I read the slim collection of wonderful memoirs by Etgar Keret, The Seven Good Years. Many of the stories barely covered two full pages. Written over the course of several years, they read like a brilliant chat on a short train ride. Beautiful.
I got another book by him, fiction this time. The stories seemed endless: four, five, seven pages! Scandalized, I’d flip to see how long the next story was. Eight pages!
What’s with the megillas, Etgar? In a world raving “more, more, more!” I want less, less. Two perfect pages, one. Too much to ask, I suppose?