Realizing I never wrote a review about this novel, which is a shame, because it totally rules. The narrative is murky, and the fragments disorienting - 49 pieces from which a life of Walter Benjamin slowly takes shape. Yet interwoven between this fragmentary deepfakes (would love to ask Bellanger his opinion on pastiche - he has quite un don for imitating other peoples' style) lies a more conventional literary enquete: searching for a lost manuscript, hidden somewhere within the BnF.
A ludicrously erudite and formally inventive, I think this is Bellanger's most spicy work yet. While it seems like it's about Benjamin, and it is, I think the novel is posing a better question: why did Benjamin never write a novel? This work, fractured and fractal, a mise-en-abyme worthy of all the marbles, offers a tentative reply. If you work at Gallimard and want a translator, I'd literally do it for free.