It does not look like much, Marc. The fifty assumed, giving writing courses at the university, he loves his young students. Closely. Very closely. Very closely. One night, intoxicated, he returned home in good company to wake up in the morning alongside a dead woman. Panic? Not that much, even if we get rid of the body. If the beginning of the book breathes the English black humor, detached, one falls fast in the surprising Marc egotistical blindness more "self-concerned" by his ambiguous relationship with his sister by his superior pot of glue or by the mother of the dead girl with whom he formed a relationship stunning.
In the heat of southern France as one imagines that Djian suffocates its characters grappling with the everyday, the mundane and boredom. Without vehemence, without fear or without that hint of remorse, the reluctant hero wanders through his anxiety the next day with the verve of an animal in hibernation. Off, it crosses the world sometimes rediscovering his heart can recover to beat. Here, promiscuity and the body does not cheat more, they aggregate to forget themselves and be reborn. Djian mastered this slow, this callous indifference when life does not lead, she suffered. He grinds the casualness and quietly engaged in unhealthy pleasures, but delightful, a write larded splinters that puts brilliantly from the stupor of the country inaccessible to the player characters to shreds. Here there is a discernible unease, a frightful fall which can only do everything in its path explode. A cluster bomb.
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