Bernhard always grabs me into a trancelike state of reading. Something about those long sentences, the repetitive, rythmical commentary on a process of increasing decay, just seems to captivate me. In this particular book, he is unusually concise and to the point, if that is possible with Bernhard. For Bernhard is a whiner on the grand scale, like Celine, but without Celine's particular madness. Bernhard has of course his own. He also has great insight, both about himself and others; he is unusually honest and completely free of sentimentality. He can be poignant, but without schmalz. Bodil Malmsten, a Swedish poet held in high regard, once remarked in an interview, that she found Bernhard's writing to be a sexual turn-on. I've sometimes tried to imagine that but I haven't made up my mind yet. Perhaps that would demand more maturity on the behalf of the reader, or possibly less...