A poetic novel about love, obsession, and all that good stuff by a
Spanish author who reminded me at least a little bit of Jeanette
Winterson. Rossi spins the tale of a man so completely consumed with
his lover Aida that he thinks and speaks of nothing else. His
single-minded devotion is impressive, but it becomes increasingly
creepy as the book goes on. Yet I can identify with his feelings on
some level: the first stomach-gnawing intensity of
infatuation, the desperation and the fear that comes with unequal
desire, the insecurity. Definitely not for the prudish.
Heidi J. De Vries
A poetic novel about love, obsession, and all that good stuff by a
Spanish author who reminded me at least a little bit of Jeanette
Winterson. Rossi spins the tale of a man so completely consumed with
his lover Aida that he thinks and speaks of nothing else. His
single-minded devotion is impressive, but it becomes increasingly
creepy as the book goes on. Yet I can identify with his feelings on
some level: the first stomach-gnawing intensity of
infatuation, the desperation and the fear that comes with unequal
desire, the insecurity. Definitely not for the prudish.
