Days made of verbs and nouns. You have turned into Verbman, a Noun monster. No qualities – just doing, listing, discerning without acknowledging.
The linguistic viscosity of Neverwhere resembles that of a fine bread spread. It covers the porous, pumice-like surface of a slice smoothly, soothing its unevenness with a mouthwatering stickiness of its thawing-fudge consistency.
The God of Literature has been alarmingly generous towards me in the last two years. Among many of his/her/its blessings was Iain Reid’s debut novel - "I’m Thinking of Ending Things".
This one may begin like this: I went to the nearby library the other day to finally put my hands on one of the classics spelled with a capital C – Don Quixote.
The writing of a novel is a form of the loss of creative liberty…. In turn, the reviewing of books is a servitude still less noble. Of the writer one can at least say that he has enslaved himself – by the theme selected.
Kensington Gardens is this particular type of book which not only falls under the “exclamation marks” category without much effort, but also courts us with its multilayeredness in a flawlessly natural fashion.
There is this anecdote about one of the ancient skeptics (Pyrrho, Sextus Empiricus? How can one remember not to forget all those names in the long run?) who reportedly went for a walk with one of his pupils.
One of the least frequent reasons we grab the spine of a book while rummaging through shelves of either a library or a bookstore is the sole sight of the title.
Philip K. Dick. What more can be possibly said about this outlandish individual when there have already been tens of fountain pens emptied, hundreds of typewriters jammed and thousands of keyboards broken in two over his bizarre, "precise-adjectives-proof" prose?
Were I to compare Nymphomation to a wristwatch, taking into consideration fact that it is carrying a considerable weight of previous novels on its shoulders, I would call it Omega.
Let’s skinny-dip and melt into the feast of dreams served by the Vurt itself.
Sneezing our way through the ‘dancefloor’ of Pollen, we notice that Noon is definitely – if I may wink a little – in his morning hours – crisp, brisk, bright and straight.
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