But by the end of the week the thought of Rar had made me change my mind. From the first evening, this singularly original man had struck me as necessary and significant; his name, for all that it pretended to be a nonsense syllable, was the only one of them to suggest a meaning; nevertheless, the address bureau would not exchange it for an address. I had to see Rar again, just once, and finish what I had to say: he wasn’t one of them, he was one of us. Why should he remain among killers and distorters; first the manuscript, then the— I had to see Rar. And since this was possible only inside the black square of blank bookshelves, when Saturday came I decided—for the last time, I told myself—to attend the club meeting. As I entered the assembled circle, Rar, sitting in his accustomed place, raised his eyes to me in surprise. I tried to hold his gaze, but he turned away with a look of utter disconnection and indifference. After the usual ritual, the floor was given to Fev.
What do You think about The Letter Killers Club (2011)?
