The first two lines are arrestingly familiar. If she feels shame about anything, it’s her lack of willpower. Adèle is insatiable, consumed by her appetite to be consumed, and nothing will satisfy her hunger. But this is a novel about impulse control. Given that endemic sexual abuse and exploitation of women is making global headlines, and women are being increasingly encouraged to seek sexual satisfaction and be open about their desires, Adèle could feel awkward and anachronistic. Such observations are uncomfortable, and courageous: it’s both thrilling and unusual to meet a character who is ambivalent about her own maternal instincts, and not have her turned into a figure of hate or pity. Adèle discovers a queasy freedom in all this, rarely finding joy in her son, but experiencing release by exploiting the veneer of respectability that having a son gives her. Outsiders see Adèle as a mother before they notice her as a person so does her husband. Adèle is a neglected daughter, and a neglectful parent.
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