I'm not really sure where/how to start but this was ... atrocious.
It had a promising plot: In an attempt to escape dictatorial Romania, a woman working in a clothing factory starts sewing notes with "Marry me" and her contact details into the seams of suits that are shipped to Italy. The notes are found and she has to be questioned.
Except ... that's not what the book was about. The book was essentially her on a train, on the way to the questioning, and thinking about her life and its high/low lights. There was no structure, no narrative, just a seemingly endless stream of consciousness that interrupted itself and without explanation (or reason) jumped back and forth.
So ... it was atrocious.
Here are a few pretty sentences though:
Some things aren't bad until you start talking about them.
Everything happened in a twinkling, the time it takes for one person to assault another.
I think being on the defensive sharpens my desires, much more than being actively on the lookout for someone.
Some people cry out when you beat them, so it's clear when they've had enough. But others just go silent, and then you go on hitting them until they're dead.
Every day brought me further away from other people, I had been placed out of the world's sight, as if in a cupboard, and I hoped it would stay that way. I developed a yearning for being alone, unkempt, untended.
But I realized this craving for solitude was better suited to later life, and that it had affected me too young, too early.