I tend to be good in writing book reviews. Top notch ability to judge, trust me. I'm saying these words with a bitter-sweet smile on my face, because I also tend to dislike such attitude. Unfortunately I agree with the saying that all critics are writers that didn't make it, most of the time, anyway. And I'm not going to treat myself as a particular exception to that rule.
Yet... I simply have this uncanny knack for writing reviews. I have read thousands of books in my life. I also have incredibly high expectations when it comes to literature. Well, you can't have read Marquez or Kundera (to name only the first few that come to my mind) and crow in adulation about Harry Potter. You simply can't.
I probably couldn't bring myself to praise market-popular books just for bucks. Or if I could, the review would be flat, uninspiring. No matter how hard I try, I still can't bring myself to lie with charisma - the knowledge that no matter what the frills, it's still a lie and bullshit is too overwhelming. But I can write very good honest reviews of very tasty books. They flow. They write themselves. It's a pleasure to work in such mood.
'The Good Soldier Svejk' is one of the classics I took to my workshop for dissection. On my personal scale from 1 to 10 (10 being great), I gave it eight-ish. I did find some flaws (oh, do I dare, or should I fear Mr Hasek haunting me from his grave?), but I also crowed in adulation, because the book deserves it.
If you've never heard of Svejk, it's high time you met him.
If you've met him sometime, you may find it worthwhile to renew his acquaintance.
If you are a die-hard Svejk fan, than you probably shouldn't read my review at all, because you won't find anything new there.
