Un-tattooing the memory of reading Morris’s The Tattooist of Auschwitz

The true story of Lale Solokov is a rare, heartfelt story of holocaust survival, which at surface value in itself should be an uplifting story of humanity. We have had many of these stories cum novel over the years and it seems that the general public had been buying them like grand final tickets. But not all holocaust stories are made equal, though it seems that the popular ones seem to be profitable stories, the kind that publishers can’t say no to nor it seems, the readers wallets.

Romance in Auschwitz seems to be as contradictory as the oxymoron military intelligence, but this is based on true events. And if you look carefully enough, there really is a remarkable story. Unfortunately, when you give such story to incapable hands, then such a potential is gone to the dogs. It’s like giving your grandma’s heirloom bolognese recipe to someone who couldn’t tell the difference between a pot and pan.

Yeah, I’m not even going to summarise the story of the book, I’ll let BBC do the talking. The article is more concise and free of the cringiness of the romance Morris doused liberally in the book. The book felt rushed and bland, which perhaps can be justified as Lale Solokov recounted his story to the writer, before passing away. But I really don’t think it’s much of an excuse. I don’t think the book would’ve been any different even if Morris had spent more time on the book.

It’s not the case of putting a lipstick on a pig, more like restoring the Mona Lisa with Crayola. What a fucking waste.