Dross. This book is so boring, so utterly incompetent, so repetitive, so badly written, so wrong morally/ideologically, so horrible, you will feel your IQ is going down while reading it.
It all goes about Vilas taking a page from Karl Ove Knausgård or Thomas Bernhard and looking on his life, his relationships, his experiences, his family, but doing it in so an inept way as to make your eyes bleed. The writing is boring, with poor use of language and repetitive sentence construction. The style is so horrible it is difficult to describe it without wanting to throw the laptop out of the window. The description of Spain and Aragon is so head-scratching-ly poor as to be unable to understand anything or to feel any kind of attachment.
And that is without entering into Vilas sick relationship with his family, with creepy sentences about his mother, both his parents converted into horrible ghosts that feel like those relatives that will never, ever, never, ever, leave your home in Christmas. Or his obsession with beauty and money, looks and possessions.
Keep away.
The best: some random sentences
The worst: everything else
Alternatives: for white males talking about themselves in that 'meta'autobiographical style, you have better options, like Karl Ove Knausgård or Thomas Bernhard; Jaume Cabré to read about families with wonderful writing, humor and use of language; David Foster Wallace for an analysis on language & humanity
0/10
(Castilian)
No comments:
Post a Comment