2002 ∙ Jonathan Safran Foer ∙ 276 pgs
I can’t stand how scary talented this guy is. How does a guy in his early twenties write such funny and beautiful prose? How does he write something with such depth? Can he be a front for a much older, much wiser co-conspirator? There’s no way for me to explain the qualities that make this book so good. Portions of the book have that Gabriel Garcia Marquez, fantastical feeling. Other portions made me giggle like an idiot on public transportation. That old, cliched saying, “It made me laugh, it made me cry” couldn’t be more true about this book. I imagine that having a similar family ancestry to Foer added to the experience for me, but I can’t imagine that it’s a necessary component to liking the novel. While the story is narrated in two very distinct voices–Foer, the neurotic Jew and Alex, his Ukrainian guide–both voices add to the story and provide us with a unifying force that is unexpected at first, but very clear by the end. Man, I just loved this thing, and can’t wait for Foer’s follow-up–whatever it may be.
