A French novel, by the author of The Grass, that outdoes Faulkner in its use of the non-stop sentence, and most particularly, in its utter disregard of the normal sequence of time, so that all its scenes of war and love, minutely described details of life, stray thoughts, artifacts, etc. are violently broken up and realigned- as in an abstract or pointillist painting....What it's all about is apparently the fall of the old chivalrous order, the horsemen, privately and on the field of battle. But it's too incoherent even for the stream-of-consciousness style; perhaps unsuccessful- certainly irritating- to an ordinary, logical reader. But the ferocious drive of the prose, the images of love and war tossed up like spray out of the struggling rush and turmoil of words, is stupendous. As sheer writing- despite the difficulties- it is well worth reading.