The most pathetic novel I've ever read, pathos pouring out of every pore, the two main characters weeping alone or together, profusely and in a deep agony (resulting from their mutual absence of social skills and anything remotely resembling decent mental health) so many times one loses track, creating a wave of hilarity that one can't help surfing right to the end of this skinny work that one bought as a hardcover remainder, having been born to buy remainders, Hemingway couldn't have stood more than two or three pages of this profoundly unrealistic, unintentionally comic pity-party, though it is not without some characteristically striking, despairing yet oddly sustaining, Duras lines:
"I wanted to die with you. I thought, Let me put my body close to him and wait for death."; "You're my lover because of what you just said--that you don't want anything."; "Knowing, with you, is knowing nothing at all."; "He extracts his pleasure from himself. At his request she watches him."; "He gets extreme pleasure from her desire for another man."; "The kiss has brought their bodies closer together than nakedness."; "The kiss of their lips has spread through all of his body. It's held inside him completely, like an untold secret, a happiness that must be given up out of fear, fear that it might have a future."; "He'll turn over, cover her body with his . . . and slowly sink into the hot slime of the center." Lusty hyenas, mon amour.
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