So this novel feels so much like a French novel of the 1930s. And it is. It’s ruminative and thoughtful and harrowing in it’s own right. It also feels like a slightly juvenile novel, not really in it’s idea or in it’s execution, but in that way that socialist novels can often feel…politics upfront, narrative second. So I decided to read this because while reading the Ralph Ellison collection of essays he mentions Malraux many times as one of the transformative writers he discovered in […]