The novel falters on the promise of its original plotting by resorting to cursorily drawn characters, prose that is often simply convenient or overreaching for poetry, and an unjustifiably cruel world.
NDiaye, who is half French and half Senegalese, drains the narrative of the usual markers of identity, leaving behind elemental psychological processes and beguiling allusions.
Through witnessing the movement as an outsider while reflecting on his complex position, Leung creates a rich, dynamic inquiry into our responsibility to one another.
He accuses her of robbing him of his ideas, his genius, making a mockery of his life’s work — not that he’s made anything. But Art is male energy in this equation, and there’s only so much subjectivity to go around.
Here are two representations of the country: One insisting unimaginatively as to what it takes to obliterate the nuances of social difference with blunt force, and the other just trying to get by.
Performative writing promises no buttoned-up endings, no achievement of perfection. It refutes the notion of a progression, of a moving forward, the reaching of a completed end-point.