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The language is lush and metaphoric� And the book has a power of murky allegory.
Oblivion is about human memory� There are things we wish to remember and there are things we wish to forget�

The darkness of winter days multiplies the lacunae of memory, confined to the circle of light from the desk lamp; you travel from one memory to the next as if from village to village in the snow, sinking, losing the road, barely hearing the guiding thread � the hum of the power lines.

An old man dies� And the boy, to whom the old blind man was like his real grandfather, grows up and decides to investigate the life of the dead man� So he submerges into the dark past of his false relative� And he becomes a prisoner of the sinister past�

But there was no real scale either � he was not great, but small, a blind old man who knew how to do only one thing � elicit fear, not fright which we often confuse with fear, especially as children, but fear � the oppressive living essence that forces the psyche into an unnatural state and forces a person to stifle himself; fear, the optical lenses of fear increased Grandfather II’s figure, gave it a demonic, creepy glow. The real horror was in the useless keys, the saucers from beat-up tea sets, in worn coins � in the anonymity of existence, in the impossibility of learning anything morally from these remains, which could have been caught in an archaeologist’s sieve, about a person who seemed to blend into the general background of an era, lost amid the trifles, who had taken on the quotidian as a scheme, or even more accurately, had always lived by it; a person about whom you sensed great evil but whom you could never call great or even having scale in that evil.

The past is memory and oblivion� Many mysteries and secrets are irrevocably buried in the past� The past is always a tragedy�

I sensed that oblivion does not come in gradualness, extension, or postponement, but that it is an integral part of time itself, whose unreasoning force makes it happen here and now; blind Cronus is continually devouring his children, and every new moment does not try to add to the last one but to destroy it. Only memory can resist forgetting; of course, not always.

Time is merciless and the rapacious past swallows everything.