Why do accomplished Eastern European writers often seem to have led the
most incredible lives? Are their personal stories so extraordinary, or at they
simply extraordinarily good at creating magic out of a fairly normal existence?
This book deserves to be read by everyone, but its size probably
intimidates countless potential readers (also, the fact that I’ve never seen a
book by Canetti in a British library is probably an obstacle to its
dissemination).
The book is a wonderful description of a family (and a village, and a
country) split between tradition and modernity, looking for a way to succeed in
the 20th century. Yet, for all the travels of Canetti’s family, my favourite
pages remain the ones set in Bulgaria, where the narrator learns to read and
where he plays a terrifyingly dangerous game with a hatchet.
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