It would be easy to just claim this as another triumph for the Swedish master of harnessing the subconscious, who, through her ADHD/asperger-ish way of writing, always gets what she want. I guess she'd say something completely different, if she'd have her say. I'd say this is a simple tale of Malmsten's - or her alter ego's - leaving Finistère, the French village where she has lived for the past seven years. Simple, however, does not mean that this book isn't complex.
Chronicling and nit-picking her way through incidents, anecdotes and people while counting the months, weeks and days up till her moving away from Finistère, and writing about her strenuous, hilarious and interesting battle with a mysterious figure called Madame C on who can write the best erotic novel, Malmsten manages to bring forth a tome of tears, longing for what was once there, is now and of what must be, in the future.
This is a moving collection of words, proving the author's genius, that alone mustn't mean lonely and that you shouldn't ask her any questions.
