I bought the book at the airport in Bogotá and finished it on the flight
that carried me home, landing as another late season hurricane approached. A
tight book by the new French Noble, Ernaux.
The story is probably true, but the entire point is why must we ask. Sixty pages.
The brutal telling of a pitiless passion. Brutal because blunt. No lingerie.
No foreplay. Only the act. Its dry, spent language.
I left the book on the plane, every one of its verbs unmarked.