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Title: "The head – novel on a chef"
Author: Marie NDiaye
Translator: Maria Björkman
The book is read and I am kluven. Part of me is excited about a writer with strict requirements. Here, no text pudding is served at the desire to swallow, feelings of rapid saturation are not sought.
Marie NDiaye is one of the most exciting writers I've read in the last ten years. His novel "My confined heart" is still sitting like a parasite in my body. Nasty that little. Terribly good.
But what is the essence of La Cheffe? The other part of my slot, I feel abandoned and a little stupid, does not allow to understand this story, despite great efforts.
The Romanian I, who recreates the outlines of his old and beloved boss – the chef and the culinary artist – feels like a detour and he erases me. Why should he just tell you? Who is he? I think so much about it and I think right now that it is essential, but it is too long before its own story unfolds and takes on meaning in the novel.
The Head comes from a poor nowhere. It cooks irreversibly, the raw material is served almost naked, but without the concern for perfection. People go on a pilgrimage to their restaurant to savor superb portions. His daughter hates her. Sometimes it sounds like a really original novel, and then the narrator chases it again.
In the wrong kind of cooking The head becomes soundproof. She needs to access herself to create and cook. I become strange myself. The many words without a clear direction, carefully selected in themselves, become a beautiful garnish all the same. How does the law really seem hidden below? The Cheerleader did not like this layout either.
It remains to be seen if this enigmatic cook continues to torment my head – if that's the case; mark again for Marie NDiaye. But this time, I still doubt if she really succeeded.
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