When I was a kid, I didn’t really read. Which
meant that by the time I was 14 or so I had to catch up on the books that a
good reader is meant to have read in middle-school. I read this novel while on
my bizarre first holiday, in Venice and with a friend of mine who was somehow
not interested in visiting every single church and museum in the city (I was
really boring when I was 14, probably more so than I am now...). Surprisingly,
our friendship has never been the same since...
This book surpassed my expectations. By a lot.
For a few days I wished I was Passepartout and had a side-kick as nice as
Phileas Phogg (sorry, that’s the pecking order for me...). And the end of the
novel, with the incomprehension regarding time zones, is still absolutely
priceless.
I really wish I could go back in time and force
11-year old me to read this book then. However, if I had to pick only one book
to force-feed to my younger self, it would probably be the one above...
No comments:
Post a Comment