As of this writing, I read this book better than three years ago and find myself a little embarrassed for recollections of it. As I poke around, reading some reviews of the book and checking it out of the library in an electronic copy for a skim, I find that this very problem I’m having about the book - the fade of memory, the struggle to reassemble past experience from clues - is what the book is about. So that’s a daub of synchronicity. So I’ll call my non-description of the book nuancedly self-referential, and call it a day.
I liked it, hey. Time permitting in life, I'd like to read something from Modiano again.
(4/4/2020)
No comments:
Post a Comment