This book has a bad title, but isn’t a terrible read.
It’s a 1965 novel[la] translated in 1967 by Derek Colman from the original French, and in many ways it’s basically a French, and woman-centred, version of Eva Figes’ Winter Journey.
It’s about an old, old, ancient woman, a woman so old that she basically doesn’t exist, a woman no longer welcome in society, a woman who has no one and nothing except for a little fox fur that she found in a bin while looking for food in it. Looking for food in the bin, not looking for food in the little fox fur. I think.
The ancient, decrepid, crone is 60, so as someone closer in age to that than to birth (tho I fucking hope I never end up that old!!!), it does feel a bit like those (possibly fake?) viral pictures drawn by children imagining what it feels like to be 40 (“soon I will be dead”, or something like that?).
It’s good, it’s fine, it’s short, I can’t imagine I’ll ever think of it again!
Much like this post, if this post was good and fine.
See you next time!!!