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Graphic: Body horror, Child abuse, Chronic illness, Confinement, Death, Domestic abuse, Gore, Mental illness, Panic attacks/disorders, Physical abuse, Self harm, Sexual assault, Suicidal thoughts, Torture, Violence, Blood, Suicide attempt, Death of parent, Murder, Schizophrenia/Psychosis , Injury/Injury detail, Pandemic/Epidemic
Moderate: Alcoholism, Genocide, Homophobia, Infidelity, Racial slurs, Racism, Sexual violence, Slavery, Torture, Police brutality, Medical content, Kidnapping, Car accident, Colonisation
While the story is all connected, chapters feel like short stories told from different characters perspectives. So often one chapter will reveal something big, only for the next chapter to take 150 pages for that character to realize the same thing. At times it just left me begging the story to keep moving, especially in the first half. I didn't actually realize the importance of things until the story came together. But, despite the ending being so good I can't get past how frustrating parts of it felt.
It's frustrating because this book is incredible, and yet I often could not wait until it was over. My mind is torn in two directions on this novel and that's a weird feeling.
And also, that's that.
Enríquez ne bronche pas, ne fléchit jamais. C'est un récit dur, souffrant: les traumas, la maladie et la douleur chronique, l'horreur inéluctable sous-jacente aux abus des inégalités sociales. À aucun moment la plume ne se soumet à une quelconque pudeur, et c'est là sa plus grande force, ce qui accroche l'attention (comme des griffes) et ne lâche jamais le morceau.
La construction des personnages est magistrale. La trame narrative est une toile complexe, ficelée avec une précision chirurgicale; aucun détail n'est laissé pour compte. Une relecture s'impose et sera un cadeau.