Silk

Silk is like a small, neatly wrapped Japanese package. A poem, a haiku.

I read it this afternoon, sitting in the garden. It has that Japanese device of repetition, which Baricco uses to brilliant effect. Each of the descriptions of Herve's journeys mention the local name for a lake. It's always different, 'the sea', 'the last', 'the demon', 'the holy' (from memory).

It's like the lyrics to Don Henley's Boys Of Summer, the verse always starts with:

And i can see you
your brown skin shining in the sun

then continues with these three different endings:

you got your hair combed back
sunglasses on baby

you know you're walking real slow
smiling at everyone

you got your top pulled down,
radio on baby

I laughed when Herve asks:

"Do you know why Jean Berbeck stopped talking?"

and Baldabiou replies:

"That's one of the many things he never said."