… although it is currently the best book I have read this year!
The French Lieutenant's Woman.
By John Fowles.
You know, you "discover" authors like John Fowles and then ask yourself what kind of a pile of cement you've been hiding your head under, until that moment! The man is [was] a genius. Now…..
"What is with your blog title then, Cipriano?"
--> THE BOOK IS EXTREMELY SAD!
Finishing it this morning, I have now spent the day in a blue funk!
I've done more thinking about it than Rodin's statue there was thinking about…. whatever!
I cannot recommend, nor in any way endorse this book, with clear conscience, if you, my dear reader have ANY propensity to depression / catatonia / dogatonia / and/or abhorrence of anhedonia!
This is not a happy book!
Even if you believe in the first ending of the two that are offered at the penultimate and final chapter. Not happy.
Set in the Victorian era, but narrated by someone living next door to you today -- this is one of the most unique, brave, and I daresay brazen journeys into the depths of our still resonant confusion between feelings and assumptions.
And available to us in the here-and-now.
At a bookstore near you.
She loves me, she loves me not.
I love her, I love her………… yeah. Exactly.
Never a last petal was plucked as slowly, as this one.