![]() ![]() It is wondrous, how Margis manages to convey no evidence whatsoever that he has indeed ever seen what he is writing about with his own eyes. ![]() Nor is there a sense of the Danube's majesty as a river, as an experience of travel. At the same time, there is no redeeming bibliography, there are no useful references, no illuminations of a bibliography. There are no filters what you get is a kind of data noise, like when looking up a complicated query on google. There is too much information, and the information is not even interesting. Perhaps Margis has journeyed along the Danube, perhaps it has a particular and unexpected meaning for him, but the writing is so disengaged, and yet so devoid of the grace of irony, that it feels like a schoolboy's assignment. The off-putting style was, alas, the only thing that held together this collection of dry, inconsequential and not very amusing anecdotes. I found the style of this book to be pretentious and blustery, with a strong whiff of academic bluster. ![]()
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