M Sarki

http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/74935375533/agota-kristof-and-her-trilogy

He says to me, "We're all dying of one thing or another. That's what all the experts say, anyway."
"What else do they say, the experts?"
"That the world is fucked. And that there's nothing to do about it. It's too late."

My wife and I have an English Golden Retriever, a cream-colored animal, a thoroughbred of the dog genus, handsome, smart, dignified, with nary a mean bone in his body. Still a pup, he loves to play and wrestle hard, but at two-and-a-half years old now he is gradually maturing. But he isn't the typical humanized domestic pet. He moseys around the house to whatever room we might be in in order to check-in once and a while, but rarely does he hang out with the two of us, that is, my wife and I, we being leftovers and the extent of our family at home these days. We believe we are witnessing again, in doggy world lingo, an only-child syndrome. A situation in which there is perhaps too much togetherness within our present family of three, and the dog-child ends up needing more space and sense of its own separateness, as in protecting his precious autonomy. My wife, at times, thinks perhaps Bob doesn't like us, or is pouting, or even as our own human son for a time exhibited, an awful, erratic teenage attitude. But I think Bob the dog is simply letting us know he is an animal, that he likes being an animal, and though he appreciates being fed and looked after by us two-legged people he has no desire to be moulded into some anthropomorphic version of a lap dog we see other dog owners seemingly so proud of and comfortable with. Golden Retrievers are known to be people-dogs, loving and tender, a true friend for their entire life span. Bob is one cool character, though a bit aloof, and his adoptive parents are too, in the sense we are friendly enough to acquaintances but have no great desire to be best friends and hang out together. Our dog, as they say, has taken on the personality of his owners. And that anecdote related above is basically how I felt while reading this wonderful trilogy written by Ágota Kristof.

To be more forthcoming I would describe the novel as being brief sentences erupting from a fragmented mind. It is a trilogy that easily takes one in, seamlessly connects the reader emotionally, and generates a momentum and desire to read through to the end. Great story lines, but still none you can really count on. There are lies aplenty here, with fictions enough to get us everywhere we need to go. But it isn't always where we want to be. I much rather preferred the first book, [b:The Notebook|19921345|The Notebook|Ágota Kristof|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1387750717s/19921345.jpg|27895503], to the last two. However, I did enjoy very much the second book titled [b:The Proof|230525|The Proof|Ágota Kristof|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1239319003s/230525.jpg|2075010]. By the time I got to book three it was both understandable and disconcerting to me for it to be called [b:The Third Lie|230529|The Third Lie|Ágota Kristof|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1172915492s/230529.jpg|223263]. But what is a serious and addictive reader to do?

There is really nothing for me to say to expound on anything gifted others have already said about this trilogy. For me, there was something very enjoyable in reading it and also it was discomfiting in a perverted sort of way. I absolutely loved the sex scenes, and they seemed to be little enough, though they were placed just where they needed to be. I also think it helped that this particular woman wrote them. I loved that, and she made me wish for more indiscretions involving her characters. But that is not at all what the books were about. If a reader is looking for an aggressive war novel there is plenty of that going on, but the story comes at you as collateral damages instead of gallant, patriotic victories we seem to be so inundated with today.

There is a distance to cross in this master work. But there is also a gap in it that cannot be bridged. The book is most certainly a tender love story that remains for me aloof. Just as Bob the dog is the most loving animal on the planet he steadfastly protects his sacred space. I have to believe The Notebook Trilogy does so too.

I go to bed and before falling asleep I talk to Lucas in my head the way I have for many years. What I tell him is just about what I usually do. I tell him if he's dead he's lucky and I'd very much like to be in his place. I tell him he got the better deal, that it is I who is pulling his greater weight. I tell him that life is totally useless, that it's nonsense, an aberration, infinite suffering, the invention of a non-God whose evil surpasses understanding.