A review by quinndm
Eight White Nights by André Aciman


Self-indulgent. Laborious. And exasperating!... but, also, beautifully written.

There is a moment in the book when the character thinks, feels, he’s being pitiful. And, the truth is: he is. But he’s also frustrating, and confusing, aggravating, and not that enjoyable to read about.

Aciman is a true master of simile and description, of memory and emotion, but even his power with words can’t keep this story together. It drags. It lags. It falters. He spends too much time on the inane, and neglects the true heart of the book: the character’s relationship with his father.

Aciman is a literary role model, and this book proves our idols can’t always be perfect. But it is this misstep that makes me admire him even more.