A neighbour left a whole bunch of novels by some of my favourite authors in a box on a doorstep. When I saw it I was running back home. I stopped. I dove into the box. And I came out with this, with a bunch of books by Coetzee, some by Eugenides, some 19th century classics, and had a good backpack full of books (needless to say, that last 1 km back home was a tad bit slower than the previous ones...).
Only thing: in my oxygen-deprived state my mind swapped Bulgakov and Nabokov (I can't be the first one, though that's no excuse). I had found The Master and Margarita to be ponderous and self-indulgent, but having got this book anyway I decided to read it (also because, in all honesty, it's very short...).
Turns out, I don't particularly like dogs, I don't particularly like Bulgakov, and I don't particularly like mad doctors playing god with brain transplants. I also don't particularly like allegoric depictions of the Soviet Union characterized by a sense of humour that was probably dated already in the 1920s.
So, guess what, I didn't particularly like this book...
No comments:
Post a Comment