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This is an accusation, a slander, a personal insult. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a continuous insult, a spit in the face of Art, a foot in the tur against God, Man, Fate, Time, Love, Beauty...whatever you want.
This is a biography about my father made up of memories and mere imagination. History does not exist, and neither do facts. The past is unknown.
The novel represents a journey into an alternative world – a world that we all belong to from time to time, but of which we would not want to be a part, a world of paranoia and alienation that we are not entirely sure is just an alternative or the bare tr
Women tell the truth about sex, loneliness, work, motherhood, and marriage.