I find myself wondering what would have happened if I had been more clear. If our relationship had not begun with this one tiny untruth.
Time has flattened for Esther.
Her storybook marriage begins, and ends, in the shadow of Notre Dame cathedral. Sifting through the ashes of their years together, a time now collapsed by grief, she finds a mismatched litany: mountain lions, a Paris bookshop, bad dancing, bad faith, marshland, prairieland, miscarriage, motherhood, bagels, Eve.
In order to understand this new story, Esther seeks help - from generations of women, from a book about evolution, from a friendly philosopher/scientist with a solid grasp of the space-time continuum.
Mostly, though, she writes - fragments, notes, letters - tracing a fine line between a story that soothes and one that suffocates; confronting the impossibility of communicating anything in the right way, at the right moment, to her daughter. Esther writes, and rewrites, until time slowly takes shape again.
This extraordinary debut is an excavation of betrayal, of motherhood, of time and timelessness, of guilt and consequence, of love coming to an end. Told with dry wit and a startling ferocity, And Notre Dame is Burning heralds an urgent new voice in literary fiction.
