The theme of the book and the ideas it presents are very impressive.

It urges people to think. You say that it could really be possible. There is no such thing as a single me in this world. It is actually a complete inner journey.

I must admit that I felt lost in some of the story parts in between.

Finally, I want to give place to the two sentences that impressed me the most.

Always convince yourself that you are alone. In fact, you are not aware of how many people you are, not just two. (S123)

Why does someone who is thinking about suicide imagine that they are dead not for themselves but for others? (s182)

These sentences make you stop and reflect on the complexity of human nature and our perception of ourselves and others. The book as a whole takes the reader on a profound exploration of the inner self, challenging our assumptions and making us question the very essence of our being.

It is a thought-provoking work that leaves a lasting impression and encourages further contemplation.

What do you observe when you look at yourself in the mirror?

Who do you think you are? Look closely, look very closely but you will never be able to see yourself alive. Vintangelo Moscarda, a respected citizen of the noble city of Richieri, who after a marital incident with his nose questions the number of possible "I" that actually exist. A thought that comes to transform his view of the world into a lucid illusion. Are we one, none or a hundred thousand at the same time? Perhaps you haven't noticed, but in the silence of solitude we are Nobody. A powerful reflection on the identity crisis captured in his unmistakable humor and his appreciated theatrical emphasis.

It is a novel of difficult gestation, for more than fifteen years it kept him absorbed in its writing. It was in his very well-known work 'Six Characters in Search of an Author' (1921) where he captured the germ of what would be 'One, None and One Hundred Thousand' (1925): "In the consciousness that I have, in which each one of us - you see - believes himself to be 'one' but it is not true; he is'many' sir,'many', according to all the possibilities of being that there are in us; 'one' with this one, 'one' with that one - very different! - And with the illusion, moreover, of always being 'one for all' and always 'this one' that we believe ourselves to be, in all our actions."

"Thus I wanted to be alone. Without me."

My man Vitangelo just wanted to be perceived correctly.

He was a complex individual with a heart full of dreams and desires. Vitangelo had always felt that people misjudged him, not truly understanding the depth of his character.

He strived to show the world who he really was, to break free from the misconceptions that surrounded him.

Whether it was in his actions, his words, or the way he carried himself, Vitangelo was determined to be seen in the right light.

He knew that being perceived correctly was not only important for his own self-esteem but also for the relationships he had with others.

Vitangelo was willing to put in the effort, to prove himself and show that he was more than what met the eye.

He believed that if people could see him for who he truly was, they would have a newfound respect and appreciation for him.

So, he continued on his journey, hoping that one day, he would finally be perceived correctly.

Vitangelo Moscarda is the central figure in this story. He is an Italian, married man of twenty-eight with no children. These facts are undisputed. However, everything else about his personality - his goals, motivations, and way of being - is open to debate!

The book, which is a novel but reads like a philosophical treatise, explores the theme of who we really are. Are we defined by how we see ourselves or by how others perceive us? Can an accurate portrayal of a person be achieved by anyone? A quick look in the mirror shows one image, but a few seconds later, it shows another. What we see is influenced by the observer and by the ever-changing nature of emotions, thoughts, events, and movements. Nothing remains static; everything changes. The factors that influence how a person is perceived are countless. So, is there one true version of a person, or does it not exist, or are there many? As the title suggests.

Moscarda desires to understand himself. He analyzes this question from countless different perspectives. He engages in conversations with us, sharing his thoughts repeatedly. Then, he attempts to alter how others view him, but his thoughts and words persist. His repetitiveness leads to a repetitive analysis. What begins as an interesting question is taken to extremes.

Does it seem as if I didn't enjoy the book? On the contrary, I did. I gave it two stars, indicating that it was okay but could have been better. It has provided me with mental exercise. The questions raised are interesting, and the author, through the character of Moscarda, extends the central theme to other thought-provoking topics, such as the communication abilities of flora and fauna. What we know today about animals' thought processes and the complex interdependence between plants and microbes shows that some of the ideas presented in the book were ahead of their time.

The author, Luigi Pirandello (1867 - 1936), won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1934. The book was published in 1933 and is considered a classic. I had never heard of the author before, so I had to give it a try. His writing style is unique and enjoyable to encounter. You could say that the train of thoughts is extremely long-winded. Or you could say that they intrigue and twist, revolving in shrinking and expanding circles, one moment tying your thoughts in knots and the next making you laugh.

Just as the book states, none of us sees things in the same way. This is a theme that we have all discussed on GR, isn't it? In other words, if we all perceive things differently, how can we possibly know who we truly are?

However, over time, you can draw some conclusions about a person based on what they say, think, and do. You see, I can't stop thinking about the questions posed in the book!

Chris Mattews narrates the audiobook. He does a good job. The narration is clear, and it's not difficult to follow. In the beginning, he speaks a little fast.

You can't listen to the book for long periods. Your mind gets tied in a knot, not because of the reading but because of its philosophical content. It's interesting and thought-provoking, but it's also overly exaggerated and repetitive.

Luigi Pirandello, known primarily as a playwright, also had a remarkable talent for writing novels, short stories, and poetry. This Italian dramatist was awarded the prestigious 1934 Nobel Prize for Literature, just two years before his rather lonely death.

His novel One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand (Uno, nessuno, e centomila) took him well over a decade to complete and is perhaps his most popular work.

The novel is a deeply thoughtful and meditative exploration of the nature of identity, self-perception, and madness. Vitangelo Moscarda, the twenty-something son of a banker, descends into a state of increasing imbalance after a seemingly innocuous conversation with his wife leads him to a realm of neurotic self-criticism and anguished hyperawareness. His behavior becomes more and more erratic as he struggles to understand his place in the world in relation to how he sees himself and how others perceive him.

Pirandello's writing is truly absorbing, and he adroitly conveys his philosophical ideas. As Vitangelo's reality fractures, Pirandello's prose effectively reflects this growing anxiety. Moments of great humor punctuate the uneasiness that characterizes much of Vitangelo's interactions.

Translated with an introduction by the great William Weaver, One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand is a stimulating work of fiction that is carefully constructed and expertly executed. It offers readers a profound and engaging exploration of the human condition.

As Pirandello so poignantly writes in the novel:

\\n  Be sincere: it never crossed your mind to want to see yourselves live. You pay attention to living for yourselves, and rightly, with no thought of what in the meanwhile you might be for the others; not because you care nothing about the opinion of others: on the contrary, you care a great deal; but because you live in the blissful illusion that the others, outside, must picture you to themselves as you picture yourself.\\n

This passage encapsulates the central themes of the novel and invites readers to reflect on their own sense of self and how they are perceived by others.

This book truly had a hold on me. So much so that I couldn't help but bring it up during a date.

I began to ramble on about Pirandello's masks and the countless number of them. I pointed out that the image we have of ourselves is never the same as how others perceive us. "If you were to attempt to see what others see, it would surely drive you insane. And what would it mean to know oneself if you were the only one who could share this knowledge? No one else could truly understand the concept, even if they tried. And since, as the author firmly believes, 'knowing oneself is dying', what sense does it all make?"

"If we were to take it a step further," I continued, as the person sitting across from me stared in confusion. He was probably thinking that all he wanted was to enjoy his medium rare steak in the company of a moderately dull doll, hoping she would flatter him as he chewed on the dead animal. "We could also share the author's belief that there is, in fact, no individual beneath the masks. If we were to break them open and remove them one by one, we might find ourselves with nothing. There might be no'real self', and people could turn out to be nothing more than empty shells that require masks not only to present themselves to the world but also to fill their otherwise lifeless husks with meaning."

Needless to say, he just looked at me, completely freaked out, mumbling that I "seriously needed to sort my shit out". Meanwhile, I just stood there, looking at this sad person whose appetite I had most likely just spoiled. I thought to myself that I should have said something like: "No, please, let's talk about your car some more. Yes, of course I know what type of car it is. It's my favorite thing to ride in!" I just sized up this sad, silly person who was convinced (almost certain) that he was someone, when in reality, he was not one, but many, a hundred thousand, and also no one.

Obviously, I won't be seeing the deluded fellow again. But it was totally worth it.

I would recommend this to anyone who wants to ruin a romantic moment and is curious to know what a nervous breakdown feels like.

All in all, this was a fun read!

The incredulity of a man who discovers that he is someone else to others gradually transforms into pain, into madness, into the discomfort of a man who surrenders to the inevitable absence of a single "I" for all. This realization can be truly shattering. He begins to question his very identity, wondering who he really is if he is not the same in the eyes of everyone. The pain seeps in as he grapples with this newfound knowledge. It eats away at him, driving him towards madness. The discomfort lingers, as he struggles to come to terms with the fact that there is no one, unified self that is recognized by all. He is adrift in a sea of confusion and uncertainty, with no anchor to hold him steady. This journey from incredulity to pain, madness, and discomfort is a harrowing one, but it is also a journey of self-discovery, as he tries to find meaning and purpose in a world where his identity seems to be constantly shifting.

Hard to get through, this text was truly a challenge for me. It was not only boring but also repetitive, with the same ideas being presented over and over again. Moreover, it was overly philosophical, delving into deep and complex concepts that I found difficult to understand. I struggled to maintain my interest and often found myself losing focus. The lack of engaging content and the excessive use of philosophical language made it a tiresome read. I wished there was more variety and a more accessible approach to the subject matter. Overall, it was an experience that left me feeling frustrated and unfulfilled.

It is truly remarkable how a glance in the mirror and the discovery of a mole, in a myth (if I remember correctly because I read it here a while ago), managed to lead to this entire paradoxical story. It wasn't the most interesting narrative I've read, nor was the writing style particularly special. What I liked about this story was how much it changed my way of thinking. It was a book that stayed with me because it led me down paths that my own mind had never traveled before. My initial caution, at the beginning of reading, turned into this far from exaggerated realization about life: we have as many selves as the people we interact with. In every pair of eyes that observe us, we imagine different things. In one pair, we might imagine elephants, in another, we might imagine flowers, and in a third, we might seem like foxes. The thoughts, as well as the expectations of those around us regarding us, are sometimes unbelievable and unrealistic. Even someone who has known us for years often has a picture of us that is wrong and far from reality.

The questions that arose for me are: Do those I love look anything like what I have in my mind for them? Is love love for the other person themselves, or for the image I have of the other person? And if the answer to the previous question is the second one, then how can I be happy with that person? Is the image I have of myself far from reality or not? A supposed future problem that I believe I would handle in a specific way because I know myself, if it were truly presented to me, would I really handle it that way? And since the answer is very likely to be no, my conclusion is that not even we ourselves truly know ourselves. Labels and data are reversible.

Uma simples observação sobre o seu nariz, foi o suficiente para conduzir um homem ao descalabro total.

A loucura insinuou-se a partir do momento em que percebeu que a imagem que tinha de si próprio não correspondia àquela que os outros tinham dele. Isso nos leva a pensar que, também nós - qualquer um de nós - já devemos ter tido essa percepção. A ideia que temos de nós, o que cada um dos outros vê em nós, a interpretação que cada pessoa faz do que dizemos ou fazemos, cria uma multiplicidade de "eus" que provavelmente não corresponde à ideia pessoal que cada um tem de si próprio. E assim por diante, com todas as pessoas aos olhos dos outros.

Então, andamos todos equivocados uns sobre os outros? E quando estamos num grupo e, por acaso, estamos todos de acordo sobre um determinado tema, será que cada um tem uma visão individual e, no fim de contas, estamos todos a "ver" o tema sob uma perspectiva diferente, mas que pensamos ser igual às outras? É de loucos, e se pararmos para pensar nisso, acabamos tão louquinhos quanto o personagem.

O que levanta outra questão: serão os "loucos" assim tão desprovidos de bom senso? É que muitas das reflexões deste homem pareceram-me muito lucidas e sólidas face aos argumentos dos "sãos" de espírito!

Não só o autor mexeu num tema com muito para discutir, como o fez com um genial sentido de humor e eloquência extraordinária.

Brilliant story, how a simple joke of the wife that her husband's nose is crooked leads to an identity crisis and a complete turnaround in life. He lived with these legs, hands and nose for so many years, and to learn about his flaws, he had to get married. He believed that everything he thought about himself was the truth, and a simple joke of his wife cast doubt on his belief in this truth and shook the foundation of his world view. At first, this led him to think that he didn't even know his own body well. So his illness began.
This is a complex and simple philosophical novel at the same time, about form and content, about self-perception and the perception of others and the perception of you and them by others, about the constant, changing world and man in it, about the irrationality and illusoriness of reality as a result of constant change, the transition of states, about the search for one's true "I" and, ultimately, the meaning of life. It makes us look at the world from different points, see both the truth and the state of inner peace that the protagonist strived for in this crazy monologue.
Vittangelo Moscarda was spoiled by life. He inherited a bank from his father, was rich and happily married to his Dida, who affectionately called him Gigi. What more could he want?
Some outsider called him a usurer because he was the owner of a bank. But he didn't want to be a usurer.
Since the thought occurred to him that he was not what he thought of himself, he had a need to be alone more often. "Loneliness can never be with you, it can only be without you and in the presence of something foreign to you - anything can be foreign: a place or a person, - it all depends on the fact that for this foreign thing you should not exist, just as it does not exist for you; and only then your will and your feelings seem to fly away from you, becoming unbearably elusive, you lose yourself, and the life of your consciousness is suspended. True loneliness is only possible in a place where there are no traces or sounds for you, that is, in a place to which you are a stranger."
This is what "being alone" meant for me. Alone without myself. I mean - without that self that was familiar to me or at least seemed familiar to me. Alone, in the company of a stranger whom (I already vaguely felt this then) I could never get out of my way and who was myself: that is, in the company of a stranger inseparable from me."
Then he still thought that he was alone, this stranger...
The question that tortured him after the revelation that his wife thought his nose was crooked was: "If I wasn't for others what I thought I was until now, then who was I?"
He couldn't see himself as others saw him; he couldn't put his body in front of him and see it as the body of another person, and this gave him no peace.
Walking with his friend Firbo, he accidentally saw himself in a mirror. He didn't recognize himself and wondered if this was really him. So, for others he was this stranger. Since then, he has become obsessed with the idea of tracking down that stranger to find out how others perceived him. Then he thought that this stranger was one, but later it turned out that there were many of them.
"...this is when I discovered that I wasn't for others something one, just as I wasn't one for myself, that there were a hundred thousand different Moscardas, and all hundred thousand carried the same name Moscarda, this brutally coarse name, all lived inside my poor body, which was only one, - it was someone and at the same time no one, because if I stood in front of the mirror and looked it straight in the eyes, it lost the ability to want or feel anything."
This is where the real pursuit of himself began.
One day Dida left, Moscarda was looking at himself in the mirror,
"Well, what was I like?
No, not like anything. No one. Just a poor, ownerless body that was waiting for someone to claim it for themselves."
There in the mirror was a lost man, like a dog without a master, and anyone could call him whatever they wanted. He lived simply to live, he breathed, his heart was beating, and he didn't even know about it.
Continuing to look at his reflection, poor Moscarda realizes that the body that others perceived as Moscarda meant nothing to him.
Formulating the theses of his thoughts into several points, that for others he is not what he thinks of himself; that he can see himself living; therefore, he doesn't know what he really is; he couldn't consider the stranger living in him; if you look from the side, his body was like from a dream, it couldn't exist by itself, so it must have belonged to someone and such paradoxical thoughts, he decides to find out what he represents for those around him and destroy their ideas about him.
1. There is me and there is you.
Moscarda conducts a mental dialogue and argues with the imagined opponent that although the opinion of others means something for all people, everyone is in the most pleasant delusion that they are perceived as they perceive themselves. Even if something unpleasant is said to their face, a person will prefer either to insist on the thought that they are not understood, or to correct the impression, to explain.
2. Everything is based on the assumption that God will eternally support in your consciousness. On the assumption that the reality that you see is exactly the same for all others.
The reality that surrounds you is as illusory for others as smoke.
3. Reality is diverse,
your friend will never be able to look at things with the same eyes as you.
4. There, inside, for yourself you are completely not the way you seem on the outside. You know yourself, you feel yourself, you want to look the way you want, not the way I want, and again you think that you are right and I am wrong. We speak the same language, but each person puts their own meaning into the words. Thinking about mutual understanding, we completely did not understand each other. "...in order for you to become for me the same as you are for yourself, and for me to become for you the same as I am for myself, it is necessary that inside myself I see you as you see yourself, and vice versa, and is this possible?" Realities are not true.
5. "...before this incident happened to you, you were different. And there was not one "other" in you - there were hundreds of these others, hundreds of thousands of these others. And there is nothing you can do about it!"
6. Man pushed stones out of the mountain, built a house, cut down trees, made furniture and furnished the house. The mountain and the trees are big, but they don't have what is in the tiny creature - man. The canary sings in the cage, the chair creaks. Maybe they are negotiating - the captive canary and the walnut tree turned into a chair?
7. What does the house have to do with it? In general, nothing. We can determine our house by smell. But we remember this smell when it disappears, for example, when we enter someone else's house.
8. "in this world one cannot live mindlessly, like plants, we live for what is not in it, for what we put into it, - for what would give meaning to our life - a meaning that here we either completely stop understanding, or begin to feel the painful futility of our pursuit of it. And this is where our melancholy nausea comes from."
9. The cloud doesn't realize that it's a cloud, and a crazy physics teacher, looking at it, will explain the water cycle in nature. "But who will explain the cause of the causes?"
10. They cut down trees to build houses, to lead a chimney pipe "and let out smoke from it, which immediately dissipates into the infinity of space." A bird, a hat left behind, an airplane... they fly, but is their flight the same? No. There is another world - the world created by man.
11. Man, this stubborn creature, builds and builds.
"You think you would be able to find out what you are like if you didn't build yourself? Or would I have known what you are like if I didn't build your image in accordance with my ideas? And you - me, if you didn't build mine in accordance with yours? We can only know what we manage to give form to. But what is the value of this knowledge? Is this form really the thing itself? Yes, at least for me and for you too, but only for me it is not the same as for you; I don't recognize myself in the form in which you dress me, just as you don't recognize yourself in the form in which I dress you; the same thing looks different for everyone and, moreover, for each person it constantly changes, yes, it actually constantly changes.
And yet there is no other reality, only this one, grasped in that, for a moment frozen form in which we dress ourselves, others, the objects around us. The reality that I possess for you is all in the form in which you dress me, but this is reality for you, not for me; the reality that you possess for me is all in the form in which I dress you, but again this is reality for me, not for you. As for myself, I am real to the extent that I manage to give myself a form. And how do I do this? I just build myself.
Ah, you thought that only houses are built? No, I also build myself, and I build constantly, and I build you, and you do the same. And the construction continues until the material of our feelings disintegrates, until the hard cement of our will.
12. When your wife says that she knows better what you like and what you don't - this is the absolute truth. "Because this her Gigi undoubtedly existed, and I didn't exist for her at all, never existed.
I was for her this Gigi that she molded and whose thoughts, feelings and tastes had nothing in common with mine, but I couldn't change them by a jot, because I risked immediately becoming someone else whom she simply wouldn't recognize, whom she couldn't understand or love."

Actions and words are perceived differently by everyone. In Dida's imagination, there is a small and silly Gigi that she loves, and that Moscarda would happily kill, but won't do it. He gives a number of proofs of why words, perception and reality are so different. "Think about it carefully! Wouldn't you feel cheated, and cheated with the most refined cunning, if you knew that, hugging you, your wife enjoys the embraces of a completely different man who lives in her mind and heart?"

Moscarda was concerned about acquiring a Moscarda who, in his eyes, would represent his own, unique "I", because he had to constantly portray something opposite to what he was or assumed to be in the eyes of his loved ones.
He is burdened by the impossibility of changing his name, "to be forever stuck with one name", he would like to have many names, consistent with the entire spectrum of feelings and actions, he comes to the conclusion that he is not his name, it is just a way for other people to call him somehow.
He reflects on himself in the world, his appearance, his family, the surrounding world.
"It is impossible to exist in abstraction. It is necessary that being fall into the trap of form and after some time end in it - here or there, this way or that. And every thing, as long as it lasts, has its own form, has that which it always is only such and can never be otherwise."
Action, like form, determines the image of a person. Each person has many "I", but only one of them performs an action, and moreover, it can disappear.
"It is characteristic that the very memory of the action lives in us - if it lives - like a dream,模糊 and incomprehensible. And another of our "I", or rather, dozens of others, all the others raise their heads to ask how we could do this, - and we can't explain anything to them.
Because all this is - reality that no longer exists."

The belief in the illusion that the present reality is the only true reality is contradictory - it gives a point of support, but it also leads astray, since today's reality will become illusory tomorrow.
If five people discuss Moscarda, they will think that they are discussing the same Moscarda, but in reality each of them will have their own Moscarda, their own idea of him. Five Moscardas, or even six, because Moscarda himself also has an idea of himself. Moreover, he is both someone and no one at the same time. The same is true in relation to Moscarda to others. "I'm just saying that what you think about yourself is not all that you are - a multitude at the same time, that you are as many as you have possibilities to "become", as many as there are accidents and circumstances and relationships in your life!"

Moscarda gradually approaches the realization of his madness and is going to conduct an experiment to separate one of the hundred thousand Moscardas. For many years, a certain Marco di Dio lived in his house, not paying for housing or even utilities. He first evicted him, and everyone shouted "Usurer! Usurer!" and even wanted to use force against him. Then the assistant notary shouted to the excited crowd that Moscarda was giving di Dio a house and another ten thousand lire, and everyone shouted: "Crazy!"
"I wanted to prove that I could - and in the eyes of those around me too - become someone else, that is, not the one they took me for."

Forcing his wife and banker Quatorze into the living room, he believes that there are eight people in the living room: Dida, as she was for herself, for him and Quatorze, respectively, Quatorze in three incarnations and "dear Gigi" and "dear Vittangelo". He perceives himself as no one. Nevertheless, he conducts the conversation from himself. He shouts that he wants to close the bank.
"After all, wasn't I a usurer, wasn't I condemned to be one even before I was born? And didn't I go down the main road of madness - separating my will from myself, "letting it go" like a handkerchief out of a pocket - when I committed an act that should have seemed to everyone inconsistent, contradicting my very essence? And didn't I have to admit as a result that Mr. Vittangelo Moscarda can go crazy, but he can't stop being a usurer?"

He forbade his wife to call him Gigi.
No longer a usurer and not Gigi, he became someone, not understanding who.
The feeling of emptiness, of endless loneliness is intensified by Dida's departure. Bankers, father-in-law, wife - all are talking about the fact that he is crazy and want to appoint a guardian over him.
They try to reconcile them, but, of course, on the condition that they abandon their intentions. From the episode with the wounding of Anna-Rose, he learns his Dida from a completely different side. "And yet I'm absolutely sure that in front of her Gigi she wasn't pretending, she was with him as she could only be with him - whole and sincere. Well, and outside of that life that she led with him, she became someone else, such as she was in front of Anna Rose - whether she thought that this was necessary, or whether she liked it, or maybe she really was like that."

Frightened by his vision of the world, she shoots at him with her small revolver.
He gives away his money to a shelter, and he himself, a beggar, becomes its inhabitant. And the name Moscarda now has a completely different meaning.

"No names. No memories of yesterday's name today and of today's name tomorrow. If a name is a thing, if through a name we understand the meaning of every thing that is outside us, and without a name it remains incomprehensible, deafly walled up in itself, not singled out and not defined, then let everyone who knew me cut out my name as an epitaph on the forehead of that image in which he dresses me, and - that's it, there's nothing to remember about it. Because a name is really just an epitaph. It suits the dead. The one who is over. And I'm not over yet. Life never ends at all. And it doesn't know names, life. Here is a tree, I breathe the breath and tremble of young leaves. And I become this tree. A tree, a cloud, and tomorrow a book or the wind. A book that I read. The wind that I breathe. I don't exist, but I'm in everything that's around."

He lives by contemplation, not letting thoughts penetrate into himself, and at the same time, he looks away, seeing how every moment freezes, dressing in form. He dies and is reborn anew every minute, remembering nothing of the past, being reborn not in himself, but in the surrounding world.

One: This is what you think of yourself, who you are in your own eyes.


A hundred thousand: These are the hundred thousand (+) you are for the people around you, because for each one you are someone else.


No one: You are nothing, you never were, as the saying goes. Because you are not defined by a moment, an act, or even a period of your life. Every second you change. You are a construction that never stops being remodeled in time.


Undoubtedly, Pirandello's perspective on the theme of the nature of identity is very interesting. A unique reading.


What I didn't like was the author's absolute certainty about the reader's reactions and feelings regarding his agonizing philosophical findings.


I neither identified with the hero's despair that gradually led him to madness, nor did I feel that someone opened my eyes and hit me in the face with a bitter truth that made me melancholy. Equally, the book's ideology made me confirm ideas that I had not analyzed in such depth, so as to realize that they work absolutely reassuringly for me.


The hero complains that they are constantly putting labels on him, but the author does the same to the reader. In the end, it is inevitable.


However, I enjoyed this book, and let's say we were in a completely different dimension, from one point and then.