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sneezysleeves 's review for:
Love Novel
by Ivana Sajko
This is a nihilistic, misanthropic dissection of a loveless marriage. The writing was really beautiful, and I felt the translation carry out poignant emotional resonance which can be exceedingly difficult to accomplish; so major props to Mima Simić. Regardless, the undercooked plot corrodes the shining veneer of syntax such that I felt like the book was moreso a device to deliver discreet sentiments rather than tell a complete story. Also, nail me to the cross but sentences do not need to be the length of a page.
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“No one knows what it’s like for her. No one knows because no one bothers to ask, and this creates in her an unhealthy habit of confiding in objects, dirty dishes, wardrobe shelves, whatever’s available, and so it’s no wonder she feels misunderstood.”
“suffering and empty wallets are a dime a dozen, and that their woes are as common as boredom, that the crosses on their backs are made of tin and plywood, whereas Jesus's cross is oak or marble and thus worth more. And they can bleed until the cows come home, still they won't earn sympathy, let alone get an Easter arrangement or their own little chapel. She could never explain this to him, you see, because the neighbour's heart is too small to have room for more than one Jesus. Much like hers, really... She won't buy into every complaint either; people simply like to whine, they like to overstate the dimensions of the crosses they bear so as to be taken seriously, and she can tell in a second if they're telling the truth or merely following the logic that a person just needs to be frustrated and penniless to seem honest.”
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“No one knows what it’s like for her. No one knows because no one bothers to ask, and this creates in her an unhealthy habit of confiding in objects, dirty dishes, wardrobe shelves, whatever’s available, and so it’s no wonder she feels misunderstood.”
“suffering and empty wallets are a dime a dozen, and that their woes are as common as boredom, that the crosses on their backs are made of tin and plywood, whereas Jesus's cross is oak or marble and thus worth more. And they can bleed until the cows come home, still they won't earn sympathy, let alone get an Easter arrangement or their own little chapel. She could never explain this to him, you see, because the neighbour's heart is too small to have room for more than one Jesus. Much like hers, really... She won't buy into every complaint either; people simply like to whine, they like to overstate the dimensions of the crosses they bear so as to be taken seriously, and she can tell in a second if they're telling the truth or merely following the logic that a person just needs to be frustrated and penniless to seem honest.”