In The Origin of the World, Pierre Michon’s spare, unforgettable new novel, a twenty-year-old takes his first teaching job in a sleepy French town. Lost in a succession of rainy days and sleepless nights, the young teacher falls under the spell of one of the town’s residents, Yvonne, a woman of transcendent beauty. Everything about her screamed desire, something that people say enough that it’s almost meaningless, but it was a quality that she gave of generously to everyone, to herself, to nothing, when she was alone and had forgotten herself, setting something in motion while settling a fingertip to the counter, turning her head slightly, gold earrings brushing her cheek while she watched you or watched noting at all; this desire was open, like a wound; and she knew it, wore it with valor, with passion. But what are words? In Michon’s hands, words are marvels.
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