
Just finished the book I thought to myself: "I look a bit 'goes to write the commentary, maybe it's one of those books that need a little time to leave you something."
But obviously it was not so. Even as I read it, conveyed the feeling that every page was "so what?" Or "all?". Yet it is all here. What would give us Ammaniti is not so much clear. And perhaps the thing that has affected most of this book are its dismal 110 pages. If he had more in-depth characters, and that self that you, who make up the title, maybe something would have been saved. Maybe something would remain. But talk of a child complexed and paranoid, isolated and have problems with relationships and drugged while the sister that goes to the basement where he went into hiding to try to detoxify in 110 pages ... well ... would fail even the most talented among the Nobel for literature. Let alone in Amman.
then continued my strange relationship with this author. I remain disappointed by virtually all his books, yet I continue to read new writing. Why can write. But the problem is what he writes.
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