In the introduction to this first novel, as original as it is sensory, a depressed woman scratches a patch of coarse hairs that has mysteriously appeared on her upper back. In the mirror, his reflection gives him a smile made carnivorous by two increasingly pointed canines. In life as in the mirror, she no longer recognizes herself. Through the daily life of a mother who, at nightfall, transforms into a dog, Rachel Yoder describes the loneliness, alienation, guilt and lack of fulfillment that a society focused on capital and performance. With her chiseled language peppered with black humor, the American writer delves into the lexicon of witchcraft to explain the mutations that motherhood engenders, as well as the impossibilities and frustrations that it entails. Despite some redundancies, shortcuts and exaggerations, it asks a fundamental question: which identity do mothers turn to when the ones offered to them do not hold up? To meditate collectively.
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