Once upon a time, a younger version of this lovely reviewer went to a theater somewhere in the north of France and was witness of a French reproduction of 'L'écume des jours'. The show was a marvellous mix of conversations between cats and mice, flowers, hilarious church services and heartwrenching romance. The thing was, though, that I didn't feel like I understood what I had just seen. My French was lacking at the time, but even so, I felt like I had witnessed something special.A few years later I find myself reading the paper version of 'L'écume des jours'. I had almost forgotten about the theater I once saw. But I must admit that the book is, in many ways, the same thing. A collection of marvels that still, I do not fully understand. But how essential it all seems! There's something special that happens when Chloé is stricken by her amazing illness; a flower is growing inside her lungs. (Seriously though - this is reason enough to read the book.)
'L'écume des jours' is a crazy contemplation, but above all, a very rhythmical and spontaneous representation of love, responsibility and god knows what else. As I've already said, this book isn't meant to be understood. One can solely admire the intensity it brings to the table and say, bravo monsieur Vian, bravo.