The whimsical novel, written pseudonymously by a Dutch novelist, masquerades as the confessions of an Austrian philosophy student…[who] decides to assert his existence by pursuing l’amour fou.
The Jewish Messiah is a farce of nuclear proportions.
Not only is he an exceptionally prolific novelist but, like an intrepid reporter, Arnon Grunberg sees the world as his beat: that makes him phenomenal.
Interviewer: Thank you very much for your time. Did you like this interview? Grunberg: Yes, very much, and you?
And then there was this rumor going around that we were going to shoot a wild sex scene, which might possibly explain why a crowd gathered on the grid above the studio at a certain point. I saw quite a few eyes peering down at us. A number of them turned out to belong to staff members who didn’t want to miss that unique moment. Arnon remained completely cool under all this. He seemed deaf to all the rest, and listened only to me. A director’s dream of an actor.
I see a youthful figure appear, worming his way through the revolving doors with a baby carriage. Could that be Arnon Grünberg? The hotel manager says it is, and I suppose he should know. The youthful figure seems to enjoy the fact that when he comes in here, in Waldhaus in Sils, there is no turning around - except for the revolving door of course. Try as one might, one hardly associates Arnon Grünberg with a baby carriage, just as little as one would make that association with Proust, who once came in through this same entrance. Is Grünberg hiding behind the baby carriage, in order to remain inconspicuous? Later, in the empty main hall, which the hotel calls the ‘Sunny Corner’, he explains how we are to interpret the baby carriage.
Freud is a deep, dark red with just a dash of violet from its earliest childhood. The nose, at first, is not pronouncedly explosive, but develops in the glass. Aromas arise of prune, blackberry jam, candied cherry and subtle tones of spice along with a whiff of vanilla. In the mouth, vanilla and coconut, flavors added to the wine by means of ten months’ ripening in oaken kegs, complement the red and dark fruit in an elegant and exotic fashion. Its texture, that which one feels in the mouth, is fulsome, rich and ripe. Soft with strength and bite.
Almost none of the living writers possesses such a bite.
The book is good, and maybe great, but it's unpleasant and depressing. Then again, that's our problem.
The winner would receive a free meal at the ‘Jerusalem’ snack bar in Amsterdam. An excellent snack bar, by the way, run by a Palestinian named Sem.