Put a cat in a box which, at any given second, may or may not kill it and close the lid. Presume, for the moment, that the cat is incapable of any conscious observation of itself and its surroundings. Perhaps it is asleep, or too highly stoned, or insufficiently evolved to possess what might be called awareness.
A small boy with a big imagination builds fortresses to play in, but his older sister only wants to play with her friends – larger, stronger boys who destroy his hard work without thinking; and though his mother takes pleasure from his inventiveness, the pressures of work and her own need for friendship prevent her from giving him the attention he demands. He reacts destructively, losing all control, and as his emotions run riot he flees his home and his family, washing up on the shores of a wooded island populated by…
The now customary triliogy (as I used to put it) of InMadrid-aimed book reviews – recorded here for posterity in order of appreciation by me. The last such set for the time being – life is too busy to spend on something so trivial as high literature…
I know I get a bit worked up at times, but I don't mean anything by it. C'mere, givuzanug.
