Reading this book was somehow weird and evoked very contradictory feelings. First: the physical book. It shows a great cover image, but the cover is very flimsy and makes its size too large for comfortable reading. Second: the novel itself. It was truly amazing, honest in its brutality and beautifully sad. Each tiny glimpse of hope that raised its vulnerable flame was sure to be thoroughly crushed, spreading a heartrending loneliness. I was impressed by how easy it was to sympathize with the torn main character, despite the fact that he was not a good man at all.
But in the end, it was no page turner for me. While I really loved the story, I did not rush through it and was not eager to continue reading every spare minute I got. Instead, I took slow, deliberate sips every now and then. Which is my crux with this book: while the slow and deliberate writing was great, it was always on the verge of getting boring. How is that even possible? Maybe because the turn of events was predictable? Or because I was pleasantly (? still indecisive about that) infected by the almost 'laid back' atmosphere? I noticed that even the 'messier' scenes did not raise my pulse, but is that really a bad thing? In the end, I think it's not, and I appreciate the very strange otherness of the reading experience I got from this book.
Note to self: the book's atmosphere reminded me of the great movie 'Blood & Donuts'. Have to put that on my watchlist again.