In Wolftrot, Marie Borel turns the eternal metaphor of the sea voyage on its ear: here, the fleet is literal, and they’re literally (and literarily) lost. Aficionado of pun and double-entendre, Borel interweaves vignettes and character sketches into an extended lyric déréglement de tous les sens. This is an old-fashioned swashbuckler of a tale that we come to realize is, ultimately, all about language—the real voyage that we embark on every day, confident in the knowledge that we will never see its end.

Marie Borel, one of France’s edgiest writers, is as versed in verlan as she is in vers libre. She’s also an inveterate traveler and sailor, spending much of the year in disparate places—Yemen, the Caribbean, Bordeaux—with the balance spent in Paris.

whole text available on archive.org
book available at abebooks