Well, yes, I'll own up : The Nobel Prize did get me curious, as I knew virtually nothing of this Modiano gentleman before last October. It took me a while to get around to him, but now I have.
And yes, I'll admit that, too : These Nobel people, they know what they are doing.
This is Real Literature as Top-Notch Real as it gets. It's a brief little jewel (bijou!) of a book, where every sentence feels polished like a diamond, shaped into perfection.
The plot evolves around a lonely young girl, in 1960s Paris, spotting a person who might be her long-gone mother one night in the métro. At the core of the first-person narrative is solitude, absence and unexplained disappearances.
As is sometimes the case with Real Literature, however, it left me feeling slightly unfulfilled, as if I had grasped only about 60% of the book. I reckon for me to get the missing 40%
I would need to sit down and do some serious literary research work. I won't, though, as it also left me somewhat cold and unmoved. At a loss to determine exactly why; perhaps it was just too well polished?