The only reason to read this book is to complete your tour through Malraux. Just look at the author photo and you'll know all about the sort of bombastic, turgid existential nonsense that fills its pages.
How the author of the foreword could describe the novel as a "fierce critique of colonialism" is truly baffling. The southeast asians are so thoroughly dehumanized that most readers will think of Conrad. Malraux, though, has nothing like Conrad's control of narrative.
One thought: The novel concludes with a kind of extended death scene, a meditation on last moments more characteristic, ironically, of the cultural wisdom found in the traditions that its heroes are vandalizing.