On hold, since I stupidly lent it to a friend before I finished it.

“The novel I would most like to read at this moment,” Ludmilla explains, “should have at its driving force only the desire to narrate, to pile stories upon stories, without trying to impose a philosophy of life on you, simply allowing you to observe its own growth, like a tree, an entangling, as if of branches and leaves…”

On this point you are in immediate agreement with her; putting behind your pages lacerated by intellectual analyses, you dream of rediscovering a condition of natural reading, innocent, primitive…

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It’s just beautiful language, within a completely unique storytelling style.

This book is on hold for a while because I leant it to somebody before I’d finished reading it, since I was also reading several other things and I don’t know, I’m stupid.