I have finished reading Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann.
I know that’s hardly startling news but believe me I thinketh there bee few soulles can surviveth thicke torments as here bee.
Ahem. Pardon me. It took seven weeks to read the damned thing and I’m quite a fast reader. Going up The Magic Mountain was an easy stroll, Death in Venice a mere beach book. It’s by far the most difficult novel I have encountered. I feel like I have been to Hell and back, and I’m not sure about the latter.
Upon finishing there was no elation or self-congratulation. Instead there was the chilling realisation that having gained a meagre comprehension of its writhing genius I will have to read it again.
Soon I shall write a review – probably in the form of a confession or a pact – of what is probably the best novel I have read. I bet you can’t wait.