In this, if you will, book narrated to us by Z. Travilo, there is nothing special. It’s not a book—more like a pointless record of tales and incidents that happened.
Without a doubt, Z. Travilo’s boldness in his persistent attempt to push himself onto the market of modern work—oh… literature—can’t but outrage a civilized reader accustomed to women’s detective stories that provide excellent food for the mind. Or he should have written, like everyone else, erotic stories—they’d be more interesting. But as it stands, there’s neither plot nor tears—only self-admiration. Just look at the reviews (probably he bought them).
In any case, the author doesn’t even hide that he used connections and shameless “blat” to publish his empty stories. Alas, these days everything is bought and sold.
We strongly recommend not to touch this vulgar little book with your hands, keep it away from children, burn it without reading, buy it and throw it in the nearest trash bin. And spit after it.
Brief information about the author: a suspicious and doubtful person.