In Paris I'm just another person on the street, standing out in the crowd just enough to be able to blend with it completely; I'm every bit as chic as the French women, whom I also resemble in wearing a lot of make-up and in being a little drunk.
I really wanted to like this book, but I didn't. I wasn't so fond of the random capitalization (okay, I know, it's a ridiculous pet peeve, but there you are) and I didn't love the poetry (some of which I blame on the fact that it's a translated novel - word choice is so important in poetry), nor the way the character kept referring to herself in the third person and then back to the first. The style was a bit distracting.
The main character was incredibly annoying - sure we've all perhaps behaved like this after a break up, or at least had a friend who did. And yet, an entire novel of a woman whining about how she was so perfect and he obviously loved her, but maybe he wasn't worth it, except that he was - it was, well, long. I liked the main point, which I assume is that we shouldn't waste our lives on ended love affairs.
I assume I missed some of the implications on class, not really being familiar with Icelandic history and culture - perhaps I might not have found Alda so annoying had I understood better what she represented.
However, if a point of literature is to invoke a strong emotional reaction and cause you to analyze your own behaviour as it pertains to the theme, and I do think you can argue that it is at least a significant driving force behind the writing of novels, then it certainly worked. I haven't been this irritated and thoughtful about a book in some time.