I've had this book for a while, but got to it in earnest during quarantine. It's a triumph of insularity, an act of self-archiving and portraiture-- it is essentially a room-by-room cataloguing of an apartment. It is declared a novel, though it seems hardly that. It has no apparent plot, its narrative is propelled by the anticipation of each room, the last perhaps being the most intimate, the bedroom. Clerc's 'narrator' cites being at this project for three years of homebound observation. It's a surprisingly compelling read, at least for me, a homebound and living alone. That narrator is a French intellectual, and thereby has an air or pretension, which is undercut by winking wit. He reveals just about everything, yet remains a bit of cipher. We don't find out until late in the book, when we get to a shelf in the bedroom closet, that he has a girlfriend who sometimes spends the night. No one actually enters the apartment during the course of this telling, it is writer and the things he's amassed. He describes eccentric household habits that we all engage as we adapt to space--I related to many of them. Clerc wisely breaks these up into short, labelled passages, like tchotckes on a shelf. I found myself reading them aloud, little treats that made me think about the structure of my own life, and so much about the process of revealing it.