Walking on the way that A.R. Grillet paved, Duras introduces her more developed version of the Nouveau Roman. The characters are unnamed and the plot doesn’t matter, they’re almost non-existent. The items are the things that are used symbolically to define the characters. Intertextuality can also be observed. The narrative is fragmented as hell. Among all the books i’ve read from this movement so far, the discontunity of the narrative/plot is in its most prominent form in this novel. It jumps from memory to memory, which left me disoriented.
“I had become his child. It was with his own child he made love every evening.” Never felt so sick in my life. Now i’m not gonna start going on about how it romanticizes pedophilia and colonialism of Indochina since it’s literally an autobiography. What can i say?
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