![]() ![]() In the walls of our prison there are dozens of doors with literary names, but they are all painted-on illusions no matter how much we read or write, we remain prisoners. It doesn't matter anyway, he says, because literature is not and cannot be a real escape. But he failed as a writer and ended up as a middle school Romanian teacher in a run-down suburb of Bucharest, dealing with head lice, annoying colleagues, indifferent students, and bizarre diktaks from the Party. He thought literature was itself an escape plan, that by becoming a writer he could break free. ![]() ![]() In his youth the narrator wanted to be a writer. Trapped in this earthly hell, leading lonely, miserable lives, what we need instead is an escape plan. Nobody needs literature, says the narrator of this bizarre, fascinating, sometimes wonderful book. ![]()
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