#Theodore was made to be a tragic character- he was never meant to have a happy ending- and by god is that happening

[saltyslack-toast]

#Knock The Book 2: The Devil All the Time

WELL, I MADE IT TO THE 2nd BOOK REVIEW OF MINE, MEANS THAT I’M A PASSIONATE AND PERSISTENT BITCH, PERIODT. No actually I’m just bored and got really nothing to do, so here I am making judgmental, invalid and uncritical book review just to ease my guilt for doing nothing at home (just so my mom see me working through my laptop).

Okay The Devil All the Time is actually my first English book. The story of how I got this book as a matter of fact is quite irritating and funny at the same time. My uni friend, she saw this book in a modest book bazaar near her hometown. She was reading the title and the word ‘devil’ just remind her of me, she bought it and just gave it straight to me…... I’m sad but like thankful???

It’s a secondhand and hardcover book but I don’t really mind, considering the fact that the quality is still very nice though, except the worn spots stained all over the cover that make the book looks very old. My friend bought this only for RP 25.000, yes dude you’re not misread this shit, it was THAT CHEAP (whoever sell and own this book before me, I really appreciate it). Although if you want to buy the new one, you can get this book for USD 26.95 which converted in rupiah would be RP 407.500, yeah its cost pretty fancy for broke students like us and I don’t know if the book’s supposed to be available in your local bookstore but I think you can find it in worldwide shipping online store like amazon or any other shop perhaps. The book’s cover illustrate a dying white mutt hanging on the ‘log’ and bunch of cross everywhere, the cover is actually make sense when you read the book. It published in 2011 by doubleday in United States of America. The Author is Donald Ray Pollock, and you can find the sum information about his background written on the cover, but based form the book’s cover you can also check his website in donaldraypollock.com but when I checked, I’m not sure if it’s really his website since it just like pest control website (LMAOO I HAD NO IDEA FR). Anyway,

Let’s go breaking down the book!

“… Too much religion could be as bad as too little, maybe even worse, but moderation was just not in her husband’s nature”

The whole story in this book, basically give you portraits regarding the life of lunatics in the time after WWII. Nope, there is no sums up about the events happened in that moment so chill y’all non-historical enthusiast bitches. This book gonna give you a bizarre experience reading it, the first 10 pages of this book was already psychedelic, I assure that shit. Have you watched Games of Thrones series on HBO? It’s chilling right how Ned Stark, the protagonist of the main series died in the first season???? EXACTLY that was the vibes u got after reading the first chapter and get crazier every time u read forward. By the way, this book embodied 7 chapters and 55 sub-chapters, the chapter in odd and even numbers has 2 different main focuses on each characteristic exist, here I sum it up for you:

On the odd numbers chapters (1, 3, and so on), the central story of these chapters is circling among the family of Willard Russel, his Mom Emma and Uncle Earskell and also those 2 insane peeps Roy Laferty and Theodore. Willard Russel used to be a navy army and a bit skeptical dealing with religion issues just like his uncle, but his mom has always been a devoted worshiper. Willard married to the beautiful and kind-hearted women named Charlotte and they was given a son named Arvin Eugene Russel, everything was normal until Charlotte got sick and Willard gone crazy praying to god for his wife’s recovery and poor little Arvin has to suffer the predicament by his own self. Their stories always give me religious-fanaticism-gloomy vibes (is that even make sense??). Don’t even get me started with the life stories of the two brutes-ass man, Roy Laferty and Theodore they were used to be ‘preacher’ in Emma and young Willard’s Church. Nothing I could say further because it’s gonna be a major spoiler for you, but their stories really giving you insights of how frustration and fanaticism allow people to do something beyond their common sense.

“You remember what I told you the other day?” He asked Arvin

“About the boys on the bus?,”

“Well, that’s what I meant, you just got to pick the right time”

On the even numbers chapters (2, 4, and so on), the main tales is pertaining on the journey of Handerson couple, Carl and Sandy. They were like the Bonnie and Clyde but sad and exploitative version in this book. Carl is a ‘photographer’ and sandy working as a waitress in a café called Wooden Spoon (Which the place where Charlotte used to work as a waitress and the place she met Willard for the first time as well). During summertime they got this ‘ritual’ ((but not in a religious way)) where they drive to different states and give a ride to the hitchhikers found on the way, then Carl forcefully offer them to fuck Sandy for free (HIS OWN WIFE) while he took pictures of them fucking and after that Carl kill them and take all the money those hitchhikers got in their pocket (dude I can’t even judge anything). But to be honest, I’m not a fan of these two characters because they were all so ANNOYING to death. And then there is Bodecker Lee who’s a police and also Sandy’s brother, ok that’s it, I’m not gonna give you any spoilers.

“… He went down the street and sat on a bench in a park the rest of the day thinking about killing himself instead. Something broke in him that day. For the first time he could see that his whole life added up to absolutely nothing…”

You might be confused since there are quite a lot of keen characters in this book but there’s a point where all these bitches are relating to each other, so chill y’all impatient gripe-ass. Overall, the flow of the story is undoubtedly interesting for you to keep going throughout the whole story, because every phase gonna make you wondering about next things happened to them. But, the transitions among every chapters is quite uncomfortable for me, because sometimes when the story has reached its climax there is no resolutions coming to solve the problem immediately, and you’re faced to read the new chapter with a whole different setting and characters so it’s kind of ruining the vibes and emotions the book has made me, but again this just my personal preference so please don’t judge (while everything I did right now is judging inaccurately).

“He realized that he would never preach again, but that was all right. He’d never been much good at it anyway. Most people just wanted to hear the cripple play”

However, what I like the most from this book is the deepening of every character exists is so fascinating, even for just the side or supporting character (for god sake I’m sorry idk what to called a character that isn’t the main one), for example a bus driver in Meade, Ohio which Willard talked to when he was on the way home after the war ended, the narration wrapped and portraits the driver’s life perfectly without make us bored, and there’s still a bunch of interesting narration about the life of the side characters in this book that also as odds and intriguing as the main character’s background (jesus, everything happened and everyone in this book is just so strange and peculiar I swear to god). The story finished in a most tragic-beautiful but still gloomy way, even though it’s quite predictable but still a very good closing for me personally. To be noted, on the way to the end of the story, there will be emerge another asshole priest character named Preston Teagardin, ready to shake you up until you finish the book. But still, let’s said this particular ‘last minute character’ has proving that the author is paying so much attention of how the story ended isn’t leaving any 'rush-made' impression (this shit might confused you I’m sorry my English hasn’t got any better *sorry hand sign* *sorry hand sign* *sorry hand sign*). # hashtag attention to the detail bro.

Holy crap, that’s the first time I’m almost able to cut all the bullshit I intend to bring it up here.

This book is one of my top 5 books that you have to read once in a life time (although I haven’t discover the other four, omg im sorry y’all). Little information for you that the first time I read this book (yeah I read it for quite few times) is when the campaign of presidential election era, which in Indonesia the religious are pretty sentimental issues, some of the people in my country suddenly became those annoying fanatical preachers, man I can’t stand it. And this book is just precisely relating to that condition and I get to know at least a glance of what the heck odds things happened in their minds, since you know fanaticism and stupidity doesn’t hit only on particular group of religions, race, gender or anything, we can all be stupid and brainless (especially me because I basically have no brain). There probably quite many scenes that is pretty disturbing to read (I don’t know if people could be triggered by it???? But I guess so) so yeah a bit warning. Overall, I genuinely recommend this book for you guys because every element in this book is almost perfect, the storylines, bold characters, and the RARE AND STRANGE AND SENSITIVE topic promote by the author in this novel is totally a BOOM. Don’t worry reading this book not going to give you those agnostic and atheist vibes HAHA chill I still consider myself a devoted Muslim tho (hashtag masyaallah ukthi).

By the way before I wrapped it up, I hear that this book will be made into a netflix film. WELL, of course I’m excited because the casts are so amazing, and I love Netflix adaptation and I enjoy watch movies as much as I read books (again, unnecessary information of mine *sorry hand sign*). I found that the release date is postponed from the origin plan in 15th May (which is three days ago from I posted this on my page) due to I don’t know perhaps corona because that bitch has ruined everyone in the world’s schedule, but for real I can’t find the exact information regarding to the updated release date, so while you wait the film to launch, why don’t you just go read the book first? I assure you this one not gonna give you any disappointment.

I think that would be it for this 2nd rubbish book review of mine. Although, I think I made a little progressive from the first one (OR MAYBE NOT???? I’M SORRY Y’ALL) but of course there’s still much deficiency I served. Still, I hope my writing get better in the process of making this whole novel of reviewing book inaccurately. To be honest, I wrote this shit not for getting any engagements or audience but for my own satisfied HAHA. So yeah I’m literally comfortable writing for nothing. But bitch guess what I’m just gonna keep going, until I could professionally writing and make it for a living? Well, amen for that.

Xiao, See you in Advance!

#book #book quotes #bookaholic #booknerd #book review #the devil all the time #donald ray pollock #religion #review #novel #thriller #psychological #tom holland #robert pattinson #bill skasgård #sebastian stan

[celerity910]

jamthatcallmeroberto replied to your post: New sp is sad. Gonna talk about the end. I still...

… what?? I really don’t get this Butters argument, he was barely in the latest episode! Lets be real, Carman does whatever he wants, he is cunning and manipulative. When everything was taken from him, he turned to Heidi, but now that he has everything back he doesn’t need her anymore. It is for the better that they broke up, that relationship turned into something really toxic for Heidi. Butters IS to blame for Cartman thinking that his relationship was abusive, but he is NOT to blame for…

“… the lack of interest and effort that Cartman has in his relationship… idk, please don’t try to demonize Butters for that, all the boys have done something “bad” and Cartman is the worst of them all “

Warning that this is a wall of text and spoilers for 21e1.

I don’t think you understand what I meant. Leopold is not to blame for one or the other, but to both. Because Cartman thought that Heidi was abusing and manipulating him, he stopped loving her as much and eventually at all. Compare the beginning of Not Funny (where he’s mad at Butters for seemingly trying to steal Heidi) to the beginning of White People Renovating Houses (where he asks his friends to stay so he doesn’t have to face her alone), and you’ll see what I mean. In fact, the very fact that Eric Theodore Cartman, one of the greediest people in all of fiction, was willing to give up everything just because he needed Heidi to be with him says a lot compared to what ended up happening. 

It’s also a bit of a betrayal thing? Heiman is my OTP, yeah, but I really did like Butters back in the day. He was adorable and tragic, and when he was hurt I felt bad for him because he was nicer than his peers. When he lost his first love, he reasoned that there was a beautiful sadness in him! There was a special charm of innocence surrounding him, even in the worst of times. But he isn’t any better than the other boys anymore and actually thought that making Cartman his old self was a good idea. Last season, Leopold was the worst of them all, not Eric. Especially when he became a misogynist just because his girlfriend Charlotte broke up with him just to support her former friends.

There’s also the fact that he specifically seemed to have it out for Heidi; he was the one who pinged Heidi on Twitter the picture of her mother which made her quit social media, he was the one who blamed the girls for ruining the Danish program idea Heidi had, and he was the one who managed to convince Cartman that Heidi didn’t really love him. He also called her bitchy right to Eric’s face, which proves to me that Leopold is specifically targeting Heidi as a punching bag for no real reason. And we have no proof that he’s any better than before.

Butters was, and still is, better than this. This is why I hate him so now; breaking my OTP up is one thing, but actually making my favorite character’s life hell and betraying my faith in him in addition to breaking up my OTP is another. I don’t hate his fans, and I still enjoy classic Butters from back before this all started. If you still like Butters nowadays, great! But unless he realizes the implications of what he did, or unless he does something else to repent for what he did to Heidi, then he can cry me a river if he dares whine if Cartman mistreats him. That last sentence hurts to write; I don’t want to hate Butters. I never wanted to, but I just do. 

I won’t challenge you on Cartman’s electronics playing a role in causing a rift, I think that’s what was supposed to have soured the relationship. But Butters’ role in this cannot be understated. It often is, probably because the idea of Butters being a piece of shit now is not sensible to so many people, or because they never liked Heiman and wanted to believe Eric could magically drop all care for her (either just for ship reasons or because they want to have Cartman do the same four things over and over again). Just like with his stuffed animals, his electronics prevent him from being able to understand others (why should he if he has stuff that respects him regardless of what he does or says) and also prevent him from having to acknowledge his feelings with people who can discuss with him and open him to new ideas.

Tl;dr - No he did, and now he’s just another jerk in a sea of jerks (until further notice). Everything I liked about him is gone and I have no respect for him anymore.

This isn’t meant to ping you, by the way, so if it does I’m sorry.

#jamthatcallmeroberto #I would have included a bit where I said all of his friends are toxic influences and how ironic that is but kenny did nothing wrong #stan-kyle-token-butters-clyde-jimmy? no they actually owe him for a bunch of stuff and this is how they treat him when he isn't an asshole #and butters also owes heidi so much that he couldn't possibly repay her

[victoriagloverstuff]

Edmund White: Reading is a Passport to the World

When I was a little child, my sister, who was nearly four years older, was astonished that I couldn’t read. We were in my mother’s old Ford, driving around the main square of Hyde Park, and my sister pointed to a sign and said, “You honestly can’t read that?”

“No,” I said sullenly. “What does it say?”

“Graeter’s,” she announced triumphantly, the name of Cincinnati’s premier ice cream maker. “Can’t you see that? What does it say to you?” She wasn’t being mean; she was genuinely puzzled. Reading was a magical portal—once you passed through it, you couldn’t even imagine going back.

I must have been four. Two years later I could read, or at least “sound out” syllables (that was the method then). When I realized that I could interpret these hieroglyphics, I felt so free, as if a whole new world had been opened to me. Now I could herar a chorus of voices, even those coming from other centuries and cultures. I was no longer bound to the squalid here and now, to my mother’s web-spinning of agreeable fantasies or my father’s sudden eruptions of rage, to the sweating summers of that age before air conditioning.

I remember toddling into my mother’s room, where she was taking a perfumed bubble bath in the late afternoon. I announced (or maybe thought), “I’m free. I can read.”

Could I really have had such an improbable thought at age six? Or have I just told myself that that thought occurred to me then? And yet I remember my mother’s sweetness, the good smell, the afternoon sunlight, and my very real feeling of joyful liberation. And, quite concretely, reading has always struck me as a passport to the world, one in which characters are more real than actual people, where values are more intense than in the dim light of reality, where characters fly up into destinies rather than paddle around in ambiguity.

I felt like a blind person who’d just regained his sight. I was no longer a Cincinnatian but rather an earthling. If things were clearly written in English, there was no text that was off-limits. I never read the standard children’s classics. No Wind in the Willows. Only recently did I get around to Treasure Island.

In my twenties and thirties no book was too ambitious for me; I worked my way through Theodor Adorno and Heinrich von Kleist, Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault, though I was drunk most of the time and often had to hold one eye shut. I suppose I was hanging out with a pretty brainy crowd back then, and I felt I had to keep up. I doubt I retained much, though in my thirties and forties I reviewed several books by Barthes and Foucault.

I was so driven back then, it never would have occurred to me to reread a book! My goal was to have read everything, or at least the major works that appealed to me, that seemed essential. Perhaps because I’d never done any graduate work, I felt inferior. I’d never read The Faerie Queene. Worse, I’d been a writer for eight years for Time-Life Books, the ultimate home of the middle-brow. Although I invariably said defensively, “I’m not an intellectual,” I wanted to be one—or at least to be able to refuse demurely that title. Sometimes I took comfort in the idea I was an artist, not an intellectual. I even resorted to the ridiculously snobbish notion I was a “gentleman amateur” and not an intellectual. But I’ve always wanted to have the choice to join any club, especially one that might reject me. For instance, I made a major effort to join the Century Club, for which one had to be sponsored by 11 or 12 current members. Two years after I was accepted, I resigned. Too many lawyers.

Now I do reread at least two books every year—Anna Karenina and Henry Green’s Nothing. Although these two novels are so different one from the other, they both reward closer scrutiny, so much so they scarcely resemble the same book one remembers having read the year before. People complain about the Kitty and Lvov parts of Anna Karenina, but that’s a frivolous charge. Their love stands in dramatic contrast to Anna’s and Vronsky’s passion and is the necessary counterweight to that tragic tale. In the same way, some readers treat Nothing the way they regard all comedy—as lightweight. Actually it is a profound study of the generations and social classes—and unexpectedly it sides with the older, richer people.

“Perhaps some prose is enough like a taut play script that it profits from being read aloud, but almost always a live reading of prose is an exercise in vanity.”

The other book I’ve reread five times in my life is Proust’s. When I was a teenager I read it as the bible of snobbism; it gave me a whole vocabulary to describe this vice that Proust calls “narrow but deep.” Now I read it as the definitive condemnation of snobbism.

For my memoir, I’ve reread a few favorites by Colette, Nabokov, and Tolstoy and read for the first time novels by Guyotat, Giono, and Malaparte. Do we prefer to revisit books we love or to explore the unknown? Are we happier to find new things in the old or to detect familiar themes and strategies in the utterly new and startling? The brilliant novelist of modern manners Alison Lurie once explained to me why she was more popular in England than in America. “For the English I’m writing about an unfamiliar subject [American academic and artistic life] in a familiar style of social satire, whereas for Americans I’m writing in an unusual style about familiar subjects.” Has she touched on an explanation of why we like certain books and not others?

*

Joe Brainard reportedly said on his deathbed, “The best thing about dying is that you never have to go to another poetry reading.” How many times I’ve had to sit through poetry readings in a stuffy room with subaqueous light at the end of a long day and fight against falling asleep! The mind loves a narrative, and in my half sleep my poor brain has spun cartoons made up of chance words, my embarrassment, trace memories (what Freudians call dismissively “the daily residue”), and my shipwrecked will to wake up, or at least not snore.

Everyone says poetry is an oral art, and perhaps some of it is meant to be read out loud. Good actors can make us understand passages in Shakespeare that use obsolete language, though I hate it when pedants hope to indicate the line break or the caesura. I could never make sense of The Tempest until I saw it onstage. On the page I could never keep track of all the characters. Charles Lamb argued in an essay that reading Shakespeare is preferable to seeing him produced, and maybe hammy acting and garish sets and thundering exits and entrances do topple certain of Shakespeare’s cloud castles, but great performances can dial into sharp focus even the vaguest verse.

But does modern poetry gain from being recited out loud? James Merrill was a smooth, trained reader and the smile in his voice could give the reader permission to laugh at his improbable mixture of metaphysics and gossip. His light social tone so often gives way to the sublime that a reader less civilized than he scarcely knows what is funny and what is serious (sometimes both at once, since he thought wisdom was expressed in puns and that the language itself is the collective unconscious).

Percussive poetry like Pound’s translation of the Anglo-Saxon The Seafarer as read by the author himself to the beat of drums can be riveting; a casual scanning of the page would never render the granitic, prehistoric force of this masterpiece. In his recitation (now on YouTube) Pound rolls his r’s, thuds the final d’s, and maintains a shaman’s monotone. Maybe Paul Verlaine’s musical verse (or John Keats’s) is improved by being read out loud, but most 20th- or 21st-century verse is too abstract or too dense to be understood on a single hearing. The mise-en-page, the line breaks, the Latinate or Anglo-Saxon origins of the words, as in tomb and grave (“The tomb in Palestine / Is not the porch of spirits lingering. / It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay”)—these are all elements that surrender themselves only to close reading.

With prose the problem is the speed. Everyone reads at a different pace, and some texts are not interesting or intricate enough to be dosed out at conversational speed. We get it; we want to scan it. Perhaps some prose is enough like a taut play script that it profits from being read aloud, but almost always a live reading of prose is an exercise in vanity. It may be valuable for the fiction writer to gauge the response of his audience, to listen for contradictions or unintended echoes, to detect where people’s attention wanders. But do these practical benefits for the writer outweigh the torture undergone by the public?

Silent, solitary reading (if the book is good) is the best conversation, with all the uhs and ahs edited out, the dead metaphors buried, the dialogue sharpened, the descriptions vivid, the suspense rising, the characters hovering between the unique and the representative. In the great Italian and French guides to good conversation during the Renaissance and 17th century, conversation must avoid pedantry and cruelty and seek above all to please and to entertain. Finally it must be natural; affectation is the worst sin, far worse than flattery, which may even be desirable. In her definitive study The Age of Conversation, Benedetta Craveri (granddaughter to the philosopher Benedetto Croce) argues that good conversation should not make anyone feel inferior or ill at ease but rather the object of a total consideration. And Simone Weil, the French religious philosopher, thought paying attention was a form of prayer.

The novelist or essayist should never mystify for no good reason. We should know why the marquise goes out at five o’clock (if it’s relevant). In an essay we should not be thrown off by academese. An idea may be difficult, but not its expression, as I learned from my beloved Marilyn; the words should be as lucid as possible. The assumption should be that the reader is intelligent but not necessarily informed.

__________________________________

Good read found on the Lithub

[topmixtrends]

BEFORE HER 2016 novel Chanson douce won the prestigious Prix Goncourt, Leïla Slimani had already made a splash with her 2014 debut Dans le jardin de l’ogre, about a young mother caught between her bourgeois marriage and her sex addiction. These two novels, published by the prestigious press Gallimard, have earned Slimani a reputation as one of France’s brightest young literary talents, a writer whose work attends to the plight of young women struggling to conform to the competing demands of modern urban life. Slimani’s astute sociological gaze was refined through her work as a journalist covering her native Morocco, writing primarily for the online newspaper Jeune Afrique; three volumes of her journalism have been published in Paris in the last year. Recently, she was selected by President Macron to serve as his personal representative to promote French in the Francophone world. Chanson douce, meanwhile, is slated to appear in translation in over 35 languages, and has just been released in the United States as The Perfect Nanny.

The Perfect Nanny is inspired by a notorious 2012 murder case, in which Lucia and Leo Krim, only six and two years old, were stabbed to death in a Manhattan apartment by their nanny, Yoselyn Ortega, who then attempted, unsuccessfully, to take her own life. The question at the heart of the novel is one that journalists reporting on that crime also sought to answer: what could possibly motivate a caregiver to kill the children in her charge? After opening with a scene of the murders, the novel flashes back in time, to the moment when Myriam and Paul Massé hire Louise to watch their children, Mila and Adam, and then charts their path back to the present. A wonder-nanny, Louise cooks like a first-rate chef and brings order and calm to the couple’s chaotic work lives, but her troubled past is glimpsed in snatches, suggesting a basis — if not a motive — for the crime she will commit.

Though we know how the story ends, the novel remains primarily focused on the mundane daily rhythms that structure the Massé household. Louise arrives early and leaves late. She transports the children to school and to various outings, hosts their birthday parties, and regales them with fanciful stories and games. “You’re part of the family,” Myriam tells Louise as she mounts her framed photo on a bookshelf in the living room. Within their family unit, Louise occupies the role not of a replacement mother but of a third child whose presence, repeatedly described by Paul as “doll-like,” becomes a fixture in their home.

Most of the novel takes place within the small Massé apartment in the gentrified 10th arrondissement of Paris, a confined space that is exceedingly quotidian but never boring. Paul and Myriam aspire to a conventional upper-middle-class life, where she can escape from the claustrophobia of full-time parenting while he guiltily embraces urban amenities, rejecting the austerity of his own childhood. They celebrate their career successes — Paul is a music producer, Myriam a trial attorney — and their fancy dinner parties, replete with cooking by Louise, make them the envy of their social circle. Their main worry is keeping Louise happy at work: without someone to take care of their kids, the rest of their carefully curated lives wouldn’t be possible. The novel’s insistence on their professional success, and the general sense of plenitude in their work-life balance, augur all the more sharply the downfall that awaits them.

As a fiction writer, Slimani seems most at home in the present tense. Her first novel was told almost exclusively in clipped sentences that dramatized the urgency of the protagonist Adele’s physical needs and gnawing inner voice. In The Perfect Nanny, a similar prose style evokes the repetitive cycle of daily existence. There is something disquieting in Slimani’s present tense, which seems always about to rupture the veneer of equanimity. Occasionally the narrative breaks away from the everyday, splicing in chapters that transport us to scenes from Louise’s past, to her eventual trial, or to a hypothetical future envisioned by one of the characters. Anxious to see her children after a busy week, Myriam imagines that tonight:

she would devote herself entirely to them. Together, they would slip into the big bed. She would tickle them and kiss them, she would squeeze them against her until they were dizzy. Until they struggled.

It’s when the novel ventures out of its comfort zone of the present that it inclines too strongly toward such melodramatic flourishes that forebode a tragic ending.

Although Slimani has said that her work “never meant to describe any true or real event,” The Perfect Nanny tracks the well-known Krim case from New York, even while relocating the story to Paris. Mila and Adam are the same ages as the Krim children were at their deaths and are similarly discovered by their mother in the bathtub, with a kitchen knife in the hands of the nanny. Descriptions of her “scream from deep within” echo the initial news reports of the case. Kevin Krim, the children’s father, was met at JFK airport by policemen to break the news of the murder, just as, in the novel’s closing pages, Lieutenant Verdier awaits Paul Massé at the Eurostar section of the Gare du Nord.

References to Louise’s increasingly unhealthy physical appearance, troubles with her landlord, and history of mental illness all echo news coverage of the Krims’ nanny. One article from The Daily Beast, for instance, describes how Ortega had “continued hearing voices, male and female, speaking in Spanish but still unintelligible to her save for when they urged her to hurt others.” Likewise, in the novel, a voice speaks to Louise:

Someone has to die. Someone has to die for us to be happy. Morbid refrains echo inside Louise’s head when she walks. Phrases that she didn’t invent — and whose meaning she is not sure she fully grasps — fill her mind.

There’s nothing new about a novelist drawing on sensational newspaper reports; that’s been common practice in US fiction since at least Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy (1925). In France, the faits divers tradition popularized by Victor Hugo, Guy de Maupassant, Paul Bourget, and others in the 19th century pursued a similar topical strategy, and the success of Emmanuel Carrère’s L’Adversaire (2000) attests that this tradition is alive and well. But in its translation into a Paris-based literary thriller, the Krim case has undergone one noteworthy transformation: the novel both flips and elides the dynamics of ethnicity from the news story, with the Dominican New York nanny becoming a white Parisian, while the white employer turns Maghrebi.

This inversion is signaled very subtly — you could almost miss the fact that Myriam Massé, née Charfa, is ethnically Arab, or that Louise is white. Indeed, Louise bears no trace of ethnic origin for half of the narrative. Only when she is firmly anchored within the Massé family, accompanying them on their summer vacations, do we glimpse a few strands of blonde hair peeking out from underneath her swim cap — a suggestive metaphor for the ways that markers of ethnicity unwittingly escape from the novel’s efforts to contain them.

Sam Taylor’s confident English translation retains all French place-markers and cultural signposts. It carefully adapts the pleasing simplicity of Slimani’s prose and adheres to her rigorous resistance to making ethnicity a centerpiece of the story. The book’s paratexts, however, tellingly contravene this thematic reluctance. The English title — itself sensationalistic in tone, and nothing like the original, which literally translates as “sweet song” — is plastered over the image of a woman’s torso, dutifully dressed in a British-style nanny uniform, her pale neck prominently exposed. Meanwhile, Myriam is identified in the back cover copy as a “French-Moroccan lawyer,” and Slimani’s author bio refers to her as the “first Moroccan woman to win France’s most prestigious literary prize.”

In other words, where the Gallimard edition makes no reference to the ethnic identity of either the characters or the author, the English translation places this issue front and center. The two versions conform almost too neatly to their cultural contexts: the French political project of laïcité systematically rests on a refusal to acknowledge or privilege forms of identity, while in the United States, race becomes the book’s raison d’être.

As intriguing as The Perfect Nanny is for its translation of an American crime into a French context, it is most compelling as a reflection on how we consume the media today. The novel brims over with visual references to media technologies and texts: Louise leaves the television on all day long, watching “apocalyptic news reports” with the children “in rapt silence” by her side. Slimani describes photographs of the crime scene and of the children taken before their deaths — photos matching those that appeared in newspapers and magazines in the wake of the New York case (such as one of the “bouquets of flowers and children’s drawings” littering the entrance to the couple’s apartment building). She even references pictures from the Krims’s personal blog. “Just uploaded photos from my iPhone,” Marina Krim wrote in one of her last blog posts before the murders, and some of the images of her children — wearing a white dress, lying on the ground half-naked, visiting a friend’s farm — emerge in the novel, recast as Massé family snapshots taken on Myriam’s iPhone.

All of Slimani’s characters, in the end, are stuck behind screens, and if Louise’s crime is figured, at least in part, as a result of our apocalypse-focused news culture, so too does Slimani register her own position as a media consumer, transfixed by images of the event, molding them into literary form.

The novel in that sense can be read not only as an obsessive account of a crime, but also as a meta-story about the ways in which we obsess about crimes today. It bespeaks our era of easy and unfettered access to online media and compulsive news cycling. The Perfect Nanny offers a window onto the experience of being immersed in someone else’s tragedy, all the while expressing deep ambivalence about the contemporary media culture from which such stories emerge.

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Sara Kippur is associate professor of French at Trinity College in Hartford and the author of Writing It Twice: Self-translation and the Making of a World Literature in French.

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