This is everything I love in literature. A first person narration with short chapters, and a self-pitying introspective character who fails to recognise his own limitations but sees them, bright and vibrant, in everyone else. And best of all, a book where the sadness resonates with one's own personal experiences. With that in mind, I think it helps to be a man when reading this.

Victor Baton is a poor man, a veteran of the First World War with wounds to show for it. He tells us of his experiences with five people (his potential friends, you might say) and details how each encounter began and ended. He lives in a dank hotel and dreams of finding love and friendship. He is full of bitterness and self-pity but also manages to possess a delusional sense of superiority regarding his own traits and worth. He is, for want of a better term, a socially anxious incel who believes that he is owed something from the world. He wanders the streets, hoping to make friends, but then betrays these friendships without ever acknowledging his guilt or complicity in their destruction. He makes a friend in Henri Billard, for example, but immediately tries to persuade Henri's mistress to leave him in favour of Victor. When this leads to nothing, he somehow concludes that he is the victim, while Henri, in his mind, is a swindler, a knave, an unworthy man who is being rewarded for his unpleasantness while he, Victor, is caring and nice and honourable. He repeats this behavior with several other characters, behaves inappropriately but continues to believe that he is the one being hard done-by. He is not a likeable character. And yet I adored him. Most men under the age of thirty will. Most men who remember being under the age of thirty will. He is so many young men, in so many different eras. In many ways, it's slightly depressing to think so little has changed in a hundred years.

The book reminded me of so many other books: 'The Catcher in the Rye' and 'No Longer Human.' But mostly, it reminded me of 'The Sundays of Jean Desert.' The only difference being that while the protagonist in that book is aware of his place in the world, accepts it with a cool, almost profound indifference, Victor is confused, lonely and heartbreakingly sad. He is what so many men are at that young age. When I read the words: 'but a woman only has to look at me for me to find her attractive.' I couldn't help but smile and think:. 'Yep, we've all been there, mate.' And I loved how Victor fantasised about the slightest potential future at every available opportunity. He would see a girl and imagine their life together. He would meet a strange, suicidal man and envision a future where they would be best friends with a sincere bond.

He is pathetic. He is beautiful. I loved him. I loved this.