tangled with longing, wit, and eventual rebellion. Their love grows in stolen words, in coded messages, in the cracks between timelines.

The prose is lush, experimental, sometimes bordering on opaque — but often achingly beautiful. At its best, it reads like a love poem disguised as science fiction. I adored the sharpness of the voices, the elegance of the metaphors, and the sheer feeling it managed to evoke through language alone. There were lines I reread just to feel them again.

That said, it’s a book that asks for a lot of trust. There were moments I felt unmoored, wishing for a little more grounding in the plot or world-building. But perhaps that’s not the point — this isn’t a book about systems or settings; it’s about connection. About language as an act of love. About finding your person even in the unlikeliest timeline.

This isn’t quite a forever favourite, but it is unforgettable. A book I’d recommend to anyone who finds magic in words, who’s ever wanted to fall in love through letters, or who’s drawn to stories that feel like puzzles and poetry all at once.

Favourite quote:
“I want to meet you in every place I ever loved. Listen. Listen: Time is not a river. Time is a tree. We climb it together.”

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐¾ (3.75 stars)
A strange and stunning novella — not always easy, but utterly worthwhile.

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 “What would it be like to be raised on gratitude, to speak to the earth as if it were a beloved relative?”

There are some books that don’t just share knowledge — they reawaken it in you. Braiding Sweetgrass is one of those rare treasures: a weaving of science, story, and spirit that gently transforms how you see the world and your place in it.

Robin Wall Kimmerer — botanist, professor, and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation — invites the reader into a slow, reverent conversation about reciprocity, kinship, and the intelligence of the living world. With prose as rich and grounded as the soil she studies, she offers both scientific insight and Indigenous wisdom, never treating them as separate threads, but braiding them together with deep care.

What I loved most was the sense of listening that underpins every page. Kimmerer writes not just to share, but to invite — into gratitude, into relationship, into responsibility. Whether she’s describing the quiet generosity of sweetgrass, the learning curve of raising daughters close to the land, or the intricate exchanges between mosses and water, each chapter feels like a sacred offering.

This book took me days to read — not because it was slow, but because it asked me to slow down. To read with ceremony. To think. To notice. To look at the trees outside my window not as background, but as neighbours.

If you’re yearning for a book that reconnects, recentres, and replenishes — this is it. Not just a favourite of the year, but one I’ll return to again and again, like a familiar forest path that always shows you something new.

Favourite quote:
“In a world that values constant growth, sweetgrass reminds us that the most beautiful things are those that grow in circles, not lines.”

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
A wise, generous, and deeply healing book — Braiding Sweetgrass is both a love letter and a call to remember.


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“Sometimes, the end of a path is just the beginning.”

Every now and then, a book comes along that quietly but irrevocably shifts something in you. The Salt Path is one of those books — gentle and unassuming on the surface, but full of deep, tidal emotion that carries you somewhere unexpected.

Raynor Winn tells the true story of how she and her husband Moth, newly homeless and reeling from his devastating diagnosis, decide to walk the 630-mile South West Coast Path from Somerset to Dorset. With nothing but a tent, meagre funds, and a fierce sense of love and determination, their journey is both a physical trek and an emotional reckoning — with grief, with resilience, with the raw edges of the natural world.

What struck me most was the simplicity and strength of Winn’s writing. There’s no pretension, only honesty — about exhaustion, about shame, about the beauty of a windswept cliff at sunset. Her words are carried by the rhythm of the waves, the call of seabirds, the relentless forward motion of walking. And through it all, her bond with Moth is achingly beautiful — quiet, unwavering, and filled with the kind of tenderness that feels rare and vital.

This book is not just about a walk, or a hardship overcome. It's about choosing life — deliberately, doggedly, even when life seems to have turned its back on you. It’s about rewilding yourself in the face of ruin. And it’s about hope — not the shiny, surface kind, but the real, salt-stung kind that comes from the ground up.

If you’ve ever found solace in nature, questioned what it means to “have enough,” or needed reminding of the small, sturdy things that carry us through — The Salt Path will find its way into your heart and stay there.

Favourite quote:
"To carry on, to make a new home in the light, not the dark. To live. To live the best life we could."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Raw, restorative, and deeply human — The Salt Path is a quiet triumph of spirit and landscape alike.

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Blyhe

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