The chapters about the deserter are visceral, full of sensory detail. Refreshingly, the story considers the treatment of women in war. The prose is deconstructed, with poetic line breaks and intermittent capitalisation and punctuation, as if war decomposes language itself. Unlike Énard’s usual first-person, however, it’s told mostly in a close-third, with sometimes shifting points of view. Its parabalistic quality, intended perhaps to make us consider all wars, somewhat mitigates the reader’s emotional engagement ... The bulk of clunkiness— mid-sentence tense changes, for example—accurately reflects Énard’s choices, equally awkward in French, rather than Mandell’s translation ... Irina’s first-person account, intermingled with letters, would seem to be more personal, but here too we are kept at arm’s length by her academic tone and reference to her parents by their first names ... While containing thematic echoes, the two strands of the book run in parallel without ever intersecting. Although not in itself a problem—we don’t need things to be tied neatly in a bow—their stylistic differences break the narrative flow ... With his consistent representation of war in his fiction, Énard reminds us to shed our rose-tinted glasses.
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