By Virginie Despentes
"Virginie Despentes's Apocalypse child saved me up a number of nights in a row—in half simply because it's an amazing page-turner, and partly simply because i used to be fearful to determine how Despentes may maintain her narrative experience. Apocalypse child is greater than a compelling punk, queerish spin at the noir style. it's a choral functionality that tumbles its readers into the center of violent spectacle, with all its attendant grief, unease, and unclarity."—Maggie Nelson, writer of The paintings of Cruelty and professor on the California Institute of the Arts
"Virginie Despentes's social feedback is blistering, yet her prose is laid-back. Apocalypse child is an addictive feminist mystery that reads like shameless gossip out of your smartest friend."—Johanna Fateman
Apocalypse child is a brilliant, fast paced secret a few lacking adolescent woman touring via Paris and Barcelona. She is tailed by way of mismatched deepest investigators: the Hyena, half ruthless interrogator, half oversexed rock big name, and Lucie, her simple and passive—almost to the purpose of invisible—sidekick. As their determined seek unfolds, they interrogate a suspicious forged of characters, and the darkish middle of latest adolescence tradition is exposed.
Cult writer and filmmaker Virginie Despentes has written many award-winning books, together with King Kong thought, and Apocalypse child, which received the 2010 Prix Renaudot whilst it was once first released in France. She is the co-director of the monitor variations of her arguable novels Baise-Moi and Bye Bye Blondie.
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Extra info for Apocalypse Baby
Anyone who’s involved in our little world has their own story about what she’s up to, where, how, and who with. . But the stories all agree on one point: she’s never been sentenced in any court, because her files are too explosive for her not to be covered in any circumstances. And it’s a fact that over the past five years, when lawsuits and trials have mushroomed, no legal practice has boasted of having her as a client. She hasn’t worked for any outfit exclusively for a long time now, but her name crops up—occasioning scorn, admiration, anger, or amusement—whenever people are looking for something vaguely sensational to talk about.
She seems taller than she is, just coming up to his shoulder, although she looks long and willowy. She smiles as she tells him about her project, he hardly listens to the list of authors she hopes to include in the series, he presses a cup of coffee on her, unable to concentrate on what she’s saying while the photographer is scampering around the twenty-five hundred square feet of the apartment. He hears him opening the french doors to the balcony and joins him, feeling infuriated. The idiot is leaning over the guard rail.
Even Pierre Frank, in a short paragraph at the end of one of his articles, had mentioned François’s book. He’d had a few successes, nothing vulgar, nothing over the top. He’d been noticed, but he hadn’t won any prizes. He was still under thirty then, and convinced that one day he’d get the Prix Goncourt. He didn’t have any doubts. And he didn’t suspect anything. He counted the potential jury votes as he wrote his books. He had a prominent publisher, Le Seuil, and he’d been short-listed three times.