Incipit

Yeah, and since my life has become nothing but a waterlogged towel being smacked on a wooden table.

Twenty-eight years old now, still alive, and my body busy disquieting me. I am expecting the acute moment I will no longer be able to stay quiet at home, the sharp moment I will need to go out and meet the concrete. Why should I be reasonable? Moreover, since women are out of their wits, and since nature has made a woman’s sex the size of the sexes of all men together, how could a woman choose only one sex? I carry within me the weight of the flesh of many a human. Yeah, life does feel like a waterlogged towel one knocks on a wooden table.

Back cover

Heated up by words and whisky, Irene rambles a whole night through. Could it be possible to encapsulate a whole unique life within so scarce an amount of time?

A Womanly Odyssey and a Midnight Blues’, Lorette Nobécourt’s novel, conveys a voice she has dipped into the pitch black ink of our griefs. A liquid-broken, tempestuous and rough, carnal, tender-ravenous and mad voice, suffused with tears and enjoyment.