When we talk about ourselves, about others, or simply about things, we want--it could be said--to reveal ourselves in our words: We want to show what we think and feel. We let others have a glimpse into our soul. In this understanding of the case, we're the sovereign director, the self-appointed dramaturge as far as opening ourselves is concerned. But maybe this is absolutely false? A self-deception? For not only do we reveal ourselves with our words, we also betray ourselves. We give away a lot more than what we wanted to reveal, and sometimes it's the exact opposite. And the others can interpret our words as symptoms for something we ourselves may not even know. As symptoms of being us. The quote above displays what I didn't like about this book. It is from a book within the novel written by a hero of the author. If you are like me, it is either a poor translation, or it actually says very little. Mercier is a philosophy professor and this novel spends way too much time on circular mental gymnastics with little meaning to life. Maybe if you are looking for a way to experience more melancholy, which the author admires, this book would work for you.
This is another case of me being drawn to read a book by its jacket (As Dylan sang "When will they ever learn?"). The rave reviews said things like "the best book of the last ten years" (does that reviewer really read books?) "incomparable talent" (To what, philosophy professors?)
The story in this novel has an interesting premise and the author has some unusual characters. I was not, however, enraptured by the deep philosophical ramblings that are the main focus of the book. That is in spite of my typical enjoyment of ideas.
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