If you've ever read a biography on Colette and said to yourself, "My, I wish someone would render her life in pulp fiction form," then your prayers have been answered.

By Cecile tells the story of a young girl plucked from her wartime country retreat by a much older man. She goes from petty provincial to hip Parisienne by the mere thrust of her husband's sexually enlightening hips. (So it goes in French literature, mais oui?) Of course he's charming, a womanizer, and a scoundrel. Of course she's bored and degraded in no time. To cure her boredom and his money woes, Cecile is encouraged (i.e. locked in a room) by her husband to recount her school days and put it onto paper. Add a touch of lesbian innuendo and what Cecile creates is a sensation strikingly Claudine-like in nature, right down to her husband's name being signed to the work.

What else can possibly follow but more depression and degradation? Well there is also our heroine's discovery of her literary merits independent of her husband's usurpation. It's a compelling enough story hampered only by the fact that the prose seems written in tar at certain points. (The first three pages are about the mutability of Cecile's eye color, the next two pages about slugs on lettuce leaves, and the next two pages we're back to eye color again...yeah, I think you get the idea.) There's enough marital angst and self-reflection to make for some decent feminist awakenings, and just enough suggested salaciousness to make this into a pulp. Descend to the depths of depravity and depression with Cecile, but don't worry about her too much--the kid is going to be all right. ( )