"Fragments of a Woman" is a kind of scattered sense of self, not only in a concrete space, but in a metaphysical matter at the same time. Life is a conscious (but not quite) movement in a vacuum, a resistance to the stale air saturated with sadness: the same conversations, nods of pity from colleagues and first encounters-all these, if you will, fragments are intentionally bound together by a tragic substance, spreading like glue.
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