So, this is no ordinary book. Not that there is anything wrong with an ordinary book. Not at all. Such compilations of text in binded forms, can bring an immense sense of joy and calm to a reader. Can bring joy and ease to their imaginary lives. A sense of belonging and calm in the recognising of things.
But sometimes
Sometimes a book comes along, which uses all the same words, has all the same milieus, walked the same earth as we do, but it is not ordinary at all. Ghost Mountain, is one of these books.
‘The woman’s heart felt heavy, but nobody cared to weigh it.’
For those who have found joy in the colours of Ishiguro’s meanderings in prose and perhaps have felt themselves drawn by the heartstrings to the novels of Boris Vian and Milan Kundera, this is lush. It is peculiar, it is simple in plot yet unfathomable in complexity, it is the right side of bonkers and the wrong side of easy. I say that, but I read the whole thing in an evening. Hardly a breath taken. It is a ‘Close Encounter of the Third Kind’ sans the aliens, plus Hee-Haw.
“In the end, with the benefit of a night's sleep, she typed up the report herself on her computer in Times New Roman, 12 point, double spaced, and printed it on her slow inkjet printer before attaching it to a brick and throwing it through the police station window.”
I shall never look at a mountain the same again, nor at a brick. This is possibly not a book for the romantics, or the cosy crime peeps, but it is a stunner of a book for the lovers of the extraordinary. For the lusters of lore.
Five fat whales from Erna and myself
🐳🐳🐳🐳🐳
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