by Martin Bihl
• It was short and I understood it.
• The illustration on the cover doesn’t tell the whole story.
• I thought it was a different book, but it was okay.
• I don’t think I read it. Wait, is that the one with the pig? Oh yeah, I read it. Good pig.
• It was very believable, if you like that kind of thing.
• I didn’t like anyone in it, not even for a minute. Hey! That rhymes!
• I think if the author has a big mole on his forehead, the “author photo” should be optional.
• I don’t know why I keep reading his books – I never like them and they’re heavy.
• Can romanticism truly exist in a post-modernist world, and if not, why go on living in a future more bleak than anything the existentialists posited in such post-war classics as “La Chute” and “Huis Clos”? This is the central question that weaves its way through this, at times Brechtian, at times downright Proustian, novel which is to be commended, if for no other reason, than for the shear breadth of it’s characterizations, a feat that would leave Dickens and Faulkner blushing. Mostly, though, it just gave me something to do until my sister returned my “Friends” DVDs.
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