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Selvedin Avdić writes in such a way that the reader can't get rid of the excerpts they have read, and when they read the book to the end, probably on the ex, they unmistakably feel that they have been infected by it.
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.
Agreat tragedy based on Plutarch’s account of the lives of Brutus, Julius Caesar, and Mark Antony.
