![]() ![]() The point of F is not its humour (though Kehlmann, like Robbe-Grillet, can be very funny indeed), but its generosity. There are many such moments, they are all as beautifully judged as this one, and they are not the point. The white of the naked canvas shone through in several places, and even the ship was a mere assemblage of lines and dots. ![]() There were just some tiny bright patches of colour above the main deck. ![]() There were no more people any more, no more little flags, no anchor, no bent watch. The spirit of Alain Robbe-Grillet, the movement’s greatest exponent, illuminates the scene in which Arthur takes his granddaughter to an art museum to study a picture by her missing uncle: “She stepped even closer, and immediately everything dissolved. If Kehlmann played this intertextual game to the hilt – if F itself were as unforgiving as Arthur’s novel – then we would be looking at a less important book, as well as a less enjoyable one: some Johnny-come-lately contribution to the French nouvelle vague. ![]()
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