The Book of Men

Men are human beings. Humans are a type of animal, some say they’re more developed. True, sometimes men are very hairy, but never as much as dogs. Also, dogs don’t get dressed,
except maybe poodles. Humans also have names. Animals don’t. Some dogs have names, like “Bully,” “Pluto,” “Rex,” etcetera. But who gave the dogs their names? Right, humans.
Seven dog years equals one year of human life. For cats, I think it’s eight. One woman told me that for her, seven years for a man is one year for a woman. That means if she meets, for example, a man who is 35, actually he’s only five. If she meets a man who’s 42, he’s already six. They come one after the other, these men, embodying themselves in gestures so human
that might overlook the chilling logic of the series. The narrator weaves her way through the carnivalesque hell of gender relations, offering the gaping wound opened by the last man to the next one, who only widens it. The debut novel of poet and playwright Nano Shabtai is a literary marvel that defies categorization. It is a picaresque novel that breaks boundaries, a collage of encounters and injuries both painful and humorous, and a freefall with rapidly changing vistas. A selfportrait startling in its honesty, and prose whose lyricism is pure poetry.