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There's a bit where Sartre describes Mathieu's sister-in-law: she's pretty, but "Mathieu had on countless occasions tried to unify these fluid features, but they escaped him; as a face, Odette's always seemed to be dissolving, and thus retained its elusive bourgeois mystery." (p. 127) And that's a little how I feel about this book, halfway through; it's certainly very good, and pretty to look at, but it's weirdly slippery. I can't quite get a handle on it.

That may be my fault. Tough to say what you bring to a book, and what the book brings to you.

And there's a sense of foreboding hanging over the thing that makes me feel like this won't always be the story; like something might happen soon to throw everyone into sharper relief. Maybe the whole thing is like the Gauguin self-portrait that Mathieu takes Ivich to see: so far we're just drawing the shadowy figures behind him, and soon enough we'll show the figure in front.

Sorry, I got a little flowery there.

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And it ended like and unlike how I expected. I don't want to say too much, 'cause, y'know, spoilers and all that. It was beautiful, and I feel like getting screamingly plastered now.