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".
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.
Yet tell me, My Dear Platinum-eyed Reader, if it is conceivable for the never-ending divinity of letters to corrupt or get desecrated? And is it possible to forget the story which never ends?
There is no denying that I would enter a vapid land of infertile thought and mundane repetitiveness, were I to elaborate on a well-known fact that out of a countless plethora of books, some are considered rare because of their bewildering exactitude and profundity, while
The following text is a result of taking a deliberate plunge into absorbing waters of the Gun, with Occasional Music River. As one may suspect, the word “deliberate” suggests that the book I have recently decided to tame – this time not only with eyes