I’ve been looking for books about Michael Llewelyn Davies and Rupert Buxton, just as a niche interest of mine, and I thought this was a really interesting take on that story. The first half of the book is definitely a page turner, going through all of the letters and the story of Leslie going to see Nico I thought was great. I don’t know how I feel about the moral and philosophical positions taken at the end. I think I will definitely read it again, there’s something about the ending that is odd. But I read it in three days, trielt and enthralling piece.
What an amazing, intense, tragic, contemplative novel this is. A fictionalized biographical study that takes some interesting left-turns, and leaves the reader feeling profound sadness at the cost paid by people with radically different perspectives trying to connect. It alternates between bitchy dark humour and deep melancholy, and was (quite happily) not at all what I was expecting.
While this book is well written and clever, I found it lacking in joy. Why is it that literary books seem to always be about bad things happening to people? Sure life has it's shitty moments, but there's a lot of beauty and love in this harsh real world too.