The Lover
A Adult Fiction, Historical, Literature book. Je n'ai jamais crit, croyant le faire, je n'ai jamais aim, croyant aimer, je n'ai...
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- Filetype: PDF
- Pages: 123 pages
- ISBN: 9780007268290 / 7268297
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More About The Lover
Because he doesn't know he carries within him a supreme elegance, I say it for him. Marguerite Duras, The Lover // Among all the other nights upon nights, the girl had spent that one on the boat.when it happened, the burst of Chopin. There wasnt a breath of wind and the music spread all over the dark boat, like a heavenly injunction whose import was unknown, like an order from God whose meaning was inscrutable. And the girl started up as if to go and kill herself in her turn, throw herself in her turn into the sea, and afterwards, she wept because she thought of the man from Cholon and suddenly she wasnt sure she hadnt loved him with a love she hadnt seen because... It has been my face. It's got older still, or course, but less, comparatively, than it would otherwise have done. It's scored with deep, dry wrinkles, the skin is cracked. But my face hasn't collapsed, as some with fine feature have done. It's kept the same contours, but its substance has been laid waste. I have a face laid waste. Marguerite Duras, The Lover //
In a novel that is oft compared to Nabokov's Lolita, Duras writes a beautiful autobiographical tale of love and youth. The narrator recalls her youth when she, at fifteen, enters a relationship with Chinese man in his late twenties. Duras' prose gushes with life and verve. Her narrator seems almost omnipresent as she describes her family,... My brothers gorge themselves without saying a word to him. They don't look at him either. They can't. They're incapable of it. If they could, if they could make the effort to see him, they'd be capable of studying, of observing the elementary rules of society.There are a plethora of splendid reviews of The Lover by my GR friends. Read... Who is Lamant(*)? The characters in this story are nameless. A puzzle of personal pronouns draws an anonymous canvas that perspires with alienation and the dense humidity of a foreign land, that mourns the loss of youth and innocence, that invokes the image of photographs never taken, the sound of words never uttered and the mirage...
