Bibliofemme Bookclub An Irish Bookclub

On her deathbed Gertrude Stein asked, “What is the answer?” No one replied, so she laughed and responded herself, her famous last words being, “Then what is the question?”

I have not read anything else by Stein but on the evidence of this book, you get the feeling she was never one to let a comfortable silence lie.

Quirky, irreverent and occasionally spot-on, her observations and thoughts on France in the first half of the twentieth century take the form of a stream of consciousness ramble.

Some of what she writes is sharp and insightful, some is simply personal opinion, inherently biased but presented without apology. All of it is disguised by the naivety of the child-like voice she adopts, casting conventional sentence structure and grammar to the wind.

Published in 1940, Paris, France is an entirely self-indulgent meander through a country (and a people) Stein clearly holds dear to her heart. It’s occasionally funny, and Stein has something to say on every aspect of French life, from dogs to food and fashion to art, but I found her particular writing style relentlessly grating at times.

A bit like eating a too-rich chocolate desert: you start off determined to finish the whole thing in one sitting, but when you get into it you realise it’s best taken in small mouthfuls, with breaks to get your appetite back in between.