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Title: Powerhouse, as mind bending as Kafka's diaries
Review: I find I enjoy this more intimate, personally acquaintance with the mind of Eugene Ionesco better than his plays. Even his earliest memories are tightly wound with his inescapable feelings of absurdity. Like Nabokov, Ionesco found solace in his work as a refuge from the the basic meaninglessness of world events, politics, and in some ways even art itself. In one passage he renounces Rimbaud's "Illuminations", so far does he descend into the depths of skepticism. Misery has it's place here, but so does an odd, rare kind of joy. "I know what hell is now", he says in a tone of authoritativeness. A must read.
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