Paperback review: The Son, By Andrej Nikolaidis (trs Will Firth)
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.This slim novel tells the story of one night in the life of a writer in the Montenegrin city of Ulcinj.
His wife has left him; his father's farm is burning, but he hates his father anyway; he walks into town and has a series of strange encounters, with a prostitute, an old school friend, a Muslim preacher and a group of leprous refugees. The book is suffused with a self-hatred and disgust with life, with lines such as "being alive is an unquestionably tragic fact which can induce nothing but tears"; "everyone becomes unbearable once we get to know them"; "only children and idiots can have friends"; "Art always lies"; "In the end I'll die, and when they've buried me everyone will hold me in contempt". It makes Samuel Beckett look positively cheery; yet the relentless pessimism has an oddly invigorating effect.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments