At the age of twelve I was living by the rules and codes of this world; it never occurred to me that there might be others.

This is not the true crime confessional that the blurb makes it out to be, which I imagine contributes to a lot of disappointment. It is, I think, the one of the most compelling things someone can do with a persistent memory of violence; synthesize it, locate it, find it and yourself in history. it is no surprise to me that Ernaux's exploration of domestic violence leads directly to her own painful reflection on the tight chains of a lower class upbringing within organized religion and spends most of its time there. the violent moment is a manifestation of context, and Ernaux's dogged insistence on chasing down memories is perfect for this kind of unpacking. Shame is a question and an answer. beautiful beautiful beautiful.