2

I'm going to have a lot more to say about Virginie Despentes' Vernon Subutex 2 in about a minute, but right now I just have to lay down this bit:

"Her memory is a compost heap; everything was jumbled together and beginning to rot … you had to study them carefully to make out the contours they had had, before they had clotted into a vast mound of bitterness." (42-43)

Can Virginie write or what?

In two novels + 50 pages of a third (2), she has become one of my all time favorite writers.