The Jewish Messiah is a farce of nuclear proportions.
The reader will be stunned by the humour of the writer, of the absurdity of some situations, and the dialogues.
When Mr. Grunberg’s “Footnote” columns first appeared on the front page, my initial reaction was: well, here we go, that overinflated show-off on the front page every day. Meanwhile, however, it has become the high point of reading the paper on an almost daily basis.
WN: By the way, the Occupy movement, are they still out there? In the snow? AG: Good question. I’ll have to go and take a look. But I’m pretty sure they are. It seems to me that you wouldn’t let yourself be scared off by a little snow.
Tomorrow in Kortrijk, the Dutch writer will preside as Moslimas, Christians, Jewesses and pagan women engage in a mud-wrestling competition.
Productivity? Discipline? It’s no different from what you need if you plan to win Wimbledon or carry out a successful military campaign.
Almost none of the living writers possesses such a bite.
There used to be a connection between achievement and fame. You were able to do something well and might become famous because of that. Today, fame is the achievement.
Grünberg’s novel grabs you because of its tempo, the building of tension and the sympathetic protagonist.
Grunberg rejects self-serving existentialism, confronts real-world torture, genocide, terrorism and personal crimes of the heart, and he infuses his visceral, wily satire with biblical fury.