I find it hard to fault Bauby's work in any aspect, because it simply is what it is. It isn't quite a memoir, and moreso lands in an ambiguous genre of present and personal fiction - in the sense that recollections are not meant to be precise, but fill in gaps in the life of a man who can no longer live much in the present. It's beautiful, but brief.
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I find it hard to fault Bauby's work in any aspect, because it simply is what it is. It isn't quite a memoir, and moreso lands in an ambiguous genre of present and personal fiction - in the sense that recollections are not meant to be precise, but fill in gaps in the life of a man who can no longer live much in the present. It's beautiful, but brief.
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