I’m talking about the book by Jonathan Safran Foer that I’m currently reading. It was gifted to me by a dear friend in Bangalore, and I only started reading it a couple of days ago.
What can I say about it?
The closest I can come to it is that is is as wacko as Joseph Heller’s Catch 22, as bittersweet as Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being (or Immortality) and as funny as a centipede crawling across the bare soles of your feet (I obviously couldn’t remember a funny novel in time).
There’s narration, flashbacks, and also the author and his Ukranian translator conduct dialogues between each other, face-to-face and through letters. The translator has been gifted a Thesaurus; unfortunately noone instructed him in its use. Hilarious results ensue.
And as if that weren’t enough, as a special treat to me it is chock-full of Ukranian word puns that I’m not sure many readers are getting.