This is an undisputed bestseller, a book that claims to be a cult classic. And not at all because the plot of the novel is inspired by the song of the iconic American Bob Dylan. And not even because of the enthusiastic and condescending reviews of modern classics, from John Updike to John Irving. Although it is flattering, of course, when the author of “The Centaur” and “The Witches of Eastwick” compares you, not yet intoxicated with fame, but only having sipped from a glass of it, with Marcel Proust. And certainly not because of the involuntary echo of the novel about Max Tivoli with the motifs of Fitzgerald and Nabokov. No, the story of how time played a cruel joke on a man who was born in the body of a very old man and physically getting younger over the years, but at the same time gaining life and sensory experience, affirms a very simple idea in the intelligent reader: the destructive energy of time, if something capable of resisting, only the matter of love.