While reading, I wrote out some sentences I liked the best, at times turned back to reread some lines, then went, “Ohh” in understanding, and when I’d finished about a third of the book, went back and reread all the preceding chapters, and then finally thought I understood. Except the fuck I did really, and so I kept turning back as I was getting further, each time making slightly more sense of the whole, and being increasingly intrigued by it.
I love a work of art that can confuse you, that requires you to work, to think. Just like a person who is smarter than you, it brings you a few steps higher on the endless stairs of knowledge instead of being a weight pulling you down. It is just the kind of wonderful novel that is not insulting your intelligence, the kind where you can tell the author is both clever and wise, and on its pages he has sprinkled references from literature and other fields, some of which you feel proud to get, and others that serve as a reminder of how much more you still have to learn.
In fact, while reading, I compiled a list of important literary works that were known by the characters, but not by me: a mistake in need of prompt correction.
The Naked Lunch
The Lost Weekend
Catch-22
The Loom of Youth
The Hill
The Scarlet Pimpernel
Madame Bovary
Lucky Jim
Howards End
Sredni Vashtar
So in conclusion, the book made me blush, smirk and laugh out loud, it blew my mind, broke my heart, and more than anything, it impressed me. It was an exquisite puzzle, coated with numerous differently delicious flavours hiding a satisfying core.
I was hoping for a twist ending, but instead I got at least five or six twists in the last 50 pages, so through most of them I was just grinning and shaking my head at being outwitted by the author again, and again.
But seriously, what else would you expect from a modern day Oscar Wilde, British national treasure and pretty much my favourite person alive?
Pictures from weheartit.com
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