Marie-Hélène Lafon's style is dense, a jungle to plough through. A story reminiscent of those told by Annie Ernaux, Didier Éribon and Édouard Louis; Lafon's novel is more descriptive and somewhat flat. Its flowery prose is revealing of Claire's inner world but I missed more introspection, typical of the novels of Éribon, Ernaux and Louis. The last fifty pages are the best because more depth is given to the character of the father, but why I wonder? The book is after all about Claire... why not learn more about Claire?
Reviews and Comments
Here to prove that the reading of literature is not a bourgeois hobby
This link opens in a pop-up window