The Lover
While the book is called The Lover, I would argue that it’s not much about the lover at all.
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Books written by French authors. Usually written in French.
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While the book is called The Lover, I would argue that it’s not much about the lover at all.
I was excited to read War — not because I’m a big fan of Céline, but because it’s a small piece of lost history that didn’t actually end up being lost. Now, all they need to find is a copy of Tod Browning’s London After Midnight.
Proust was a man who was very sensitive to noise, and Paris was (and is) a very cacophonous metropolis.
It starts with a tone that is mundane but bitingly humorous as Bouillier tries to convince himself that he has let go of the mystery of the end of the relationship with the caller. He does a poor job of it.
Of all of the forms of memoir that I read, I feel particularly drawn towards the diary. There’s something about reading the immediate thoughts of the writer as they live through and work through the moment.
He has been institutionalized and addicted to drugs for quite some time, and he feels that he is on the verge of losing his looks and his status as he continues to fail to meet expectations.
You know just enough about the characters — no more, no less. You are provided with just enough background information. It keeps the story tight and moves things along in ways that longer works often struggle with. Perhaps if you look closely you can see the traces of a formula, but it is applied so skillfully that it doesn’t detract from the enjoyment or impact of the narrative.
In a novel that occurs in single day, it can be ironically difficult to mark time and to create atmosphere. There are often limits to setting to consider, as well as how to convey the sense of hours passing without it seeming chaotic or creating too much stress in the reader experience. Guilloux is a master of atmosphere and space.
After reading it, I don’t think I’ll be reading much — or any — more of Simon’s work, but at the same time that didn’t render this novel a complete waste of time.
Molière was a seventeenth-century playwright and I have seen readers approach him with a comparable trepidation to which I’ve seen when high school students approach Shakespeare for the first time.