(translated from the Czech by Paul Wilson)
It is a rare day when I have literally nothing good to say about a book.
It is even too long, astonishing, given that it is only 95 pages.
He claims to love cats, yet he spends the whole book killing them.
Then worrying about it.
Moving back and forth between his home in Prague and a small weekend cabin about an hour away in some woods, where all the cats are. And where most of them are buried after some brutal form of death is meted out to them
I guess it might be a metaphor.
He died aged 82 falling from a window on the 5th floor of a hospital attempting to feed pigeons: many believe this to be a euphemism.