My dissatisfaction with much of what I read these days was made painfully clear recently when I read I KILLED ADOLF HITLER by Jason. Although he lives in the US, we cannot claim the wonderful Jason — he hails from dour Norway, and his books are filled with as much vague unhappiness, bad relationships and misery as any Ivan Brunetti strip. But then something happens — murder, time travel, zombies, monsters. IMAGINATION.
In I KILLED ADOLF HITLER, a hitman with a bad relationship is hired to go back in time and kill Adolf Hitler. Something goes wrong and Hitler comes back to our time! There follows a desperate search, vows of revenge, regrets over lives badly lived, disappointment, and the ultimate triumph of true love. All in 48 pages. With no takes or overt expression by his characters. And yet you understand everything, EVEYRTHING. This guy is so good. The story, cut from the cloth of premise, development, change and denouement, satisfied me with catharsis in a way that few rambling memoirs could.
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