Harris is a novelist and food writer (what a wonderful career combination!) who draws on her French mother’s heritage for both subjects. This book, which has the dreamy vague quality of literary writers like Joyce Carol Oates and Henry James (neither of whom are big favorites of mine), is worth wading through the vagueness. By the time I’d gotten past the first 100 pages, I was captured by the plot and the complex characters, not to mention how it weaves childhood in Nazi-occupied France with the present day.
The narrator returns to her the village where she lived until 1942. Her memories and understanding of what was happening then were limited by the fact she was only nine years old. Now, in her sixties, she comes to grips with a secret she holds, long memories in the country town, and a truly dysfunction family.
The narrator returns to her the village where she lived until 1942. Her memories and understanding of what was happening then were limited by the fact she was only nine years old. Now, in her sixties, she comes to grips with a secret she holds, long memories in the country town, and a truly dysfunction family.
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