When reading Patrick Modian’s novel La Petite Bijou, you don’t leave for a moment a feeling of detachment from the world of the book, a detachment not negligible, but inherently present. In this tiny authorial space in shades of black and dirty-white it turns out you can live, you can breathe and even occasionally rejoice. The boundaries of individuality are blurred, everything happens “as if”, there is no clear support in the movement through the available space. Like coffee particles in a cup, absorbed in a slice of lemon, the heroine is just somewhere inside. But where exactly is not clear, and whether there is a way out is unknown. And there’s no need for one. The dull glamour of black and white life, France, a glass of cheap whiskey, an empty room in a former hotel, scraps of memory and rare interlocutors, random in this unhurried sequence of played-up (played-up?) confusion.

“Modiano’s Little Miracle is a psychological novel with elements of noir (not a genre of literature, but a concept from art in general) thrown in. Noir from French, the writer’s native language, translates as “black” and is interpreted by literary reference books as necessarily a criminal detective, like the brutal Sin City or Mickey Spillane novels. But Little Miracle is not like that; it’s certainly not a crime detective, no crime and no direct detective, though it does have its mysteries. Yes, Modiano’s authorial style has quite a few components from noir, but they are stirred in such a way and in such proportions that formally the novel in its clubs of fog does not fall within the clear definition of that genre of art. Does it matter? I don’t think dividing into genres at all is an unfortunate exercise.

“A Little Miracle” is not a brilliant monolithic work that establishes the author for the ages (other works by Modiano will claim to be), it’s a weightless damn cozy tale of modest text – for a carefree fall Saturday night, no phone calls or obligatory housework. Something definitely worth the read.