"The Paris Wife"

[fiefoe]

If  I never picked up a novel named '* Wife' again, it wouldn't be too soon. There's nothing wrong with Paula Mclain's prose; it's entirely the subject matter that puts me off. It's not that I didn't have any inkling going into this, but the vehemence of my reaction still surprised me.  怒其不争而完全没有哀其不幸。

Yes, this is not a detective story:

• There was no back home anymore, not in the essential way, and that was part of Paris, too. Why we couldn’t stop drinking or talking
  or kissing the wrong people no matter what it ruined.
• I trusted his feeling about them and trusted the rhythm of every day.
• Interesting people were everywhere just then. The cafés of Montparnasse breathed them in and out.
• To marry was to say you believed in the future and in the past, too—that history and tradition and hope could stay knit together to hold you up.

The beginning:

• It starts in my fingers, warm and loose, and moves along my nerves, rounding through me...—and I’ve missed the way it comes with its own perfect glove of fog, settling snugly and beautifully over my brain.
• "Make believe you are glad when you’re sorry. Sunshine will follow the rain."
• “I was ten to her eighteen. Let’s just say I was happy to grow up alongside her. With a nice view of the scenery.” “You had a crush, in other words.” “No, those are the right words,” he said, then looked away.
• “You’re a good clear sort.”
• “I love it,” I said.
  “Though it’s a little dangerous, isn’t it?” He smiled and looked at me appreciatively. “A little, yes.” And then he ate a dozen himself, one after the other.
• ... our cots were set up on the floor of this building, right? It was a silkworm factory. They were up over our heads, in the eaves, chewing away in racks full of mulberry leaves.
  That’s the only thing you could hear.
• “I like your spine. Did I tell you that?” “You did.” “I like it more than that, then,” he said.
• Most appealing of all was his impression of me as exceptional.