Written in the second person singular, like
Bright Lights,
McInerney's
Big City
,
Glass Butterfly
slices like a razor blade. Young Milone is flirtatious and irritating like young girls who lack self-confidence. Its narrator, Viv, is 25 years old. She is mad with anguish: her fiancé has vanished, perhaps thrown into the Seine. Her grief is Gothic, she has black romanticism, lyrical disillusion:
“We were imbued with our splendor. We were not alone but we were abandoned. ”
This prose is all I should hate and yet I find myself caught up in this excessive, intense, so out of date style. A mix of Huysmans and
C'est beau une ville la nuit
by Richard Bohringer!
"You have always recognized yourself in the breath of monsters."
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What do we look for in the first novels?
Innocence that dares.
Raphaëlle Milone breaks all the rules of correct literature.
She cries, she cries, drinks and takes herself for Rimbaud.
She could be ridiculous.
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