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by Gunter Grass
As usual, to compose my Year in Reading is to confront my failures.
When you go somewhere new, without the funds to elevate you to the echelon of luxury that is its own country, inevitably there comes a moment when you look around and realize that you have no idea what the fuck is going on. In these moments my Indian book club of one succored me, gave context to the long days of new sights and sounds.
My father is in Liberia, where there’s a civil war, and he’s writing about it for the newspapers. He loves me, he misses me, he’s sorry he and my mother are no longer together. He hopes I still read as much as I did.
It turns out that it was hard for me to find a good wedding reading because I'm a gloomy old bastard.
Why so much genius? Why now?