As Megan McDowell puts in her translation notes, “they say that the only thing one can say for certain after reading The Obscene Bird of Night is that one has read it.”

She also goes on to say that that’s a slightly unfair statement, which I also agree with. I think the initial statement applies to any satisfactory or clear summation of the plot or main goings on, so I won’t provide that.

Instead, I will say this book imprinted itself on me. The events and the characters that narrate those events take the form of smoke cloud rising from rotting logs covered in a fungal overgrowth. Their voices wisp and swirl in and around one another, sometimes overlapping and combining into larger plumes that obfuscate the “true” order of things.

And yet I was never “confused,” at least not in the typical sense. I know the thread I followed in my head is likely false and unreliable, but real and consistent all the same. 

This book demands re-reading; the fire needs to be lit again. And I know when I next sit with the flames, the smoke will take on a brand new shape and hue, leave a new scent that clings to my clothes. 

One of the best books I’ve ever read.

I will not subject myself to a boring-trying-to-be-disturbing-and-interesting book just because I kinda liked the writing style, cannot, will not.