I thought this book, the last in my little run of French books on my TBR, would be, if not easy, then a nice, gentle comedown after the uncomfortable fascination of Le Roi des Aulnes. It… sort of was?
You know how you can read a book in your native tongue and understand the nuances, understand the tricks the author is using and what they’re trying to accomplish and how it works? How you can analyse word choice and symbolism and appreciate beautiful abstract statements that touch deep parts of you that more straightforward language can’t seem to reach? You know what it’s like to read a proper classic and really appreciate top-class writing?
Now I know, deep in my heart, that these are things that every other language in the world can evoke. But seeing it done is a whole other thing altogether. Not quite understanding it is a weird feeling, like a kind of awe.
