Мужчина моей мечты - Johanna Lindsey, Джоанна Линдсей This is one of those books that I can only enjoy under one of two circumstances. I would either have to be 12, completely inexperienced in matters of romance and not very picky when it comes to literature, or read it in a language that's my... fourth. It's too late for option no 1, so yay for option no 2! There are lots of ridiculous aspects to this book, and anyone with a feminist bone in them would probably be raging by page 10, but I don't care much for principles in books, I just want something good or entertaining. This is hardly good - it's probably really, really awful - but it's very entertaining. You know how it will end up, but you still have to continue reading to see what happens on the way, and get past that oh-so-silly misunderstanding that makes out... hmm... 390 pages? The awesome about all of this is that this book made me think about two of my favorite Swedish classics by Victoria Benedictsson, and how her more sophisticated books are really essentially about the same thing as this nigtmarish pink and purple vomit-inducing little bundle of frustration (the cover is so awful it's funny).

Lindsey's book is without a doubt the easiest thing I've ever read in Russian. I didn't even notice the language.