Ratings (493 books)
This book made me feel my heart break for Isabelle and Robert. I started recommending the book before I was even finished (which is always risky). Now that I’m finished, this book is going to the top of my favorite books list
I love when books I wouldn’t ordinarily choose are this good!
(Sits down at computer, cracks knuckles) Buckle up because I have some things to say about this mess.
1.5 stars — and that’s me being generous because I’m sure the author worked hard.
Let’s start with the nicknames: “Pinks” and “Pinko.” Literally ::gag:: the second lovers give each other stupid nicknames I start docking stars off the review. It’s so nauseating.
Then there’s the dual timeline gimmick. In theory? Fine. In execution? Whiplash. You’ve got post-WWII espionage-lite on one end and a melodramatic love story between the girl next door and her drop dead handsome rich kid crush turned pop idol on the other. And I use “love story” loosely because it reads more like a Pinterest board of every romance cliché known to man. What do these timelines have to do with each other? Nothing. They barely feel like they belong in the same book.
Let’s not forget the rich-boy trope. Daddy wants him at Yale, in a tie, being a hedge fund bro. But no—he wants to make music. He’s different. Groundbreaking. Never seen that one before.
Also: the names. Every rich character sounds like they were named by someone doing satire on old money. Sedge? Monk? Chippy? Are these even people or a firm of estate lawyers in Nantucket?
The subplot with the sister getting cheated on? Absolutely no idea why it existed. Did it go anywhere? Did it matter? Or was it just there for word count? I have questions.
And poor Replacement Guy—what was his name, Sedge? Spencer? Subplot Stan? Whatever. Did Mallory seriously just ghost him mid-crisis? No closure, no explanation? Justice for the random filler boyfriend.
And finally: fresh flowers in a transplant patient’s hospital room. What are we doing here. That’s not touching. That’s a health code violation.
Bottom line: this book thinks it’s deep and romantic, but it’s just overwrought, under-edited, and allergic to subtlety. Should’ve been two better books. Or maybe none at all.
But hey—maybe I’m no fun or this genre isn’t for me. I prefer my romance with fewer pet names.
4.5 stars… oh to hell with it, 5 stars!
From Here to the Great Unknown is a raw, intimate, and emotionally charged memoir that blends the voice of the late Lisa Marie Presley with the perspective of her daughter, Riley Keough, who so perfectly completed the story after her mother’s passing. The dynamic between the original writing and Riley’s additions creates a layered, deeply personal narrative. Julia Roberts delivers a pitch-perfect audiobook performance, and the inclusion of Presley’s own recordings adds an unforgettable, haunting authenticity. Central to the book’s emotional impact is the devastating story of Ben Keough’s suicide, which Presley shares with unflinching honesty. She confronts how depression and addiction can lie dormant for generations, quietly threading through families until they erupt into tragedy. Presley also seemed to possess a deep intuition—almost a clairvoyant ability to sense what was coming—which adds an eerie, poignant undertone to the memoir. In telling her truth, Presley—who always sought to help others—may have done just that, giving voice to pain that too often goes unspoken. HIGHLY RECOMMEND
After losing her mother and watching her husband leave for another playground mom who’s now pregnant, Lila Kennedy is left trying to keep her family afloat. When Gene—her loud, stubborn, washed-up actor of a father—reappears after years of absence, Lila is forced to face old wounds she never really healed from. Around her, everyone else is carrying their own struggles too: Celie, her angry teenage daughter quietly dealing with betrayal; Violet, her spirited younger daughter with her own oddball charm; and Bill, her rigid but loyal stepdad who steps in to keep the household running after Francesca’s death. Even the side characters leave their mark—like Truant, the absolute nutcase of a dog; Penelope, the lonely piano teacher with an obvious crush on Bill; and Jensen, the steady gardener whose dry humor hides real wisdom. Through long talks and quiet moments, Jensen becomes a kind of anchor for Lila, offering the honesty and perspective she didn’t know she needed. We All Live Here is about broken families, second chances, and the imperfect ways we find our way back to each other.
REVIEW: This isn’t the kind of book I usually reach for, but I ended up really loving it. What stood out most was how real the characters felt—flawed without feeling forced, likable even when they messed up. Moyes doesn’t tie everything up neatly or make people better than they are. Relationships grow slowly, through hard conversations, quiet gestures, and forgiveness that doesn’t come easy.
I especially loved the dynamic between Lila and Jensen. He’s steady in a way Lila desperately needs; offering honesty without judgment, helping her find her footing when she’s too close to the mess to see clearly. And Gene, for all his loud mistakes and chaos he brings, ends up being one of the most lovingly human characters.
The only reason this wasn’t a five-star read for me is that some parts of the plot were predictable. But in the end, it didn’t really matter. The story’s heart is in the right place: nobody gets through life clean, and grace matters more than judgment. Like the old line says, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
3.5 stars. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier is beautifully written, with vivid, atmospheric descriptions that make Manderley and its haunting mood come alive. The prose is immersive, and du Maurier’s talent for building tension is undeniable. However, what held me back from a higher rating was the narrator herself. I found her frustratingly one-dimensional for much of the book. She was so passive and insecure that it was hard to root for her. While she does evolve toward the end, her transformation felt too little, too late. I wanted a stronger heroine, someone with more agency and presence throughout the story. Overall, a well-crafted novel that fell a bit short in character development.
The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters follows a young Mi’kmaq girl, Ruthie, who vanishes while her family is in Maine for the blueberry harvest in 1962. Decades later, her brother Joe remains haunted by her disappearance, while a woman named Norma begins to uncover secrets that challenge everything she knows about her past.
This story, though emotionally compelling, fell short in character development, leaving me unable to fully connect with the narrative.
I loved this book. I didn’t want it to end. So much dysfunction in one family yet so much great character development. SOOO many quotable moments. I’ll need to let this sink in before I can come up with a more thoughtful review.
This series is just not for me. It’s too YA/angsty and I feel old now.
