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This is my third Ndiaye book; it won't be my last, although two in a row was intense. It is an unpleasant book; the narrator has no sympathizers, and presents herself in the most unflattering light unapologetically; the grotesque holds the field at all times, but grotesque within the quotidian, grotesque in the normal course of things. Ndiaye is clearly writing literary fiction, but this is a horror story as surely as Self Portrait in Green and That Time of Year are. The dream-logic at work in her fiction is oppressive and cruel. Through the midway point of the book I found myself only capable of reading short stretches at a time. And then I surrendered, even as the action of the plot grew more and more bizarre; I reached the point of acceptance. I am not sure what Ndiaye "means"; often I feel, reading, that there much be some allegory I'm missing (as in the character of Souhar, the narrator's granddaughter, whose name said narrator despises without explanation). But by the end of this book my main reaction was one of immersion, accepting the story on its terms as one does with a horror movie that's removed all my defenses. High recommendation, if you can stand feeling uneasy the entire time.