A quirky little novel in which the narrator, travelling by train from Montpellier to Metz on her way to what promises to be an unpleasant meeting with her publisher, decides that what she really needs is the motiveless murder of a stranger on the very first page. That man sitting diagonally opposite from her in the compartment would be the obvious candidate. But it doesn't seem to be as easy as all that. Minor characters keep managing to wriggle themselves into the book and demanding their own names and back-stories, and the opportunity for a murder gets pushed further and further back. Maybe she can do it after Lyon, where the two Swiss ladies will be changing for Berne? But the Diderot-reading prospective victim is also getting less and less anonymous - maybe the two of them should get together to murder someone for a reason instead?

It's all reasonably funny, and Vanderbeke is a good writer who manages to place quite a few nice sharp observations about human nature, the limits of what fiction can do, French trains, marriage, the Encyclopedists, and climate-change, but I don't think the central conceit was quite strong enough to carry the book even for 120 pages. Fun to read once if you find it lying around somewhere, but probably not a book to go and search out. ( )

ein flohmarktsfund und die erste, und wahrscheinlich - hoffentlich - die letzte vanderbeke-enttäuschung für mich. irgendwie...verhaspelt. schade, ich habe mich so gefreut. alle andere ihrer büchlein sind sprachschätze. ( )