My Husband

Since forever, French authors and screenwriters have been writing about heterosexual marriage and infidelity as though these were the only tales worth telling. They are not. But My Husband certainly does a smashing job of upending the traditional domestic narrative with one that is terrifically creepy, darkly obsessive, and uncomfortably humorous. The finely translated novel—a fast read, if there ever was one—is told from the wife’s perspective, a woman who’s entire being is centered on pleasing/controlling her husband. At one point, she describes herself as co-dependent, but that’s like saying the Pope is Catholic. A beautiful woman with a great wardrobe and a lovely apartment in the Paris suburbs, she pretty much ignores her two young children (“Today, I think I can say with certainty that I could survive the death of one of my children, but not of my husband.”)  The perfect life? Restricted to her home with her husband, “endless one-on-one time…Sometimes I picture myself alone on the Earth with him.” Got the picture? But the husband isn’t perfect; sometimes when they are sitting on the sofa, watching TV, he’ll be the first to stop holding hands. Infractions like these deserve punishment, usually moving or hiding his personal belongings. It’s mesmerizing, and try as one might, you can’t look away. As the book progresses, the reader’s anxiety mounts, until we reach an ending which is quite the tailspin. Hip reading groups will tear each other apart over this book.