It feels like a collection of short pieces interestingly put together. But together as whole, this book creates an image, of cities, of dark corners, of weary footsteps, emotions that are not easy to describe, not even easy to admit to oneself, of failure, of disappointment, of anger, and of frail obsessions. There’s no plot line. There’s no climax. It’s not complex and it’s not controversial. But every page, there’s something so unnamable, so quiet yet vivid and real, that it often led me to think that if I turned the next page, I’d see me. And that made me feel engaged and understood. A lot of the feelings stay with me after putting down the book, and made me, temporarily and slightly disturbed. And I realize that through the seemingly casual manner of piercing these short excerpts from the nonchalant narratives by all these characters together (Mr. McIntosh didn’t even bother to give them reference), the book is actually a very sophisticated accumulation of heart-felt observations, struggling to come to a point accepting the inexplicable difficulty of life, which can never be deconstructed, but left, artfully with a poetic tinge, unsaid. Ain’t that the origin of all tragedy and masterpiece?
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