I wonder what
Jean-Sol Partre thought of this novel.
The title is perfect.
The book is so weightless it barely exists. You sometimes get this odd feeling
that any second your eyes will turn into a couple of tiny fluffy birds and fly
away into eternity.
Reading Boris Vian’s
novel from 1947 is like eating froth and drinking foam. However, it does create
its own world. A world so irrelevant it could only be done in France after the
Second World War. The kind of world that includes cute little mice living in
bathrooms, clouds coming down at your request, shattered glass growing back.
And, of course, crowds of people going crazy about Jean-Sol Partre (silly, but
it works).
Surreal, pointlessly
irresistible, something a humourless and over-idealistic Luis Buñuel could turn
into a film.
