As far as The Night Circus is concerned, it’s a predictable love story by way of a baffling revenge story.
Nothing really takes place in Motti. And that seems to be the point. It may be dull, but so is life, or most of it.
In the course of discussing Edouard Levé’s final work, Suicide, it’s probably impossible to forego mentioning the author’s own suicide.
With his use of repetition, Perec establishes a rhythm of sorts, while his subtle deviations from the pattern serve as moments of dark comedy.
The expanse of the novel allows Russell to exercise the very considerable prowess of her imagination.
The novel ponders the ways in which we subtly adjust and absorb, internalizing the rhythms of a rearranged world.
Becoming absorbed in history, the novel seems to lose interest in its original motivation.
To live far away from home is to be ever vigilant, ever afraid, scanning the air for signs of danger.
Disney de Sade, I think I’ll call it.
Joseph Skibell consistently subverts expectations as he follows Dr. Sammelsohn in his pursuit of professional credibility and personal fulfillment.