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A Leopard-Skin Hat
by Anne Serre
This novella quietly sneaks up on you. A Leopard-Skin Hat isn’t dramatic in the usual sense, it’s quiet, intimate, and deeply reflective. It traces a lifelong connection between two people: the Narrator and Fanny. The Narrator steps back to focus on Fanny, a woman full of contradictions: brilliant, chaotic, fragile.
Fanny’s mental illness isn’t analyzed so much as observed. We see her through fragments, joyful moments, erratic decisions, long silences. The narrator doesn’t try to save her. He can’t. He knows it. But he acts as a kind of anchor, a steady observer in her turbulent sea.
What struck me most was the book’s meditation on how well we can truly know someone. Even those we love remain partially hidden. That emotional distance doesn’t lessen the bond, it just complicates it.
The prose is poetic, and the structure reflects memory more than narrative. We get glimpses rather than a full picture, making us feel like we’re assembling someone else’s mosaic of memory.
There’s a quiet melancholy in the way it explores the limits of love, the slow drift of time, and the impossibility of truly holding on to another person. Fanny always feels just slightly out of reach.
Still, there’s beauty in the care, the loyalty, and the small moments of connection. He stays, not because he can fix her, but because she matters. And a tone that suggests this book is as much a tribute to the author’s late sister as it is a work of fiction. It feels personal, as if we’re being allowed to listen in on a private eulogy.
If you’ve ever loved someone you couldn’t fully understand, this book will stay with you. It’s short, but it lingers.
Fanny’s mental illness isn’t analyzed so much as observed. We see her through fragments, joyful moments, erratic decisions, long silences. The narrator doesn’t try to save her. He can’t. He knows it. But he acts as a kind of anchor, a steady observer in her turbulent sea.
What struck me most was the book’s meditation on how well we can truly know someone. Even those we love remain partially hidden. That emotional distance doesn’t lessen the bond, it just complicates it.
The prose is poetic, and the structure reflects memory more than narrative. We get glimpses rather than a full picture, making us feel like we’re assembling someone else’s mosaic of memory.
There’s a quiet melancholy in the way it explores the limits of love, the slow drift of time, and the impossibility of truly holding on to another person. Fanny always feels just slightly out of reach.
Still, there’s beauty in the care, the loyalty, and the small moments of connection. He stays, not because he can fix her, but because she matters. And a tone that suggests this book is as much a tribute to the author’s late sister as it is a work of fiction. It feels personal, as if we’re being allowed to listen in on a private eulogy.
If you’ve ever loved someone you couldn’t fully understand, this book will stay with you. It’s short, but it lingers.