The amateurs, Kill your friends, The second coming, Cold hands … yes, by then I got used to John Niven surprising me. And then came Straight white male. For the first few chapters I had no idea what to expect. At one point – I admit it – I seriously wondered if he would get all soppy and add a horrible „omg, I have cancer, I am going to die soon, I need to change my life asap“ moment. Thank god, he was better than that, and I bend my head in shame ever suspecting such lowly actions of him. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa and all that.
Really, it is a grand book, it contains some of the most beautiful sentences. I am not sure if there is so much more prose in that book, or if I simply did not pay enough attention to his others.
And I am willing to bet someone else’s liver it is a love story. Love for family. Love for sex. Love for life. Love for love itself. And love for words. Above all, a love for words and writing.
Still, there are the jabs and punches, to pretty much everything. Movies, music, people in general. Understandable, laughable when we don’t consider the people contain us, terribly funny and bitterly true.
As always, when someone manages to write for writing, I feel that burst of pain inside me, which is always followed by „oh never mind, you were a child then and you could never have written anything remotely that good“. It helps, but the pain lingers.
Nevertheless, thank you for that book. For loving books. For loving words. For loving writing. And for being able to put that into words.