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It’s a strange one: not fiction, not memoirs, not an autobiography. In actuality it’s just (about) 500 essays and diary entries compiled together that consist of the philosophical and Kundera-esque ramblings (which is a funny comparison, since Kundera’s books have plots). That can be cool but not for 400 aimless pages of nothing. Do not read this if you wanna read a book with an actual story, characters, or plot. Also because of how overly self-introspective the book at some point it all just becomes more of the same. Good in moderation but honestly a horrible read: no conclusion is met and nothing is resolved.
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