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Edouard Levé began as painter, became a conceptual photographer and then a writer inspired by the constrained writing of the OuLiPo, and Suicide's solemn insouciance does resemble an object in a white walled gallery. Only through the occasional window – an episode in which the friend explores Bordeaux, an anecdote about him climbing the wall of a graveyard – does the narrative warm to its genre. Otherwise the novel relies on the gravity of suicide to draw the reader through weightless disclosure. This is less a failing than the very challenge set by Suicide: what, after all, gives meaning to a life?

Excellent piece by Mr Mitchelmore over on This Space about Edouard Levé's Suicide.

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