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I Sette Colori
«Tutti coloro che hanno riflettuto sulla tecnica del romanzo hanno notato l'estrema libertà del genere, e la sua facilità ad ammettere tutte le forme. Sono stati considerati come romanzi, nel corso dei secoli, racconti, frammenti di diari, raccolte di lettere, poesie, costruzioni puramente ideologiche come "Séraphita e Louis Lambert", dialoghi come quelli che furono di moda prima della guerra. Un monologo interiore surrealista è forse un romanzo, e una serie di documenti cuciti insieme (com'è stato fatto ad esempio per la morte di Tolstoj) può passare per un'altra forma di quest'arte. Nella maggior parte dei romanzi, del resto, racconto, dialogo (anche dialogo indiretto), saggio o massime, documenti, lettere, pagine di diario, monologo interiore si mescolano in una stessa opera, e le pubblicità di César Birotteau, le lettere di Madame de Merteuil, il discorso dell'"Ulisse" fanno parte integrante del genere romanzesco. È sembrato che si potesse tentare almeno una volta di presentare questi diversi elementi non più confusi, ma dissociati, per quanto è possibile, e che ciascuna di queste forme potesse convenire meglio di un'altra per descrivere un particolare episodio, nel corso del tempo che fugge».
230 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1939
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98 people want to read
About the author
Robert Brasillach
56 books10 followersFrench author and journalist.
Brasillach wrote both fiction and non-fiction. While his fiction dealt with love, life and politics in his era, his non-fiction dealt with a great variety of themes, ranging from drama, great literary figures and contemporary world events. His work in the realm of cinema history was particularly influential.
He became an editor of Je suis partout, a paper led by Pierre Gaxotte.
After the liberation of France in 1944 he was executed following a trial and Charles de Gaulle's express refusal to grant him a pardon. Brasillach was executed for advocating collaborationism, denunciation and incitement to murder.
Brasillach wrote both fiction and non-fiction. While his fiction dealt with love, life and politics in his era, his non-fiction dealt with a great variety of themes, ranging from drama, great literary figures and contemporary world events. His work in the realm of cinema history was particularly influential.
He became an editor of Je suis partout, a paper led by Pierre Gaxotte.
After the liberation of France in 1944 he was executed following a trial and Charles de Gaulle's express refusal to grant him a pardon. Brasillach was executed for advocating collaborationism, denunciation and incitement to murder.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
December 12, 2025
Leggevo la storia di Catherine e Patrice e intanto vedevo Parigi attraverso la lente dei Macchiaioli e degli Impressionisti, nonostante Parigi sia stato solo il fugace corollario di un sentimento che sboccia piano, sottotraccia, capace però di trasformarsi presto in qualcosa di sferzante e febbrile. Un po' come le sensazioni che ho provato io per questo romanzo.
Non me lo aspettavo così. Non mi aspettavo niente eppure mi aspettavo comunque tantissimo e quel tantissimo non è rimasto deluso.
Certo, avrei preferito che la narrazione proseguisse come nella prima parte - epistolario incluso - senza la sceneggiatura e senza il diario, ma va bene anche così, uscire fuori dai ranghi dello stile lineare e ortodosso.
Brasillach porta la primavera, l'entusiasmo, le api e il miele. Poi porta anche una Firenze gagliarda, gli italiani fieri e i bambini vestiti di nero che imparano a marciare. E poi, soprattutto, porta la gioventù tedesca. Tanto bella da provocare angoscia e terrore in chi vi si approccia per la prima volta.
È sempre un immenso piacere incontrare l'amore dietro l'angolo, quando proprio non te l'aspettavi, e io ho incontrato Robert. Prepotente, scanzonato, orgoglioso. Dritto.
"È un onore."
Non me lo aspettavo così. Non mi aspettavo niente eppure mi aspettavo comunque tantissimo e quel tantissimo non è rimasto deluso.
Certo, avrei preferito che la narrazione proseguisse come nella prima parte - epistolario incluso - senza la sceneggiatura e senza il diario, ma va bene anche così, uscire fuori dai ranghi dello stile lineare e ortodosso.
Brasillach porta la primavera, l'entusiasmo, le api e il miele. Poi porta anche una Firenze gagliarda, gli italiani fieri e i bambini vestiti di nero che imparano a marciare. E poi, soprattutto, porta la gioventù tedesca. Tanto bella da provocare angoscia e terrore in chi vi si approccia per la prima volta.
È sempre un immenso piacere incontrare l'amore dietro l'angolo, quando proprio non te l'aspettavi, e io ho incontrato Robert. Prepotente, scanzonato, orgoglioso. Dritto.
"È un onore."
September 1, 2014
I cannot say I was expecting much of this third foray into the Brasillach corpus, especially since it seemed our best days were already behind us (“Comme le temps passe” is often regarded as his best work) but in reality “Les sept couleurs” is clearly a notch above the other two: For starters, the reader is quickly relieved to discover that the author has drastically reduced the insufferable lengths he had spent in the other two books setting the stage. From about half of the book spent in naive and vegetative contemplation in “Comme le temps passe” and “Le marchand d’oiseau” we have here only one chapter out of seven, and already in this chapter discord find its way to creep in.
Second, there is a stylistic daring that seems quite unusual to Brasillach, allowing him to display his well honed writing skills and to echo his unlikely masters (Gide, probably) while it also make out for the reader what are his strength, and where are rooted his less savoury mannerisms. The book is divided in seven chapters, each presented by the author through a different writing mode: novel, epistolary novel, diary, aphorisms, theatre, press and stream of consciousness. Each of those modes are actually thoughtfully fitted to the overall narrative, and beyond an exercise in style, reflect not only the mood and spirit of the story, but also seem to echo that textual and narrative self-image Brasillach, as with many fascists, has of himself.
As I mentioned, the book’s quality vary with the mode employed, revealing the strengths and affinities of the author (or maybe my own) – although the first chapter, which introduces us to Patrice and Catherine, the couple whose relationship, complicated by distance and a host of picturesque characters, will constitute the red thread of the narrative, is perfectly generic for Brasillach, and could be pretty much exchanged with that of any of his other novels (to the point we find numerous places and references in common, for example George Pitoeff's representations of Pirandello - who will work with Brasillach on the collaborationist revue "Je suis Partout") the persisting reader will be somewhat rewarded with the following chapter, taking the form of an exchange of letters between the two:
After a short but intense platonic relationship (a recurrent sign of the purity of youth in Brasillach) Patrice’s military service, first, and then his employment as a preceptor to a fascist family in Italy, open a chasm between the two lovers. Brasillach, with brio, depicts in epistolary form the breaking down of their idyll, under the repeated blows of Patrice’s fascination for the vitalist and idealist climate reigning in Italy, leaving him little inclined towards compromises, and more importantly, of Catherine’s irremediable softness and bourgeois dreams of gemutlichkeit. What could have turned easily into a caricature is redeemed, I think, because this tension between the fascist cult of action, dynamism, violence, revolution on one hand, and the conservative bourgeois aspiration to peace and stability, reflects an internal conflict in the author himself (and probably in French fascism at large, if we are to call it like that…) – as it becomes clear further in the book, much of his perpetual eulogizing of youth and nostalgia is a strategy of kind to resolve this conflict. Hence there is of the author in both characters, even in Catherine’s compromission, and the excellent style of their writing does much to make them, despite their respective choices, into interesting characters.
The following chapter is of a lesser quality: in the form of a diary, the author multiplies ellipses over ten years to take Patrice from his work in Italy to the foreign legion in Morocco. He meets there a nazi who later finds him a job in a chamber of commerce in Germany. The meat of the chapter is essentially a first person account of life in nazi Germany, with multiple enthusiastic depictions of ceremonies (Brasillach had been invited to the Nuremberg rallies he depicts), collective activities and the “admirable” ethos of this new Germany. Save for a few original observations (on nazi “exoticism” for example, in the entry of the 13th of September) this is actually surprisingly weak and common. There is the occasional rewording of Brasillach’s musing on the interwar relationship between France and Germany (as exposed in the trenches of “Comme le temps passe”) but few original elements. While in Germany he comes across an old acquaintance who implies that Catherine, despite her marriage in the meantime, is still in love with him. At the end of the chapter he abandons his German girl for a visit to France.
Much more interesting is the following chapter, which the author calls reflections or essay, but to me sounds somewhat like the aphoristic teachings of a Menalque or a Zarathustra. The theme, the common thread, is unsurprisingly that of youth, and its alleged waning at the approach of thirty: a collage of disparate reflection on the dilemma that faces men and women when they are to recognize and to accept that their best years lay behind them.
This is of course the central theme to much of Brasillach’s fiction. Its complex relationship to fascist ideology and aesthetics, I would venture, is clarified in those few pages: the constitutive tension within fascism, between movement and regime, between revolutionary claims and conservative policies might have appeared clearly to the writer. Youth, as often in fascist rhetoric (from Marinetti onward) is taken as the dynamic principle that fuels the fascist disregard for conventions and contingencies, but as comes its end, the crime, against good-taste and against modesty, is to perpetuate it artificially. It would seem that for Brasillach, in one’s third decade, one must renounce the enchantment of activism and make-do with the placebo of comfort, rather than turn into a grotesque caricature of one’s past. Age groups acquire something of the organic unity of the corporate state, neatly defined in their function, moral, political and aesthetic, and nostalgia becomes, I suppose, the link that ensures cohesion of the whole.
The next section takes the form of a short play, introduces us to Catherine’s married life and to her husband: theatre is a dangerous form to introduce in a novel, so different are its conventions from those of the novel – and despite some occasional lengthy indulgence on the part of the author, one has to admit he does a pretty decent job. The chapter opens with another reference to Pirandello, then the melodrama unfolds, elucidating Catherine’s life choices, settling her among Brasillach’s self-same gallery of female stooges.
Although, unlike his previous endeavours, this one novel is woven with avowals of the author’s fascination with both fascism and nazism, what most cripples his fiction (this one as well as the others) is probably his insistence on portraying transparent and empty female characters, while retaining for them a central place in the plot. “I am a woman, I am modest and reasonable” Catherine tells us, and let’s face it, it could just as well have been Florence (Comme le temps passe) or Isabelle (Le marchand d’oiseau), so many characters who make a virtue of passivity and submission. Of course this is nothing this is nothing if not consistent with the author’s unsavoury politics, but it is also a real difficulty for the reader: whereas the usual common-place of fascist narratives, like adventure, violence, tragedy and so on, make for entertaining reads (some would say they were picked in part for this very reason) one cannot help but think the novels loose much of their appeal by revolving around bland, absent, useless female characters.
Despite recurrent temptation to leave with Patrice, Catherine, in heroic passivity remain faithful to her husband, but following a misunderstanding this one leaves off and join the nationalist volunteers in the Spanish civil war. The next chapter is destined to familiarize us with this lackluster character, and Brasillach’s choice of media, a scrapbook collage of articles, book extracts, letters and songs, could have been very interesting: at a certain distance we follow the husband’s fight and learn the basics about the Spanish conflict. The introduction of phalangist songs here and there do add to the texture of the narration, but on the whole it seems all a bit gimmicky, or at least it would have gained from more room in the book.
To conclude his story, Brasillach deliver a introspective monologue of Catherine, in the train to Spain where she is to meet her estranged husband, wounded in the war. We learn little new about her apathy.
All in all, if you need to read one Brasillach it should be this one: In some regards, “Les sept couleurs” (1939) seems like a rewrite, at least partial, of “Comme le temps passe” (1937) from the same author. The introduction of the fascist themes which were largely absent from the original work (actually, the original carlist child become a French member of the International Brigades) could have seemed like a lazy update on the original work, were it not for the crucial fact that this present book is clearly a notch above the original one, and as far as I can tell also an improvement on Brasillach’s usual dreadful romances. Beyond the historical interest (Brasillach, after all, is chiefly remembered for his execution as a collaborator) the book also hold some literary value, which, as far as I am concerned, was rare in the two previous books I have read of his.
Second, there is a stylistic daring that seems quite unusual to Brasillach, allowing him to display his well honed writing skills and to echo his unlikely masters (Gide, probably) while it also make out for the reader what are his strength, and where are rooted his less savoury mannerisms. The book is divided in seven chapters, each presented by the author through a different writing mode: novel, epistolary novel, diary, aphorisms, theatre, press and stream of consciousness. Each of those modes are actually thoughtfully fitted to the overall narrative, and beyond an exercise in style, reflect not only the mood and spirit of the story, but also seem to echo that textual and narrative self-image Brasillach, as with many fascists, has of himself.
As I mentioned, the book’s quality vary with the mode employed, revealing the strengths and affinities of the author (or maybe my own) – although the first chapter, which introduces us to Patrice and Catherine, the couple whose relationship, complicated by distance and a host of picturesque characters, will constitute the red thread of the narrative, is perfectly generic for Brasillach, and could be pretty much exchanged with that of any of his other novels (to the point we find numerous places and references in common, for example George Pitoeff's representations of Pirandello - who will work with Brasillach on the collaborationist revue "Je suis Partout") the persisting reader will be somewhat rewarded with the following chapter, taking the form of an exchange of letters between the two:
After a short but intense platonic relationship (a recurrent sign of the purity of youth in Brasillach) Patrice’s military service, first, and then his employment as a preceptor to a fascist family in Italy, open a chasm between the two lovers. Brasillach, with brio, depicts in epistolary form the breaking down of their idyll, under the repeated blows of Patrice’s fascination for the vitalist and idealist climate reigning in Italy, leaving him little inclined towards compromises, and more importantly, of Catherine’s irremediable softness and bourgeois dreams of gemutlichkeit. What could have turned easily into a caricature is redeemed, I think, because this tension between the fascist cult of action, dynamism, violence, revolution on one hand, and the conservative bourgeois aspiration to peace and stability, reflects an internal conflict in the author himself (and probably in French fascism at large, if we are to call it like that…) – as it becomes clear further in the book, much of his perpetual eulogizing of youth and nostalgia is a strategy of kind to resolve this conflict. Hence there is of the author in both characters, even in Catherine’s compromission, and the excellent style of their writing does much to make them, despite their respective choices, into interesting characters.
The following chapter is of a lesser quality: in the form of a diary, the author multiplies ellipses over ten years to take Patrice from his work in Italy to the foreign legion in Morocco. He meets there a nazi who later finds him a job in a chamber of commerce in Germany. The meat of the chapter is essentially a first person account of life in nazi Germany, with multiple enthusiastic depictions of ceremonies (Brasillach had been invited to the Nuremberg rallies he depicts), collective activities and the “admirable” ethos of this new Germany. Save for a few original observations (on nazi “exoticism” for example, in the entry of the 13th of September) this is actually surprisingly weak and common. There is the occasional rewording of Brasillach’s musing on the interwar relationship between France and Germany (as exposed in the trenches of “Comme le temps passe”) but few original elements. While in Germany he comes across an old acquaintance who implies that Catherine, despite her marriage in the meantime, is still in love with him. At the end of the chapter he abandons his German girl for a visit to France.
Much more interesting is the following chapter, which the author calls reflections or essay, but to me sounds somewhat like the aphoristic teachings of a Menalque or a Zarathustra. The theme, the common thread, is unsurprisingly that of youth, and its alleged waning at the approach of thirty: a collage of disparate reflection on the dilemma that faces men and women when they are to recognize and to accept that their best years lay behind them.
This is of course the central theme to much of Brasillach’s fiction. Its complex relationship to fascist ideology and aesthetics, I would venture, is clarified in those few pages: the constitutive tension within fascism, between movement and regime, between revolutionary claims and conservative policies might have appeared clearly to the writer. Youth, as often in fascist rhetoric (from Marinetti onward) is taken as the dynamic principle that fuels the fascist disregard for conventions and contingencies, but as comes its end, the crime, against good-taste and against modesty, is to perpetuate it artificially. It would seem that for Brasillach, in one’s third decade, one must renounce the enchantment of activism and make-do with the placebo of comfort, rather than turn into a grotesque caricature of one’s past. Age groups acquire something of the organic unity of the corporate state, neatly defined in their function, moral, political and aesthetic, and nostalgia becomes, I suppose, the link that ensures cohesion of the whole.
The next section takes the form of a short play, introduces us to Catherine’s married life and to her husband: theatre is a dangerous form to introduce in a novel, so different are its conventions from those of the novel – and despite some occasional lengthy indulgence on the part of the author, one has to admit he does a pretty decent job. The chapter opens with another reference to Pirandello, then the melodrama unfolds, elucidating Catherine’s life choices, settling her among Brasillach’s self-same gallery of female stooges.
Although, unlike his previous endeavours, this one novel is woven with avowals of the author’s fascination with both fascism and nazism, what most cripples his fiction (this one as well as the others) is probably his insistence on portraying transparent and empty female characters, while retaining for them a central place in the plot. “I am a woman, I am modest and reasonable” Catherine tells us, and let’s face it, it could just as well have been Florence (Comme le temps passe) or Isabelle (Le marchand d’oiseau), so many characters who make a virtue of passivity and submission. Of course this is nothing this is nothing if not consistent with the author’s unsavoury politics, but it is also a real difficulty for the reader: whereas the usual common-place of fascist narratives, like adventure, violence, tragedy and so on, make for entertaining reads (some would say they were picked in part for this very reason) one cannot help but think the novels loose much of their appeal by revolving around bland, absent, useless female characters.
Despite recurrent temptation to leave with Patrice, Catherine, in heroic passivity remain faithful to her husband, but following a misunderstanding this one leaves off and join the nationalist volunteers in the Spanish civil war. The next chapter is destined to familiarize us with this lackluster character, and Brasillach’s choice of media, a scrapbook collage of articles, book extracts, letters and songs, could have been very interesting: at a certain distance we follow the husband’s fight and learn the basics about the Spanish conflict. The introduction of phalangist songs here and there do add to the texture of the narration, but on the whole it seems all a bit gimmicky, or at least it would have gained from more room in the book.
To conclude his story, Brasillach deliver a introspective monologue of Catherine, in the train to Spain where she is to meet her estranged husband, wounded in the war. We learn little new about her apathy.
All in all, if you need to read one Brasillach it should be this one: In some regards, “Les sept couleurs” (1939) seems like a rewrite, at least partial, of “Comme le temps passe” (1937) from the same author. The introduction of the fascist themes which were largely absent from the original work (actually, the original carlist child become a French member of the International Brigades) could have seemed like a lazy update on the original work, were it not for the crucial fact that this present book is clearly a notch above the original one, and as far as I can tell also an improvement on Brasillach’s usual dreadful romances. Beyond the historical interest (Brasillach, after all, is chiefly remembered for his execution as a collaborator) the book also hold some literary value, which, as far as I am concerned, was rare in the two previous books I have read of his.
November 28, 2014
L'histoire des "Sept couleurs" est l'histoire d'un triangle éternel racontée en "sept couleurs" : récit, lettres, journal, réflexions, dialogue, documents, discours. Les couleurs sont dépeints pendant les années vingt et trente du vingtième siècle. Patrice et Catherine se rencontrent. Ils sont des amies-étoiles, mais Catherine comme toute femme pour Brasillach, cherche la sécurité et son Patrice et ne le trouve pas tandis que Patrice lui crains "de découvrir en elle de la légèreté". Il écrit à elle "J'aime la légèreté des choses, des actes, de la vie. Je n'aime pas la légèreté des êtres". C'est bien ca! Les gens de notre monde bourgeois sont des êtres légères! Je crois pourtant que Patrice se trempe au sujet de Catherine. Patrice cherche l'aventure (la légèreté de sa vie?) et il le trouve en Allemagne national socialiste. Le mari de Catherine, François, faussement en croyant que sa femme est partie pour l'Allemagne avec Patrice, abandonne sa vie bourgeoise et il s'engage avec les volontaires de la Guerre Civile d’Espagne du côté des rebelles fascistes. Voila un compte bien lyrique, bien romantique et en effet je croyais souvent lire un poème plutôt qu'un roman. Brasillach nous offre des passages très lyriques très mouvantes, mais ce n'est pas réaliste de tout. Nous ne croyons pas au moins superficiellement être dans la vie vécu. Les trois parties du triangle me donnaient l'impression d'être non pas des êtres qu'on pourrait rencontrer mais des symboles, des représentants des tendances des volontés. Je me demande si n'est pas typiquement fascistes de contempler les êtres de cette façon.
Nous sommes tous comme Catherine "livrés sans défense à toutes les images de la vie". Un roman non réussi, mais un très très beau récit, un poème romantique écrit en prose.
November 22, 2014
C’est un bel exercice de style quoique un peu artificiel et chaque genre est un peu trop poussé. L’histoire en elle-même est totalement nunuche et sans intérêt. On a même droit aux poncifs habituels et chacun des mecs s’engagent dans la légion pour noyer leur chagrin d’amour, l’un dans la légion étrangère l’autre dans la bandera. Le seul intérêt est que l’on voit bien l’attrait que présente pour l’auteur le régime fasciste italien ou espagnol et du national-socialisme allemand.
June 8, 2020
One reads this book for its poetic value, not for the narrative. In fact, both the story and the characters are the same in each of Brasillach's novels - the exception being Le Voleur d'Étincelles: Self, B's beloved sister and his adored brother-in-law, plus idealised children's images of B. and his sister.
The approach rests upon using seven different writing styles (narrative, war reporting, epistolary...) to tell the bittersweet story of a love triangle. Like in Comme le Temps Passe, the husband misreads an action by the wife and leaves her, mistakingly persuaded that the has chosen another man over him.
The charm of the work lies in the powers of infantility unique to Brasillach: one shall not risk spoiling the reading pleasure. Suffice it to say that the work abounds in midgets dedicated to the Devil by their parents, in middle aged longlife friends who intermittently share an errant wife, and transports the reader to havres of innocence in a world about to be consumed by flames. It was written in 1939, suffused with much love to young communists, and dearer love to young fascists, with much pity for a world and many cities about to be destroyed and a forlorn hope that of the sacrifice of so many young lifes a more compassionate society might be borne.
A word of cauttion: antifascists will not enjoy reading this book - it is for the open minded, and not suitable for the "easily offended".
The approach rests upon using seven different writing styles (narrative, war reporting, epistolary...) to tell the bittersweet story of a love triangle. Like in Comme le Temps Passe, the husband misreads an action by the wife and leaves her, mistakingly persuaded that the has chosen another man over him.
The charm of the work lies in the powers of infantility unique to Brasillach: one shall not risk spoiling the reading pleasure. Suffice it to say that the work abounds in midgets dedicated to the Devil by their parents, in middle aged longlife friends who intermittently share an errant wife, and transports the reader to havres of innocence in a world about to be consumed by flames. It was written in 1939, suffused with much love to young communists, and dearer love to young fascists, with much pity for a world and many cities about to be destroyed and a forlorn hope that of the sacrifice of so many young lifes a more compassionate society might be borne.
A word of cauttion: antifascists will not enjoy reading this book - it is for the open minded, and not suitable for the "easily offended".
January 18, 2024
Robert Brasillach, écrivain maudit de l'entre guerre, relate dans ce livre via 7 formes d'écritures différentes (roman épistolaire, journal intime, presse, roman...) l'amour entre Patrice et Catherine ainsi que l'influence des grandes philosophies politiques du siècle qui influence sur la jeunesse. C'est epic.
January 15, 2025
Histoire classique d’un triangle amoureux racontée de 7 façons différentes : discours, lettres, théâtre, documents etc. Très agréable à lire. Brasillach bascule de plus dans le fascisme avec un voyage à Nuremberg et le choix d’un des deux hommes du camp phalangiste dans la guerre d’Espagne.
February 23, 2025
4.75 étoiles
C’était magnifique le style du livre inattendu et aussi l’histoire était magnifique mais trop douloureuse mais je n’ai aimé personne dans ce livre mais c’est ca le truc parse qu’ils étaient trop réels mais a part ca c’était trop bien
C’était magnifique le style du livre inattendu et aussi l’histoire était magnifique mais trop douloureuse mais je n’ai aimé personne dans ce livre mais c’est ca le truc parse qu’ils étaient trop réels mais a part ca c’était trop bien
August 15, 2025
Thought provoking. The linguistic style was crazy switching between literary genres and Brasillac is a BIG fan of what the English would call run on sentences.
Interesting sorry of love and growing up in pre WWII Europe
Interesting sorry of love and growing up in pre WWII Europe
March 26, 2023
Dico solo che è il libro più bello che abbia mai letto.
March 18, 2015
(Actually would have given a 3,5/5)
This books is the second work that I am reading from this author, Robert Brasillach. It is an interesting novel which relates romance trio story but it is told in an original and risky manner: it is in divided into 7 different writing styles (Story, Letters, Journal, Reflections, Dialog, Compiled documents, Speech). The author chose two of his main characters adopting the fascist ideology during the 1930s and how those point of views change due to marking events throughout Italy, Germany and Spain. Some of the time his characters are passionate about fascism which could be for the reader a bit uncomfortable but this does not last for long during the book so there is not much to worry. A some moments I had found the letters cutting the great momentum that the "Story" part of the book had given to my reading but the story in overall is great.
This books is the second work that I am reading from this author, Robert Brasillach. It is an interesting novel which relates romance trio story but it is told in an original and risky manner: it is in divided into 7 different writing styles (Story, Letters, Journal, Reflections, Dialog, Compiled documents, Speech). The author chose two of his main characters adopting the fascist ideology during the 1930s and how those point of views change due to marking events throughout Italy, Germany and Spain. Some of the time his characters are passionate about fascism which could be for the reader a bit uncomfortable but this does not last for long during the book so there is not much to worry. A some moments I had found the letters cutting the great momentum that the "Story" part of the book had given to my reading but the story in overall is great.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews