5 stars for the anthropological study and the lingering sense that Tschinag just...is. Wow.
I'll probably revise this at some future date, but I need to get the general idea out. This book is five stars because it is quite simply unlike any account I've ever read in its genuineness.
Tschinag discusses his life without a cultural filter. Some practices that would be deemed universally odd in Western society are covered openly, freely, and without a second thought. There are no concessions of "this may seem odd," or "although Western society might not understand" to soften the cultural blow for audiences. Concessions are very occasionally made, but not for the audience, so much as for the general flow. It's a difficult distinction, but it's very much a real one in this story.
Tschinag simply speaks. In this omission of self-consciousness, Tschinag manages a rare account of life without alteration to audience preferences. I genuinely have never seen this in writing before, and I struggle to articulate how significant it is to read something that is not written to win an audience over. There is no marketing, no jabs at the self to seem sufficiently self-effacing to be deemed acceptable in public eye. There is no underlying current of awareness about how he or his story will be perceived. There are points where Tschinag acknowledges his audiences and how his actions may be perceived, but it is not a calculated acknowledgment. It....simply is.
I've said before that sometimes books are like water. Just reading the page provides the same experience as drinking water when you're parched. This is that. And it's that in a new sort of way. I didn't realize how overwhelmingly I am surrounded with content that seeks to snag my attention and cater to its perceived audiences until I got here and read a text that didn't particularly care about how I interacted with it. It's so baffling. It's so wonderful. It's so perplexing. It's so enlightening.