Ein Sommer In Baden Baden by Leonid Zypkin

Reading is still very difficult. Recently found out that one of the reasons it is so difficult is because of how I read. How not to do it is probably the same as gawking at a painting by Pollack, a time consuming endeavor. And so… every word can be an act of discovery. If it’s a good novel getting lost in the words is like those butterflies of first love.

I know, I’m being silly.

Sometimes it’s a bother that words have to be part of sentences in order to have meaning. Why can’t words alone say everything? Would there then be less confusion? Less disorientation? Less brain farting? Often I loose track of what I’m supposed to be doing while reading. But I want to say here that comprehension is a misnomer. I don’t want to have something that I read, something that takes me away to other worlds and other minds, be part of something that is equatable with the silliness of , say, ”dogma” or ”understanding”. Comprehension, understanding, oh, so much like politics, so much like religion. Does that make any sense?

Of course not.

I’m discovering something right now. It is twisting my mind and causing avalanches to roll past my brain stem. It is a most wondrous piece of literary doing.

Ein Sommer in Baden-Baden by Leonid Zypkin.

This is somehow a crazed novel. There is nothing else I can say about it. Example? I encountered only two periods – you know, as in punctuation – through the entire first half of the book. I love that kind of writing. As confusing reading it may be, it all makes perfect sense. Perfect scenery painted on each page. I’m reading it in German and recently tried to find the English title but to no avail. Even the forward of the book is fantastic – written by Susan Sontag. I read somewhere that she is the reason this novel is published. Not sure if I comprehended that correctly. I will assume it’s true, though, and can only ask, how did she discover this novel?



Rant on.