Once when I was four years old and passively regarding a posse of similarly aged children enjoying themselves on a playground, my mother told me to join them. I told her, "I'm good at watching." This is still true.
"For me, a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm."
--Nabokov
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i'm in the middle part of it. the constant change in the narrator is really a challenge, but all in all it a very interesting read. i also have this collection of essay by pamuk. probably you may try it to understand the turkish author even better.
Thank you SO much for sharing my underwhelmed feeling about Beer in Hell and that colossal tool box who's so impressed with himself. It makes me feel I belong to a higher sect of humanity.
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Hehe...just kidding...I know what you mean.
Also, you've got a way with words, and I love it.
I appreciate it though!
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