Kingdom Of Dust Filmhandlung und Hintergrund
Adam, ein ziviler Angestellter einer amerikanischen Firma im Irak, erwacht aus tiefer Betäubung in einer dunklen Kellerzelle. Zornige Iraker sitzen ihm gegenüber, beschimpfen ihn in fremder Sprache, drohen ihm mit eindeutigen Gesten. Adam beginnt. emailcustomerservice.co - Kaufen Sie Kingdom of Dust günstig ein. Qualifizierte Bestellungen werden kostenlos geliefert. Sie finden Rezensionen und Details zu einer. Suchergebnis auf emailcustomerservice.co für: Kingdom of Dust. Kingdom of Dust ein Film von Heath Jones mit Elyes Gabel, Stephen Hogan. Inhaltsangabe: Im Keller eines Hauses von Bagdad wird Adam. Komplette Handlung und Informationen zu Kingdom of Dust. Adam, ein ziviler Angestellter einer amerikanischen Firma im Irak, erwacht aus tiefer Betäubung in.
Die DVD Kingdom Of Dust jetzt für 7,99 Euro kaufen. Kingdom of Dust ein Film von Heath Jones mit Elyes Gabel, Stephen Hogan. Inhaltsangabe: Im Keller eines Hauses von Bagdad wird Adam. emailcustomerservice.co - Kaufen Sie Kingdom of Dust günstig ein. Qualifizierte Bestellungen werden kostenlos geliefert. Sie finden Rezensionen und Details zu einer.
Lynda is making the trip on the company jet more often these days. This is a magnitude of intervention that no other agricultural company in California has ever attempted.
The giving goes to college scholarships and tutors. It goes to doctors and nurses, trainers and dietitians, who track the weight of workers, prod them to exercise, and wean them off soda and tortillas.
As she announces the newest gift, the men and women in the back of the crowd smile and applaud politely and try not to show their faces to the publicity crew she has brought with her to film the event.
Many are here without documents, after all. Today, most everything in this desolate reach of Kern County, save for the oil wells, belongs to Paramount Farming, which belongs to the Resnicks.
The State Water Project that allowed western Kern County to grow into a farming behemoth has given no water or very little water over the past three years amid the worst drought in California history.
If this were any other part of Kern, the farmers would be reaching into the earth to make up the difference.
But western Kern has no groundwater to draw from. How can this be? No rain in five years. State water dwindling year after year.
No water in the ground to make up for the missing government supply. How can another record crop be sitting pretty on these trees?
I do all the calculations from the numbers I am able to gather, and I cannot figure out how these nuts are getting enough water.
There is a local water bank, a kind of underground lake, that the Resnicks control. In the years of plentiful rains and heavy snowmelt, the bank fills up with more than 1 million acre-feet of stored water.
But most of this water has been spent by the Resnicks and other account holders in years two, three, and four of the drought.
Whatever remains is not nearly enough to make up for the shortfall of imported water from the state. Then I get lucky.
I come upon a Wonderful field man in a four-by-four truck who listens to my bewilderment and takes pity. As he drives off, he throws a clue out the window.
Turn onto Twisselman Road off I-5 and continue west until it intersects with the California Aqueduct. The water is being taken from unsuspecting farmers in an irrigation district in Tulare County more than 40 miles away.
Its vastness makes you feel safe and in jeopardy at the same time. I head straight into the glare of the sun shooting over the Coast Range.
Through the haze I can see the knoll of the aqueduct come closer. In a valley of dead rivers, each one killed on behalf of agriculture, the aqueduct was the one river still alive.
Its artificiality had achieved a permanence; its permanence had created my California. I pull over into the dirt of a pomegranate orchard, the ancient fruit that the Resnicks have turned into POMWonderful, the sweet purple juice inside a swell-upon-swell bottle.
The shiny red orbs, three months shy of harvest, pop out from the bright green leaves like bulbs on a Christmas tree.
I study the terrain. This must be the spot the Wonderful field man was describing. Sure enough, cozied up next to the bank of the aqueduct, I see a glint.
I get out of the car and walk down an embankment. There before me, two aluminum pipes, side by side, 12 inches in diameter each, slither in the sun.
Where gravity needs a boost, the pipes run atop wooden crates used to pack boxes of fruit. Where the pipes butt up against Twisselman Road, a more clever bit of engineering is required.
Here, a crew has dug a culvert beneath the road and hiked the pipeline under the asphalt that divides one field from another. On one side of the road and the other, for miles in both directions, the dirt belongs to Wonderful.
I stand over the pipes and give them a hard slap. They slap back with the cold vibration of water. Water is what led me to Stewart Resnick in the winter of Back then, the Los Angeles Times had a bureau in the middle of California.
The bureau happened to be my house in northwest Fresno. I had finished the last chapter of The King of California , a book I wrote with a good friend about J.
Boswell, who owned more land and controlled more water than any other person in the West for most of the 20th century. He and his forebears from Georgia had dried up Tulare Lake, the biggest body of freshwater this side of the Mississippi, and planted , acres of cotton outside the town of Corcoran.
As it happened, just down the road, on the other side of the lake bottom, Resnick had captured his own body of water, the Kern Water Bank, and planted millions of nut trees on desert scrub.
The deed had been done in a series of hidden meetings in Monterey. Resnick wanted no part in my story. Each time I called, his secretary hung up the phone.
I waited five years before placing another call to his headquarters. I had in mind a magazine profile on Stewart, the Nut King. A few weeks later, I found myself riding up the elevator of a high-rise on the Westside of Los Angeles.
He sat behind a desk without clutter and stood up to shake my hand. He was a small, trim man, no more than 5 foot 5, in his early 70s with thinning silver hair and brown eyes rimmed in pink.
He was dressed in the latest slim-fit style. Arrayed before him were small bowls of almonds, pistachios, and easy-to-peel mandarins, a plate of ground white turkey meat cooked in olive oil, and a glass of pomegranate juice.
Everything but the turkey had come from his orchards. It gives me the luxury to keep on working. Even if he were inclined to wind down, he had no successor in mind.
None of his three children had the slightest interest in taking over the company. He and Lynda were changing the way food was grown in California and sold to the world.
Unlike many other billionaires, they could poke fun at themselves. The Resnick story certainly deserved a book, but did he really want me to be the one to write it?
Boswell had tried to tear apart a copy of The King of California when his secretary asked if he might autograph it.
The front gates of the 25,square-foot Beaux Arts mansion on Sunset Boulevard magically opened without a guard giving a nod. I exited my car and approached the entrance with its foot columns and wrought-iron balustrades.
When the mansion was built in , it was known as the Sunset House. I was prepared to knock on the door, but a housekeeper, flanked by two blow-dried dogs, greeted me on the front steps and led me inside.
I tried not to stare at the gold that was everywhere: heavy-legged gold furniture, paintings in thick gold frames, gold-leaf carpet, and gold-fringed drapes.
From the vaulted ceilings with gold-leaf moldings hung two blown-glass chandeliers. The curtains were made of a fabric woven in Venice and substantial enough that they might finish off a person who happened to be looking out the window in the throes of an earthquake.
He had spent the morning on his exercise bike reading Fortune. Fresh from a shower, a red Kabbalah string tied around his wrist and a multihued pair of socks covering his feet, he welcomed me.
This is my wife. This is Lynda. Where do you begin with a man of great riches if not the distant places you might have in common?
And so I began with slaughter and madness and then moved on to bartenders for fathers. His grandfather Resnick had fled the Ukraine in the wake of another killing of Jews by Cossacks.
The bells in the churches pealed, and out came the villagers with their scythes and axes, believing they had found the reason for their poverty.
It was the early s, and his grandfather and grandmother decided to secure passage to America. His father was 3 years old at the time.
They settled in Brooklyn among Jews who had fled their own pogroms, and his grandfather went into the needle-and-embroidery trade.
When the Depression struck, his parents migrated to Middlebush, New Jersey, where they bought a few trucks and peddled coffee and pots and pans.
Stewart was the second of their four children, the only boy. Manhattan was 30 minutes in one direction; the Jersey Shore, 30 minutes in the other.
The borough measured no more than 2 square miles. His father bought a neighborhood bar and ran it with the same iron fist with which he ran the house.
He was a big drinker, a big liver who loved the fast life. His bar was a place for guys, Damon Runyon—type guys. Once, he came home from school and discovered the family car gone.
His father had lost it in a bet. But inside he had these weaknesses. Compulsive gambler and alcoholic.
He was 13 and standing inside the Rutgers Pharmacy on the first day of his first job. The boss showed him a storeroom filled with chemicals tossed here and there and told him to bring order to the mess.
He studied the situation. The stacks of bottles gave him no answer. Digging in was its own wisdom, he discovered.
Order finds itself through action. Just get started became one of his guiding principles. At Highland Park High, he excelled in math and struggled in English.
Upon graduation, he only needed to look across the Raritan River to find his college. The idea was to enroll at Rutgers and study to become a doctor.
A year into his studies, an uncle called from California. He had moved out to Long Beach, bought some property, and built one of those new strip malls.
The money was too easy. His dad had sold the bar and was adrift. Why not California? Once his parents decided to go, he decided to go, too.
He left in California showed me why. The making of a billionaire over the next half-century was a series of dots that connected in the California sunshine.
It was linear, logical, fluid, and quite nearly destined. One of his frat brothers was a wealthy kid whose father ran a janitorial business.
He had an industrial machine, hardly used, that scrubbed and waxed floors. Resnick dipped into his savings from his job at a mental hospital and went in half on the machine.
It took time for the wax to dry. So in that time, we started cleaning windows, too. He started cleaning pizza parlors and drugstores.
Business got so brisk that he bought two trucks and hired crews. At the buildings he was cleaning, he noticed that no one was watching the front and back doors.
It then dawned on him that guards were good, but they had to be paid an hourly wage. Burglar alarms, on the other hand, offered round-the-clock vigilance without coffee breaks.
He went out and bought an alarm company. That company led to another company, and he soon owned half the commercial alarm accounts in Los Angeles.
He was going to Vegas, hanging out with his own Damon Runyon characters, and making plans to get even bigger. He packed his bags and left his wife and kids.
He did little, if any, catting around. Then one day, he was trying to find a marketing person and got a call from Lynda Sinay, who worked in advertising.
She was in her late 20s, almost a decade younger than Stewart, and the mother of two children. She was the daughter of Jack Harris, a film distributor, who moved the family to Los Angeles when Lynda was 15 to produce movies.
One of his films, The Blob, became a cult classic, and they lived in a house on the Westside with two Rolls-Royces in the garage.
By age 19, Lynda had dropped out of college, married a magazine ad man, and opened her own advertising agency. She was aiming to surround herself with famous actors and artists and public intellectuals.
From a safe, Ellsberg had lifted the Pentagon Papers, the secret history of how successive presidents lied to the public to cover up the failings of the Vietnam War.
Russo and Ellsberg needed a place to photocopy the 7, pages, and Lynda volunteered the Xerox machine at her ad agency on Melrose Avenue.
The three of them spent two weeks of all-nighters making copies. When a copy found its way to The New York Times , Lynda was pursued by federal prosecutors until they concluded she was more dilettante than radical.
The courtship of Stewart and Lynda went fast. They both knew what they wanted. The concept changed the industry.
In the late s, he went looking for a hedge against inflation. His accountant suggested he buy apartments. He could collect the rents while he slept.
He was in the mood to gamble. On vacation in the south of France, he heard about a farming company called Paramount that needed a buyer for some of its orchards in Kern County.
By the time he drove back, he was a citrus grower. But I had some good people helping me. They knew little about the company except it was selling its keepsakes for five times the amount Teleflora was.
They were pushing plates, costume jewelry, perfume, and model cars. They issued a commemorative medal of Tiger Woods winning the Masters that offended the golfer.
He called it fake junk, sued, and won. The designers at the Mint made a porcelain doll with a tiny replica outfit so precise that it had to be hand-beaded with 2, fake pearls.
It was a hit. Bankers and their fair-weather financing exasperated Resnick. The oil companies and insurance companies were looking to unload their farms in Kern County, Steir learned, chunks of earth that measured 20, and 40, acres.
Mobil and Texaco and Prudential Life were willing to practically give the ground and trees away.
This is how Resnick became a pistachio, almond, and pomegranate grower. Sitting in his mansion in , he already counted more than , acres of orchards across five counties.
His trees were drinking from the Central Valley Project and the State Water Project, from rivers and irrigation canals and the water bank.
No other farmer, not even Gallo, had cornered a market the way Resnick had cornered the growing, buying, processing, and selling of pistachios.
He and Lynda wanted to run their own ads for their own brand. The independent growers and processors, no surprise, regarded him as a bully eager to employ teams of lawyers and tens of millions of dollars to force his agenda.
Do you know what I am? That little red string is supposed to remind him to count to ten. Resnick had heard it all before. He was the bad guy in agriculture for no bigger offense than that he was big.
No one pushes their product harder. The crops we grow can only be grown in a few places in the world. Still, none of it would have happened without luck.
What he and Lynda had done with the wretched pomegranate was another matter. They planted the first acres, half the pomegranates in the country at the time, knowing there was zero market.
Instead of trying to sell the fruit as a piece of fruit, they squeezed its seeds into POMWonderful.
On Oscar night, she handed out free samples to the stars at the Vanity Fair party. You have no idea the people on my VIP list who drink it.
They do that because they love it. A POM craze followed. Stewart and Lynda planted 15, more acres and bought a juice plant. In the distant background, under the gaze of a foot-tall marble goddess, sat Stewart in a gold-skirted chair, head down.
By the time they returned to Beverly Hills, he had lost interest in a book about his life, at least one that I might write. I kept my notes and tapes and waited for another day.
Lost Hills sits on an upslope. This is the closest to hills it comes. Main Street is Highway 46, which slices through the middle of town.
At the east end, where the highway meets Interstate 5, the traveler gets a choice. Highway 46 shoots past Resnick almonds and takes you straight into town, population 1, The tumbleweeds on open ground give you a peek into what Lost Hills looked like before the aqueduct made a river here.
Hundreds of giant praying mantises standing on platforms of concrete are pulling oil from a Chevron field.
This is the west end of Lost Hills, the extraction end. The wind kicks up dirt from the reap of oil and almonds, and the dust cloud carries back into town, raining down on the elementary school first.
I park the car and walk in the direction of a scattering of buildings slapped together with stucco and corrugated tin. A meat store, an auto repair, a pool hall, and an arcade pass for a commercial strip.
No one is out and about. Three dogs, part pit bull, the menacing part, have given up on the shade and lie on the open road.
Their tongues loll to their knees. I walk into the supermarket El Toro Loco, and the clerk directs me to the back office, where a tobacco-chewing Yemeni named Anthony Hussein is sitting beneath a photograph of an uncle in his U.
Army uniform. The uncle died at age 22 fighting in Afghanistan. The aqueduct was built with tax money, yes? The aqueduct brings the water, yes?
So everybody should have it, right? But this is water for Mr. Not the people. Resnick are the same checks they bring in for years.
I cash them the same. Nothing changes. Big fish eat the small fish here. Anything else I can help you with? He seems in a hurry. He guides me back into the main store with its displays of fresh fruit and vegetables, meats, cold cuts, and baked goods.
The wall of Pacifico and ounce cans of Bud is rebuilt daily. I sit in my car and wait in the parking lot. They arrive in Chevy trucks and Dodge vans and spill out in groups of four or five under the sweat-stained hats of the 49ers, Penn State, and the Yankees.
Each face wears its own weary. The year-olds look like year-olds; the year-olds, like year-olds; the year-olds, like year-olds.
Or at least this is what I can glean through the car window. I grab my notebook and walk up to one of the vans. Inside sits a young man named Pablo.
The oldest of five children, he came from Mexico when he was He had no papers, like so many others, just an image of what this side of the border looked like.
When he was told there were fields upon fields, he did not believe there could be this many fields. That was eight or nine years ago.
He works year-round for Wonderful. Pablo prunes and irrigates the almond and pistachio trees and applies the chemicals that cannot be applied by helicopter.
She is here and there, but I have never seen her up close. She owns this place. Most everything that can be touched in this corner of California belongs to Wonderful.
All but a handful come from Mexico. In the Wonderful fields, he tells me, at least 80 percent of the workers carry no documents or documents that are not real.
Rather, it is the authority vested in Wonderful that counts. It was Lynda who teamed up with the USDA to develop 21 new single-family homes and 60 new townhouses on a couple of acres of almonds that Wonderful tore out.
Lynda built sidewalks and storm drains, the new park and community center, and repaved the roads. He has come to El Toro Loco to cash his check and buy some beer.
I follow him inside to a long line of workers that ends at a plastic window where Hussein sits on the other side, working the cash register like a teller at a race track.
On the way out of the market, Pablo buys a case of Pacifico. The Sotos made a name for themselves in Lost Hills by taking their taco trucks into the agricultural fields.
Angelica, one of four sisters, runs the restaurant. Lynda assisted her with the design and color scheme but otherwise has remained hands-off.
So far, Lynda has shown only patience. A restaurant built by Wonderful for the purpose of making the company town look better from the roadside may enjoy a more forgiving bottom line than, say, the Subway up the road.
The grass is a color green on the verge of blue, and the cutouts for trees are razor etched. The 5.
Even the community water tank is painted baby blue with a big sunflower. On the north end sits the Wonderful Soccer Field with its all-weather track, stadium lights, artificial turf, and giant yellow sunburst embossed at midfield.
The believer and the skeptic do their tussle inside my head. This is a park for the people, to give them a break from their hard lives.
Lost Hills finally has something to be proud about. Jul 10, Matthew Brown rated it really liked it. This third book in Downum's Necromancer Chronicles sees heroine Isyllt Iskaldur in, again, a completely new setting — in this case, the Assari empire and its surroundings, with influences from Arabia, North Africa and the Sahara.
The author does settings very well, even if they're always inspired by real-world places, and this book doesn't disappoint there. Where it does lack is what made her last book, The Bone Palace , suck a cracking read — a character to act as a counterbalance to Isyllt's bro This third book in Downum's Necromancer Chronicles sees heroine Isyllt Iskaldur in, again, a completely new setting — in this case, the Assari empire and its surroundings, with influences from Arabia, North Africa and the Sahara.
Where it does lack is what made her last book, The Bone Palace , suck a cracking read — a character to act as a counterbalance to Isyllt's brooding, mopey Gothiness.
I found myself missing Savedra's fiery passion, and the book suffers a bit from that. Isyllt also needs a bit of a fire lit under her to turn from stagnant depression to the driven, obsessed seeker for answers that's a lot more fun to read, and I think this book's pacing suffers a bit by taking a little too long to turn up the heat — in similar fashion to the first book, The Drowning City.
That said, Downum has a bunch more experience under her belt now, and it shows. The first book had plot threads that never went anywhere, an ending that while sufficiently final to deserve the term wasn't completely satisfying, and other typical first-published-work problems, but everything comes to a satisfying, powerful conclusion.
By itself, this is a good book; it's just that The Bone Palace was a great book. This, and the series as a whole, has my enthusiastic endorsement and recommendation, and I expect great things out of Amanda Downum in future.
Mar 19, Larou added it. I loved her next novel, The Bone Palace , even more, because it had all of those and wove them into an intricately choreographed plot full of mystery, political intrigue and betrayed love and loyalty.
In consequence, I had very high expectations for her third novel, The Kingdoms of Dust , all the more so because it was supposed to take place in a Middle-Eastern, Arabian-Nights-like setting which, as everyone who reads my posts with any regularity will be aware, I have a very soft spot for.
But even though I greatly enjoyed reading the novel, the third in the Necromancer Chronicles which at one point I thought was supposed to be a trilogy, but apparently there is more to come, at least if the author can find a publisher , it does fall somewhat short of its predecessor — which is understandable, considering just how high Amanda Downum placed the bar for herself, but still, I have to admit, a mite disappointing.
Interestingly enough because it introduces the rather intriguing possibility that this might be a feature, not a bug, i.
Now, while The Bone Palace achieved a perfect balance, The Kingdoms of Dust seems to fall down on the other side, so to speak — the world building appeared sketchy, the characters underdeveloped and my major disappointment is the short shrift Moth is given here, after her extremely promising introduction in The Bone Palace.
I found it to be quite a page-turner, though, and while I tended to read the previous novels in the series purposefully slow, taking my time to savour the prose and to admire the small, fascinating details on the way, I was rushing through this one, in a hurry to find out what happened next and how it would all end.
Which is not quite the reading experience I have come to associate with Amando Downum, but it signals that she is working on her craft and trying to take it into new directions, even in a novel that is part of a series.
May 18, Jay rated it really liked it. Love, love, love this series so much. Once again, Downum creates a gorgeously textured world; however, out of the trilogy, this one has to be my least favorite.
Three reasons: 1. Adjectives were a little bit repetitious at times, something I'd never noticed in the previous two novels. The phrase "bruised and tired" became especially grating for me because I read the whole thing in one go and noticed the same phrase structure at least 4 times within a single hour.
The adjectives still do their job Love, love, love this series so much. The adjectives still do their job and work for me and the visceral sense imagery I like in my fantasy , but they seemed slightly more forced in this book than in its predecessors.
Kingdoms of Dust , like The Drowning City and The Bone Palace , also focuses on a trio of main female characters and their development.
In this one, however, the focus was extremely broad: five characters instead of the three, and perspective shifted multiple times within a chapter rather than once or twice.
My main issue with this book was that Melantha, as one of the two new female focus characters, simply didn't cut it for me. She was fascinating and ambiguous in her own right, but I didn't connect as clearly to her motives, her personality, and her struggles as much as I did with Xinai of book 1 and especially Savedra of book 2.
I have no issue with the characters in this book -- on their own, they're fantastic, and Isyllt in particular was a force of nature.
But I feel that some of the spirit and focus I loved so much in the previous books was lost or spread too thin in the transfer to five major viewpoints.
Kash, however, was wonderful. End of story. Less court intrigue and spy machinations in favor of a semi-cosmic horror story. Personally, I feel that Downum excels in the first, and it's understandable that she'd attempt to break out of that mold after two whole books full of it.
But the expansion to a global supernatural storyline ended up sacrificing some of the characters Samar and Siddir, anyone? You win some, you lose some, but considering the ending, I would have preferred a tighter-knit story with the focus a little bit closer to home.
And that's it! I would really love to see more of these characters and this world, but since it's a fairly clean ending I have some doubts about Downum continuing it.
Nevertheless, despite its flaws, I enjoyed this one. A solid closer to a great series. Sep 13, Matt Fimbulwinter rated it liked it.
He's a fae-touched warrior rescued from a terrible Turkish-ish prison. She's a necromancer spy mourning a lost mentor and lover.
The other he is a djinn trapped in human flesh struggling with the politics of a vast empire! With the third book of her Necromancer Chronicles, Downum brings back two of my favourites from The Drowning City, Asheris al-Seth the demon wizard, and Adam, the lethal mercenary.
One of the interesting things about this series is tha He's a fae-touched warrior rescued from a terrible Turkish-ish prison.
One of the interesting things about this series is that it looks like standard heroic fantasy, but it keeps subverting and avoiding tropes.
The standard model has the heroes getting injured, having thier powers lost or weakened, but in the end, their injuries don't get in the way, their power returns, stronger than ever, and the heroes stride into the sunset, badass and wounded aesthetically.
Downum's heroes win, but at great personal cost. Isyllt's hand never recovers from the first book in the series, and Adam's health is about what you'd expect from someone who spent a good chunk of time in a terrible Turkish-ish prison.
It stands out for me, because three books in, we don't see the characters levelling up to increasing levels of badass; they have the same, or sometimes less to work with to face the threats they're presented with.
I believe the series is continuing, and I like the characters enough to keep reading either way - it's just a nice twist on standard epic fantasy tropes.
Oct 02, Joseph rated it really liked it. The first two books in the Necromancer Chronicles The Drowning City and The Bone Palace were fairly geographically focused each took place primarily in and around a single city and relatively standalone.
This, the third volume, broadens the canvas considerably. This time Isyllt Iskaldur finds herself across the sea in the distinctly Arabian-tinged realm of Assar, initially to seek out an old friend, but then pulled inexorably into magic-tinged conspiracies which, as it happens, provide more The first two books in the Necromancer Chronicles The Drowning City and The Bone Palace were fairly geographically focused each took place primarily in and around a single city and relatively standalone.
This time Isyllt Iskaldur finds herself across the sea in the distinctly Arabian-tinged realm of Assar, initially to seek out an old friend, but then pulled inexorably into magic-tinged conspiracies which, as it happens, provide more of a context for events in the previous books.
I'd be very happy to meet up with Isyllt again, but this brings things to a satisfying conclusion.
Book 3 and the last one. Quite a shame really. Because yes there was en ending, life goes on. But there was no Ending.
Instead it was left that there can be more adventures. In this book Isyllt is in exile. Someone is trying to kill her, and she meets up with old friends.
There is also a new adventure. Something old and dark is trying to get loose. Ohhh I liked that part.
The more explanations I got the more I liked it. I also liked that we got to know more about this world.
It seems that everyo Book 3 and the last one. It seems that everyone used to live in peace. Jinni, humans, ghouls. So cool. I would love to know even more!
So there could totally be another book. There are dangers, friendship, and all in all an easy good read. Dec 16, Dee rated it really liked it Shelves: a-kind-of-magic , ownage , world-fantasy , eldritch , e-thingy.
Not as tight-wound and compelling as The Bone Palace , but still lyrically written, deftly characterised and a fun and interesting read.
I love how hard the characters live, and how they do not emerge from that unscathed, and how they carry their scars, and heal.
It's realistic and it's beautiful and it's not made easy or gratuitously sexy. Though, that said, she writes some of the most meaningful and intimate sex scenes I've ever read, and rarely are they even slightly explicit.
Jan 18, Veronica rated it it was ok. It had moments of good moments of I can't stand this almost gave up on it. Nov 30, Beth rated it really liked it.
Despite a length that initially seemed excessive, this was well-paced and developed. I felt connected to the story and the side characters and some chapters were really compelling.
The concept of Al-Joda'im is fascinating and I loved it. The idea of Qais and Quietus seems pretty much exactly what humanity would do.
Asheris' story and Kash's story are compelling and deeply sad. Brenna's story is relatable, in a way.
And in my head, Nerium is played by Dame Judi Dench. My primary disappointments Despite a length that initially seemed excessive, this was well-paced and developed.
My primary disappointments were what little development Moth got in this story, after being introduced in book 2, and a slightly confusing consequence at the end of the story.
It's always nice to have familiar faces come back into a story, as with Adam and Asheris, as well as new intrigue.
I'm not sure how I feel about Isyllt's journey. She's mangled and grieving, and somehow this third story becomes something of a redemption arc, where she finds purpose and direction at the very end, anyway.
She wakes up to the wrongs she's committed and she does her best to fix things- either because she's finally gotten her head above the water of grief enough to look around her, or because she's decided she's going to die and wants to make amends while she can depending on how cynical you are about this.
Aside from being in a 3-day coma, that act had zero consequences for her- not even pain. Isyllt made a sacrifice with unknown consequences- that's the power of her choice, that she knew something would alter her forever, or kill her, but it was for the right reason.
No consequences to this sacrifice turns her from everyday person who happens to be a necromancer into a Chosen One trope, which cheapens the story for me.
I would've liked to have seen SOME consequence to that action, even just hinted at. Feb 28, barbecube rated it really liked it Shelves: fantasy , non-western-settings , queer-inclusive.
The final novel of the Necromancer Chronicles, Kingdoms of Dust is, in large part, a book about grief. Our main character, Isyllt, has found herself bereft of a mentor-lover-employer due to events earlier in the series.
Removed from her employment and with little left for her in the city she calls home, she sets off in search of an old friend.
He, too, is haunted by the ghost of an old lover. They make a morose pair! This novel is more character-driven than its predecessor, and by necessity it give The final novel of the Necromancer Chronicles, Kingdoms of Dust is, in large part, a book about grief.
This novel is more character-driven than its predecessor, and by necessity it gives us a walking tour of the places it visits instead of a deep view of one.
Fortunately for us, Downum is skilled at drawing her characters. They're rich, interesting people, deeply colored, sometimes scarred, by their history, and I kind of see Kingdoms of Dust as an intimate picture of Isyllt, Adam, and the other characters of the story, simply allowing their histories to play off one another.
It's beautifully done. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here.
While I think the storyline was better than the last one, the execution left me wanting. The entire tone of the book was depressing, sex did not have to happen as often as it did, there were plot threads that were unnecessary and went nowhere, and Isyllt should have died in the end.
There's a dreamy, addictive sadness to proceedings, their customary gruff melancholy now inflated to match the panoramic setting.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. For the album's title track and lead single, see Kingdom of Rust song.
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