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Can't give more stars as i decided to get lost in the book (and sometimes didnt undrstand what was going on),
haunting story about closure, a visit to old memories.
a book full of amorous desire, unrequited love, and abandonment, light, sand, heat, night, day, waves...
waves that collapse as they travel to the past, as they live what's already forgotten by some.
written as a sort of prose poem, it never gives you direct guidelines... you wander and decide what's real and what's just memories.
Gladly i knew the story of Lol Stein. However, in L'amour there's no names, just a woman and a traveler.
The traveler moves from the beach to the hotel, present past, making it hard to follow him...
an enjoyable trip for the reader, but hard for them...
all that remains are the flames that burn in S Thala, a place to be forgotten. full of tragedy and broken hearts
and the dead dog.
"Il prend du sable, il le verse sur son corps. Elle respire, le sable bouge, il s’écoule d’elle. In en reprend, il recommence. Le sable s’ecoule encore. Il en reprend encore, le verse encore. Il s’arrête.
-Amour.”
L’amour, Marguerite Duras
haunting story about closure, a visit to old memories.
a book full of amorous desire, unrequited love, and abandonment, light, sand, heat, night, day, waves...
waves that collapse as they travel to the past, as they live what's already forgotten by some.
written as a sort of prose poem, it never gives you direct guidelines... you wander and decide what's real and what's just memories.
Gladly i knew the story of Lol Stein. However, in L'amour there's no names, just a woman and a traveler.
The traveler moves from the beach to the hotel, present past, making it hard to follow him...
an enjoyable trip for the reader, but hard for them...
all that remains are the flames that burn in S Thala, a place to be forgotten. full of tragedy and broken hearts
and the dead dog.
"Il prend du sable, il le verse sur son corps. Elle respire, le sable bouge, il s’écoule d’elle. In en reprend, il recommence. Le sable s’ecoule encore. Il en reprend encore, le verse encore. Il s’arrête.
-Amour.”
L’amour, Marguerite Duras