We keep up the Bitcoin Book review series (#1403332) of books that, politely, I couldn't see myself write about for any other outlet.

I don't really read fiction,I don't really read fiction,

usually don't see the point.
I can’t get over the feeling that all the important stories of mankind have already been told. It seems unbelievably unlikely that whatever comes out of a contemporary writer's imagination be worth paying much attention to — at least over and above what already exists.

Surely, anyone scrolling Netflix or browsing for new books in an airport store quickly faces that realization, too? What is the point?
To needlessly hammer this point home: most members of my (Nordic) family are obsessed with different flavors of the exact same murder story (=Nordic noir), counting more fictional murders than the actual real ones of our largely peaceful region. It just seems absurd.

In My Bags Are Big — out next month in the UK — Tiber Fischer, a Hungarian-British novelist, is trying desperately to convince me otherwise. It is fiction-ish — because there's no way the protagonist, a wacky fella named Dan, isn't in some way modeled on Fischer's own life — but it comes with attitude and, crucially, bitcoin.

The easy-read, clocking in at less than 200 smooth pages, is as awkward a mix as a fiction book featuring bitcoin as a side element. Not, mind you, a Bitcoin book in fictionland (for that, go buy @realBitcoinDog's creations!). But a story of a guy with big bags moving to Dubai, trotting after Vikki, the love of his life. Vikki is flaky and exciting, and we travel back and forth through Dan's memory of and scant encounters with Vikki.

A few pages in, having scoffed at an unanticipated joke or another, I make a deal with Mr. Fischer. Having never met him, never heard of him before his ARC landed on my desk from some publicist having googled "Bitcoin books" and "reviewer," I decide I'll keep reading if and only if he keeps me entertained.
I'll keep reading for as long as Fischer stays interesting: If on more than two or three pages when he doesn't make me chuckle, I'm out.

And shockingly, Mr. Fischer mostly keps his end of the bargain. He gets close a few times, explaining why my notes and commentary are scattered between now and six months ago. Across boring flights (mostly) or train rides when I can't be bothered to pick up an actual book, I'm laughing along to this strange author's imagination/lived experience.

Vulgar and irreverent,Vulgar and irreverent,

I suppose, are two words book reviewers might wield for this one. Lots of sexual innuendo, lots of obscenity. The book is part life biography, part perverted fantasy. We get high-flying Cockney (geezer, catt, guffaw, popping out for a slash) that gets the better of me, and I'm certainly sympathizing with the crypto-ish sentiments:

When I’m asked to talk about crypto, I’m usually not being asked to talk about life under the Merkle trees, what I’m usually being asked is: direct me directly to the riches. [...] To the man who knows nothing about crypto, the man who has watched ten hours of videos on crypto is wise. (p. 4, p. 6)

It's cool to have a bitcoin-B in-between page breaks, and calling all the dreamy, starry-eyed predictions for how bitcoin will improve the world "messianic ejaculations" (p. 145) is, uh, quite something. But Mr. Dan doesn't care much for the revolution, he confesses on the next page:

I’m here for the loot and the laughs. It’s fun to throw a brick through a window. Revolutions don’t turn the world upside down. However it looks. They change things a little.

Then there's the very relatable bitcoin bear-market behavior:

Was I lucky? Well, you’re in the lucky bracket if you’re breathing. But I crawled. I crawled on all fours till my knees hurt. I dragged myself forward like a wounded soldier, swearing like one. I cried, I sobbed when some bags went down. I didn’t shave for months so I could save on the foam and the blades. I looked like an abominable something. People crossed the street. I fasted for days. I scraped together every penny I could, to stick it into crypto. Getting packed for the banana zone. Lucky suggests there was no suffering. (p. 16)

He has me bent over in laughter more than once...Uncontrollable, endless chuckling, because it's just so absurd, delivered with perfectly calm and understated Britishness:

no matter how odd you think you are, how unlike everyone else, you are part of a batch. I once saw a Japanese porn film. I assume it was meant to be a porn film, but you never know with the Japs. It had two hundred couples in a warehouse, at it. I suppose the theory was one couple good, two couples better, etc. Pile it on. (153)

The emotional struggles of a divorced, 60-something, and the wisdom he's acquired are somewhere between profound and trite:

Being right is of no value in a firm or a marriage, or probably anywhere. Being an adult, or being a man, having wisdom, however you want to put it, means you swallow it. (p. 25)

Ouch; too close for comfort. The next one is even sadder:

Was I wrong to be crazy about Vikki? I’ll never know. I do know this: if you’ve found someone decent whose greatest crime will be eating all the Jaffa biscuits behind your back and throwing out your favourite shirt and not allowing you to wear your most comfortable trousers in public, you’ve won. If you’ve unearthed one decent soul in your life, that’s the best result you can get in this spacetime racket. You can’t reasonably ask for more. By all means ask. Why not? But be aware, if put your hand up you’re being greedy. (p. 168)

I can't speak to the accuracy of this, but I'm sure the Schtackers w kids will chime in:

As a parent you cross your fingers and pray you’ll get away with it. You start off unable to choose between Harvard and Oxford for your kid, and you end up relieved your son’s not a junkie. (p. 87)

Here's a life advice I live by (...ish, anyway) (#1401093)

I was already working on my grand philosophy, never put yourself into a shaftee posture, then you can’t get shafted. It’s obvious in a way, but genius nevertheless. (p. 40)

Oh, finally, one that made me howl from laughter:

There seems to be a whole generation that collects conditions, sick notes like merit badges. Bulimia, depression, dyslexia, autism, whateverism. You’re nothing unless you have some condition, which of course you’re coping with, heroically, through incredible personal development and raw bravery (p. 27)

In sum,In sum,

The book isn't elaborate or interesting or grand or mesmerizing. It doesn't carry a grand meaning, reading it definitely doesn't constitute a profound before-after moment. It's just witty, with unexpected outbursts of chuckling. And it's nice to see bitcoin being part of a person's story rather than the centerpiece of their existence.

"I have bags of crypto. My bags are big. Some of the crypto is boring. Bitcoin, well, it's boring now... Bus drivers have Bitcoin now." (p. 90)"I have bags of crypto. My bags are big. Some of the crypto is boring. Bitcoin, well, it's boring now... Bus drivers have Bitcoin now." (p. 90)

Dan doesn't give a shit. His bags are big, though not biggest, and he's happy to give us some pointers along the way.