I seem to be in the habit of picking up books lately without entirely knowing what I’m getting myself into. This is a good thing, and my comfort zone can certainly take some expansion. Judge a book by its cover art, because you like the font, and certainly judge it by a passing comment you see on the internet. You can always put down a book you aren’t enjoying - I often forget that. It’s much easier to do that than to find books you like if you just stick to the same kind of thing all the time.

This is probably a bad book to read if you are recently bereaved, I think it tells you as much in the beginning. But it’s also a good story of how life and death are two parts of the same thing. Mrs Death certainly isn’t the classical grim reaper and she’s somehow telling her story to a young writer called Wolf, and he decides write her memoir.

It’s an interesting book, and I think probably a Marmite kind of one. You can get enveloped in the rhythm of its words, or you could, I suspect, bounce hard off its weird and winding style. Personally I fell into it and enjoyed it, and I was kind of surprised by that.