Preface
I like to warn you readers. If you do not like writings largely based on the truth and the missing parts just to fantasize, if you are let down by a novel that many believe not a novel should be called because he lacks a proper start, a clean curly tail and an orderly middle, let alone that it contains a intestinal system that people would call a decent coherent story; and if you feel unwell because of a text that simultaneously is a lament, an honour and a creaking curse, because they deal with life itself and whilst stageing only one relative of the author – then now the time has come, for you to close this book.
Put it back on the pile in the shop where you stand, slide it back among the other books in your club, your home, your public library, the living room of your friends or the property which you have pennetrated. Maybe even shut down your computer, tablet or phone.
Buy something else, borrow something else, take something else.
And miss the story.
Of us.
