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The Unconsoled

I like Kafka.  I like Ishiguro.  His book The Unconsoled is more Kafka than Kafka. The Unconsoled is too long, and maybe too clever.  Everything will be revealed at the end, or the author gives hints of the underlying mystery or tension throughout the book.  It is a lot of pages to read to find out what the weird thing is.  At first it was very entertaining.  Reading it made me feel like I was losing my mind.  But Ishiguro has once or twice blatantly described his own common fantasies, fantasies we'd all have, so I had to skip reading those parts because I knew exactly what would happen, or I didn't care because he was basically describing my fantasies and I didn't care for it. 

I like Kafka.  You've heard of Kafkaesque.  It's an atmosphere.  He was an existentialist.  I think I like Existentialism, if it's possible to like it.  Or maybe you just have to live it.  I've tried licking it, but licked nothing but air, and people passing by thought maybe I was strange.  One guy passing by asked me if I was apart of Air Licker Society.  His immense size was frightening, and I had to run away.  I won't tell you where I ran.  It's not about that.

I'm in the library.  I spilt coffee on my laptop you know.  I have to sit in here, and people have jiggly leg syndrome next to me, and they cough at me.  And their laughter sounds like coughing.  And they laugh on me.  A woman is having trouble with her flight booking and a bearded researcher is helping her.  She has a lot of attitude for someone being helped. 

My allotted time is over here.  I hope you are in good spirits, and are flashing at people, not your naked body, but your teeth.  They do sparkle.  Like just sharpened stainless steel knives. 

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