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W. B. Yeats

Review: Wraith by James R. Hannibal

23516574Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned – W.B. Yeats – The Second Coming – 1919

Wraith is, by no stretch of the imagination, a light read. Be prepared to be overwhelmed by details – details about everything from exactly how an Irish Cross is carried out ‘arguably the most complex maneuver in the Warthog tactics manual.’ And no, that isn’t something from Hogwarts – It is a four aircraft multiple weapon attack on a target – to every single step, step by (for me) excruciating step, including weapons, planes, and everything else required in war.

I wanted to read this book. I really like military thrillers, and, if these are the types of books you like, I would recommend you try it out. The problem for me was that it simply exhausted me – from word choices to descriptions, there was just too much. Too much description, too many jumps between settings. The overall writing and plot could have been so very much better with a good, sharp editing pencil. Of course, that is my opinion – for many readers of military thrillers, this is just the sort of read they are searching for and will absolutely love Wraith. The plot is good, though very heavy in the overall concept. But if you are extremely interested in warfare and all of its levels, this is an exceptional book to meet that armchair warriors needs.

I received an e-ARC through the publisher in exchange for an honest review. This in no way influenced my opinion.

 

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HE BIDS HIS BELOVED BE AT PEACE

Yeats
W. B. Yeats
Photo courtesy of WAMH 89.3 FM
http://wamh.amherst.edu/?p=352

 

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

HEAR the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love’s lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

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