The Idiot doesn’t linger— it bounces from one strange situation to the next, chronicling narrator Selin’s thoughts about it all. and this book is aptly named: Selin is an idiot. 

witty, sly, and at times incredibly frustrating, this novel is enigmatic to me. i found myself puzzling over whether i liked it and whether everyone who had raved about it to me was out of their minds. early in the book, i tired quickly of its many attempts at giving me secondhand embarrassment; yet towards the middle, although the parts set in Hungary tended to drag, i loosened up and began having fun with it. 

i will say that for the many people who do love this book, i understand the appeal. but i do not find The Idiot as profound as i would have hoped, and perhaps that’s just me missing the point— maybe life doesn’t have to be profound, maybe it’s okay that Selin is tumbling through life one misstep after another. but i cant help it. i wanted more.