You need to sign in or sign up before continuing.
Take a photo of a barcode or cover
torintorin 's review for:
The Idiot
by Elif Batuman
I read this book once when I was about 16 and was very upset that Selin had already read things like War and Peace and had opinions about Tarkovsky. I was annoyed by how quickly she learned Russian and Hungarian and was angry at myself for not knowing how to say ‘geophysicist’ in Mandarin. Now that I am older I understand that Selin is fictional and I do not need to be jealous of her, and I am instead moved by the million billion moments and feelings that Elif Batuman notices and can distill down to two sentences.
Here are some:
My feet looked ghostly and white against the pebbles. A school of tiny fish, black this time, darted past like arrows in a siege.
His pillow fell into my dessert. The pink whipped foam formed meaningful-looking patterns in the white fabric.
The croissant was crisp and soft and flaky at the same time. Just biting it made you feel cared for.
Two tables away from us at the outdoor café, a small boy in an orange puffy vest was sobbing with no restraint. A man sat across from the boy, methodically eating an omelette.
Here are some:
My feet looked ghostly and white against the pebbles. A school of tiny fish, black this time, darted past like arrows in a siege.
His pillow fell into my dessert. The pink whipped foam formed meaningful-looking patterns in the white fabric.
The croissant was crisp and soft and flaky at the same time. Just biting it made you feel cared for.
Two tables away from us at the outdoor café, a small boy in an orange puffy vest was sobbing with no restraint. A man sat across from the boy, methodically eating an omelette.