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I started reading this to read 'On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts', which I read first. I found that so interesting I've gone back to read the whole thing.

Reading one of the worst things I have ever read because I'm a fool. It might turn out in the end to be a biting and clever satire. But at this point it is a Murakami rip-off written by someone who has watched too much porn making us, the readers, part of their public healing journey. And it is worse than that makes it sound.

This is such a fine book. Interestingly structured. Funny, deep, and thoughtful.

Trying too hard.

There's actually only 67 pages.

I'm really not getting on with this. It's so over-written but I shall plod on.