Don’t read this book. It’s a fraud.
I don’t normally give book reviews, because I don’t normally read books. They’re a waste of time, and this one sure was.
First, it bills itself as a memoir. Now, when I think of memoir, I think of great men, like myself, doing great things, like own hotels. To my surprise, this memoir was written by a woman. I was immediately suspicious. What has she ever done? The answer is nothing. She rides trains all day and makes observations. I could do that, but I have better things to do. And for this kind of crap someone decided this Annie Ernaux woman should be awarded the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature. It just confirms why I never had any respect for that award.
Second, Annie Ernaux has no friends. Nor should she. She’s a voyeur who is obsessed with eavesdropping on strangers – as if strangers can tell us anything about ourselves or our world. Yet, she seems to think so. Here’s something stupid she said. “It is other people – anonymous figures glimpsed in the subway or in waiting rooms – who revive our memory and reveal our true selves through the interest, the anger or the shame that they send rippling through us.”
The only time a stranger ripples me is when she’s sexy. Then the hunt is on, and she won’t be a stranger for long.
Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island and some in Connecticut
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 