This will very probably be my last book review posted here. And it's a rather perfect choice, one which reminds me how beautiful literature can be.
The book of disquiet is quite simply one of the most beautiful things I've ever read.
There's no narrative to speak of, no plot, only a man giving his thoughts on the world and the human condition. It feels like a diary, and many of the chapters do, indeed, have dates, but most don't and even the ones that do aren't chronologically ordered, but rather placed, haphazardly, in any order. You might read several entries from 1932 only to