Marie NDiaye was born in Pithiviers, France, in 1967; spent her childhood with her French mother (her father was Senegalese); and studied linguistics at the Sorbonne. She started writing when she was twelve or thirteen years old and was only eighteen when her first work was published. In 2001 she was awarded the prestigious Prix Femina literary prize for her novel Rosie Carpe, and in 2009, she won the Prix Goncourt for Three Strong Women.
"– Quant à Flaubert ? / – Un tâcheron surfait. / – Mais Zola… / – Basse-contre d’opérette. / – Ne me dis pas que Proust… / – Un narcotique ! / – Et Joyce ? / – Ce pédant ? Illisible ! / – Mais, alors, la littérature ? / – Elle commence ! (Avec moi)"
"[Judith] m’annonça avec, comme elle parlait, peut-être un léger, très léger amusement, que ma voisine, venait de leur téléphoner pour leur apprendre que le cousin Georges qui avait voulu en mon absence peut-être se préparer quelque boisson chaude, réchauffer, peut-être, le reste du diner, s’étant approché trop près du bruleur, avait laissé le feu prendre a sa cravate et avait, en quelques minutes, l’inconscient, brûlé vif, manquant incendier l’immeuble tout entier, endommageant gravement mes draps et mon matelas sur lequel le maladroit, voulant étouffer les flammes, s’était inutilement jeté"
Written in one long, breathless, parentheses- and tangent-filled sentence, this short novel was a joy, mainly because it echoed the chaos of the thought patterns that go on inside my head. Ultimately, was the vast majority of what the narrator said necessary or relevant? No, but that didn't matter. It was great to read and NDiaye is just truly a genius. This book was brilliantly mad.