Hrabral’s memoir ‘All My Cats’ couldn’t have been more deceptive. It’s an account of Hrabal’s weekends in Kersko on the outskirts of Prague where he finds himself adopting a growing never of stray cats, and starts so lovingly and wholesome with gorgeous prose, and then the author begins grappling with insanity and suicidal thoughts and it takes such a harsh and gut-wrenching turn. 

Fronted with too many stray cats giving birth and relying on him he starts pulling Murakami shit that I did not sign up for and the book describes pretty severe animal cruelty and kitten murders. After setting up the cast of cats so wholesomely this tears out your soul and it’s horrible to read and then you remember unlike Murakami this is a memoir not a work of fiction. The author then immediately regrets it every time and spends the book grappling with guilt and making remarks on suffering but then never learns and hurts you and the cats over and over again. This is so far from what I expected from this book and not in a good way.