My best friend Lina gave this to me for Christmas the other day, saying Bouraoui's writing in this particular book reminded her of mine. Yeah, so I read it at Teatergrillen while having coffee and overhearing some older ladies' squeaking over Irish Coffee.
I didn't move for three hours.
And it wasn't even like I was jealous of her language the way I sometimes get when some author really has that way with words. No, this was more like meeting someone else who understands everything.
If this is what prose can be like: I'm all up for it!
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