Quiet is the best word I can find when talking about this book. Even though most of it happens during a rainy day, I got the feeling you get when it is snowing outside: it is very quiet and soft, but something very big and heavy is happening, falling from the sky.

I recently read The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, and since then I've been thinking a lot about time and it's cyclic essence; On the Calculation of Volume is a great follow-up. What happens when time stops but only for you? What happens to the rest of the world? Does everyday open a new time-line where everyone continues with their day and you are a part of it, or is everyone stuck and you are the only one noticing?

Some parts of this I found lovely, especially the comfort of someone else making noises around the house, the familiarity of the people you live with.

In general, a beutiful read, and I felt that whenever I read this I was forced to stop rushing and read slowly (and quietly, that word again). I can't wait to read the rest.