“He writes as though… you can, you can tell he’s from a country unlike ours. You know he grew up in something like… Israel? I think it was Israel. In a country with far less security, you know on a day-to-day basis, than ours. Like someone could end your life right now. Like the AK-47 under the bed. Like anything could happen at any moment – he writes like that.”
I sat there, wondering if she’d read that somewhere in the New Yorker, if she herself was just passing off a professional reviewer’s review. And then I thought to myself, who cares if she did or not, she makes a good point and I nodded in agreement and smiled, “yeah, good point.”
She took her DiBruno bros. bags and left Saxby’s, en route to DiBruno bros. “I’m the workhorse of the house,” she said and I told her it was nice to meet her.
Still not really sure what has happened in this book, though. If nothing else, it’s strange and pushes the boundaries of normal life that desk jobs (or at least, in my experience) can accustom us to believing. In that respect, he’s like Haruki Murakami. Realistic enough that it’s all believable, but so strange you wonder if your conception of life is so limited that you just never considered these things or if it’s all just nonsense. The kind of book that leaves you a little less sure of your whole framework when you put it down.