The books I have slept with

Raduan Nassar’s “A cup of rage” is like a train journey. Its prose is continuously building up and coming to brief halts only to re-uptake steam and chug on like a man steaming from his anterior fontanelle which perhaps temporarily reopened to keep his head from bursting with stuffed up rage. The main character’s cup of rage overfloweth in loveless combat with his partner’s sarcasm in lyrical flow of an unending frictional ecstasy that ends only with his physical frame giving in to exhaustion. This is not a story, it is pure unadulterated stream of consciousness writing, but in turmoil. A whirlpool of words that sucks you in and leaves you breathless.




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