A young man in a small Moravian town writes a postcard. Three sentences. He thinks he is being charming. This is 1949 and charm has been abolished.
The rest of the book is what a postcard costs. It turns out to be a lot — years, a woman, a hometown, most of a personality — and the strange part is that the man keeps the receipt. He wants his money back. He has a plan.
Four people tell the story, each convinced it is theirs. One of them is a folk musician who gets a whole chapter about the old songs and why nobody sings them properly anymore. It is the best chapter. You will be tempted to skip it.
Reading it will take approximately six hours. Afterwards you will reread everything you have ever written to anyone.
