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mg_winter's review
medium-paced
4.5
Loved this book. I struggled at times with the experimentation within its structure however, it totally pays off. The fragmented flow, shifts of perspective and interspersed poetry complements the mental journey of Bolden as well as mirrors the creativity of his music.
ariddity's review against another edition
challenging
dark
informative
mysterious
reflective
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
davethescot's review against another edition
adventurous
challenging
dark
emotional
informative
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
Easy to see why this is Steve Earle's favourite book. "Coming Through Slaughter" is a riveting exploration of creativity, madness, and identity. Michael Ondaatje's poetic prose weaves a mesmerizing tapestry of Buddy Bolden's life, blurring the lines between fact and fiction. This haunting novel captivates with its vivid imagery and profound portrayal of a jazz legend's tumultuous journey.
shanviolinlove's review
Intriguing premise, drawn from a curious true story. The novel is short and loaded with bizarre scenes--I am not altogether sure if this reflects on the nature of the freaky storylover Buddy Bolden, who curated such stories; or if felt gimmicky as a ploy to hold one's attention, the way the lasciviously detailed sexual encounters every ten pages felt. The book was a wild ride and Ondaatje's poetic voice comes out through the din, but altogether not a very re-readable venture.
bielders's review
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
2.0
dlemmen's review
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
4.0
malachi_'s review
challenging
dark
emotional
informative
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
5.0
How had I never heard of Michael Ondaatje before coming to Canada! I loved LOVED this. The writing is so metaphorical but it's not heavy with it at all. I enjoyed the shifting perspectives, which were rarely announced. I like how much trust he puts in the reader.
It was beautifully sad and loneliness is communicated so, so effectively. I loved how his moments with Robin and Nora are described and the interchange of bodies.
It was so vivid, detailed, and well-observed. 'Asking for a glass of water and pouring in the free ketchup to make soup.'
'In the heat heart of the Brewitts’ bathtub his body exploded. The armour of dirt fell apart and the nerves and muscles loosened. [...] He came up and lay there not washing just letting the dirt and the sweat melt into the heat.'
'She lay on top of him, kissing him, talking quietly to him. He could feel the material of her clothes all
over his naked body, as if he were wearing them. His eyes closed. It could have been a sky not a ceiling above him.'
'Passing wet chicory that lies in the field like the sky.'
'To the first slow kiss in the cloth of her
right shoulder into the skin of her neck, blowing my nervousness against
the almost cold hair for she has been walking outside. My fingers into
her hair like a comb till the hair is tight against the unused nerves
between my fingers. The taste the pollen in her right ear, the soft circuit
of her hearing wet with my spit that I send to her like a ship and suck
back and swallow. This soft moveable limb on the side of her head.'
'Dear Robin. I remember when I
shook against you. The flavour of mouth. We are animals meeting an
unknown breed. The reek, the size, where to find the right softness.
Against this door. Coiled into each other under the brown and white
cloth. Trying to come closer than that. A step past the territory.'
'the dull white star of water under each of us. Swimming towards the sound of madness'
'This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the
key to everything before morning. The heat incredible, we go out and
buy a bag of ice, crack it small in our mouths and spit it onto each
other’s bodies, her tongue slipping it under the skin of my cock me
pushing it into her hot red fold. But we are already travelling on the
morning bus tragic. Like the ice melting in the heat of us. Dripping wet
on our chest and breasts we approach each other private and selfish and
cold in the September heatwave. We give each other a performance, the
wound of ice. We imagine audiences and the audiences are each other
again and again in the future. ‘We’ll go crazy without each other you
know.’ The one lonely sentence, her voice against my hand as if to stop
her saying it. We follow each other into the future, as if now, at the last
moment we try to memorize the face a movement we will never want to
forget. As if everything in the world is the history of ice.'
'What he wanted was cruel, pure relationship.'
'All the time I hate what I am doing and want the other. In a room full
of people I get frantic in their air and their shout and when I’m alone I
sniff the smell of their bodies against my clothes.'
'What do you want to know about me Webb? I’m alone. I desire every
woman I remember. Everything is clear here and still I feel my brain has
walked away and is watching me. I feel I hover over the objects in this
house, over every person in my memory—like those painted saints in my
mother’s church who seem to always have six or seven inches between
them and the ground. Posing as humans. I give myself immaculate
twenty minute shaves in the morning. Tap some lotion on me and cook a
fabulous breakfast. Only meal of the day. So I move from the morning’s
energy into the later hours of alcohol and hunger and thickness and
tiredness. Trying to overcome this awful and stupid clarity.'
'All those
contests for bodies with children in the background like furniture.'
'The mist has flopped
over onto the embankment like a sailing ship.'
'Standing like grey angels on the edge of
the mist,'
'you look like a favourite shirt I lost.'
'He lies back with his head in her lap. Looking
up at her. The home of his wife’s mouth coming down on him.'
'Laughing in my room. As you try to explain me I will spit you, yellow,
out of my mouth.'
'I sit with this room. With the grey walls that darken into corner. And
one window with teeth in it. Sit so still you can hear your hair rustle in
your shirt. Look away from the window when clouds and other things go
by. Thirty-one years old. There are no prizes.'
It was beautifully sad and loneliness is communicated so, so effectively. I loved how his moments with Robin and Nora are described and the interchange of bodies.
It was so vivid, detailed, and well-observed. 'Asking for a glass of water and pouring in the free ketchup to make soup.'
'In the heat heart of the Brewitts’ bathtub his body exploded. The armour of dirt fell apart and the nerves and muscles loosened. [...] He came up and lay there not washing just letting the dirt and the sweat melt into the heat.'
'She lay on top of him, kissing him, talking quietly to him. He could feel the material of her clothes all
over his naked body, as if he were wearing them. His eyes closed. It could have been a sky not a ceiling above him.'
'Passing wet chicory that lies in the field like the sky.'
'To the first slow kiss in the cloth of her
right shoulder into the skin of her neck, blowing my nervousness against
the almost cold hair for she has been walking outside. My fingers into
her hair like a comb till the hair is tight against the unused nerves
between my fingers. The taste the pollen in her right ear, the soft circuit
of her hearing wet with my spit that I send to her like a ship and suck
back and swallow. This soft moveable limb on the side of her head.'
'Dear Robin. I remember when I
shook against you. The flavour of mouth. We are animals meeting an
unknown breed. The reek, the size, where to find the right softness.
Against this door. Coiled into each other under the brown and white
cloth. Trying to come closer than that. A step past the territory.'
'the dull white star of water under each of us. Swimming towards the sound of madness'
'This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the
key to everything before morning. The heat incredible, we go out and
buy a bag of ice, crack it small in our mouths and spit it onto each
other’s bodies, her tongue slipping it under the skin of my cock me
pushing it into her hot red fold. But we are already travelling on the
morning bus tragic. Like the ice melting in the heat of us. Dripping wet
on our chest and breasts we approach each other private and selfish and
cold in the September heatwave. We give each other a performance, the
wound of ice. We imagine audiences and the audiences are each other
again and again in the future. ‘We’ll go crazy without each other you
know.’ The one lonely sentence, her voice against my hand as if to stop
her saying it. We follow each other into the future, as if now, at the last
moment we try to memorize the face a movement we will never want to
forget. As if everything in the world is the history of ice.'
'What he wanted was cruel, pure relationship.'
'All the time I hate what I am doing and want the other. In a room full
of people I get frantic in their air and their shout and when I’m alone I
sniff the smell of their bodies against my clothes.'
'What do you want to know about me Webb? I’m alone. I desire every
woman I remember. Everything is clear here and still I feel my brain has
walked away and is watching me. I feel I hover over the objects in this
house, over every person in my memory—like those painted saints in my
mother’s church who seem to always have six or seven inches between
them and the ground. Posing as humans. I give myself immaculate
twenty minute shaves in the morning. Tap some lotion on me and cook a
fabulous breakfast. Only meal of the day. So I move from the morning’s
energy into the later hours of alcohol and hunger and thickness and
tiredness. Trying to overcome this awful and stupid clarity.'
'All those
contests for bodies with children in the background like furniture.'
'The mist has flopped
over onto the embankment like a sailing ship.'
'Standing like grey angels on the edge of
the mist,'
'you look like a favourite shirt I lost.'
'He lies back with his head in her lap. Looking
up at her. The home of his wife’s mouth coming down on him.'
'Laughing in my room. As you try to explain me I will spit you, yellow,
out of my mouth.'
'I sit with this room. With the grey walls that darken into corner. And
one window with teeth in it. Sit so still you can hear your hair rustle in
your shirt. Look away from the window when clouds and other things go
by. Thirty-one years old. There are no prizes.'
quizoola's review
emotional
informative
sad
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
charlottekook's review against another edition
3.0
love the moving perspectives and the mix of different people's memories.
tommyhousworth's review
4.0
The story of Buddy Bolden is one that can only be cobbled together through myth and music. No recordings exist of his music, and there are so many tall tales about the man, no one can really say where the hyperbole ends and the real Buddy begins.
"Coming Through Slaughter" embraces this dilemma and rises above it, with a unique use of rather abstract language and phrasing - as well as shifting narrative - that are jarring at times, but ultimately work.
You don't have to love jazz to enjoy "Slaughter", but it does help.
"Coming Through Slaughter" embraces this dilemma and rises above it, with a unique use of rather abstract language and phrasing - as well as shifting narrative - that are jarring at times, but ultimately work.
You don't have to love jazz to enjoy "Slaughter", but it does help.