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A deeply affecting memoir of the death of the author’s husband and her lasting grief. The format is especially memorable. She starts by recounting the many small decisions and actions that piled one on the other to lead to her husband being in a specific place at a specific time, on a ferociously powerful motorcycle not his own, that led to his death in a traffic accident at a busy intersection in the heart of Lyon. It sounds a dirge: If only he had� If only he hadn’t� If only she had� etc. Such small things, individually. Then she tells the story of their last few days, creating a taut countdown-like effect. I believe I’ll be thinking about this one for a while. There’s nothing more forlorn than the useless wail of “if only.�

I will also mention that the book won France’s Prix Goncourt and this is the author’s first translated into English (she’s written several). It’s also called a novel, though it describes in detail the events leading up to the death, the research she did into many aspects involved, including having spoken (in some cases, at years� remove) to some of the people involved. So, a novel? Certainly a deeply autobiographical one.