|Dimensions||8.25 × 5.5 × 1.5 in|
I have never read a book like this before. It is special and sad and calm and engaging and sometimes boring in a pleasant, but real way, and it is nightmarishly imaginative. It’s a little like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot but with much less companionship and subsequent discourse for the protagonists, and much more Carlos Casteneda-like treks into nightmarish human interiors and usually-invisible realms and dimensions; it’s a little like Auster’s New York Trilogy but with less noir-feel, more burning-hot-sun-over-a-barren-planet-sci-fi-feel; it’s a bit like Kafka (where the protagonist’s sense of duty to some social machine or stubborn sense of his own character keeps him moving onward despite the clear futility of this, the capital A Absurdity of this) but with more constant revising of the narration of the futile onwardness on the part of the speaker. Even the book’s title suggests that the writer is giving himself three tries to get it right, tell it right, even though getting it right might not make a shred of difference, ultimately. It’s still very dear to see that someone wants to try–that someone writing, foremostly, about isolation, alienation and exile is still trying to find listeners and to do well for them.