rameau's ramblings

Okay, let's try this.I'm rusty. I am rusty. That's the only word I have for what I'm feeling right now. I used to love reading books like this before. I don't know how anymore, because this isn't one of those books that breeze through cursorily, nor is it a book that you can afford to dwell on for too long either. It's something far more... precious. All sinister connotations intended. If you've read the blurb, you know what happens. The book itself will answer the question why it happened. In case my shelving didn't make it clear enough, this is about a woman's shattered mind and discontinued concept of time. It's about losing the sight of what's real and what's not when you're protecting yourself--no, the ones you love--from something taboo. Something so disgusting that the only way to handle your own pleasure in it is to... break. Yes, I'm abusing the ellipses.Parts of me loved this book, parts of me hated it. Parts of me want to recommend it to others, parts of me know better than that. The author is French Russian.Make up your own mind. I know my review is no help to anyone.