I don’t know what it says about me that I devoured ‘The Dinner’ by Herman Koch in one day, so enjoyably enthralling did I find it and its deeply-flawed protagonist, but I do know it was a sensation of a novel. It’s been a while since a book captured my attention so completely – not since Jacob Tomsky’s ‘Heads in Beds’ probably – and there’s something about that rush of exhilaration that no other art form – not photography, painting, or even music – can approach, at least for me. Perhaps because in reading, and imagining, we invest a little more into the appreciation of the work.
I’ll pass this one around to a few people, because I’m interested in getting their take on it. Books like this – with their rather dark subject matter and questionably-immoral narrators – are rarely beloved. For that reason alone, I have a spot spot in my heart for them. The fact that honesty, and unflinching bluntness, play a part in the narrative, is a confrontation from which I’ve never shied away. I’ll take a challenge over a sentimental pussy walk any day.
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