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There's an excellent book in here. An engaging story about individual and collective self-delusion and amnesia, with some very clear political messages and a grim humour to it. But at times, especially in the second quarter or so of the book, the author seems unclear whether he's writing a novel or a NY Review Of Books essay about individual dementia, collective amnesia, and the selective remembering of nostalgia. It's clear that he could write a fine essay and I'd enjoy reading that too, but the hybrid is clunky. From the POV of a novel reader the essay portions make the plot drag slowly enough that I started to lose interest. From the POV of a creative nonfiction reader, the actually fiction parts are jarring and confusing.

#SFFBookClub

This is a book of ideas, short on plot and very short on character. Nevertheless, it's effective. The narrator has an acquaintance who is setting up a clinic for Alzheimers patients. Each floor is themed with a difference decade and the narrator is tasked with rounding up furnishings, music, clothing, and other items to fit each of the decades. The idea seems to be to surround the patients with things from their past that are familiar and that make them feel comfortable:

"The point of the experiment was to create a protected past or "protected time." A time shelter. We wanted to open up a window into time and let the sick live there, along with their loved ones."

But the rest of the world becomes captivated, and entire countries start to hold referenda on which decade they want their country (yes, the entire country) to recreate. Of course politicians, activists and business people are soon involved. People start wearing indigenous clothing, driving period cars, and reenacting important events from their country's history. But things begin to go awry and those participating are rudely awakened from their desire to go back to the past.

"In ever more detail, ever closer to the real events, sometimes even more real than the originals. And no one could discern which was real and which was likeness anymore...One will flew into the other and when blood is spilled, real, warm, human blood, people will applaud as if at the theater, while elsewhere red dye, extracted from poisonous cinnabar, will be taken for blood and they shall fly into a blind rage..."

Despite the lack of narrative, there is a lot to consider here. Like history, the past, and memory. The story is a metaphor for the nationalistic and populistic sentiments that are appearing globally today. In the U.S., there is a huge block of voters who want to go back to a time when our country was way whiter, way more Christian, and guns weren't licensed. Pre-Civil War? But the actual past is often different from the way it's remembered. History never stands still, and to imagine that you can create a perfect, static past to your liking is delusional. Gospodinov plays with ideas about history, the past, the future, and memory. There's a lot of dark humor and meaning is sometimes difficult to grasp. But if you allow yourself to be led by his humor and his agility with words and ideas, you will not be disappointed.

An unraveling of memory and retreat into the past on a personal and national scale, somewhat disjointed and the author's fragmented voice comes through more irritatingly as we progress into an uncertain lack of future, but there's a lot to savor in a sarcastic sun-faded-sepia way.