I'm quite a fan of Aude Picault and while her Moi, Je (Me, myself in French) was not the most memorable of her books, I do remember enjoying it. The original one was written as slices of life when she was in her 30s, and Moi, Je Quarantaine comes out around 10 years later. She's now the mother of a 5 year old daughter who is a bit much to handle. I expected light humour and cute, I got depressing in spades. Sure, parenthood is hard, and motherhood harder even, but I couldn't relate with the bleak view that this story expressed. Even her drawings felt deliberately jagged, more so than her usual smooth lines. I initially got the book for my wife for Valentine's Day thinking she would enjoy the lightheartedness, but it was clearly not the right pick for that kind of mood. My wife BTW found it depressing as well and not much more relatable which reassured me that it wasn't just a gender difference of appreciation. To be complete, I should stress that Moi, Je, Quarantaine ends on something of a more positive note, but boy did that read drag me down...
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