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Les Amants du n'importe quoi
Ma vie a longtemps ressemblé à un été qui se termine. Pourtant, je n'avais pas encore rendu les armes, je cherchais toujours ce visage emprunté aux tendres rêves de l'adolescence, un visage à aimer. Et, le front collé à la vitre comme le font les veilleurs de chagrin, je tentais de me le représenter. - Avez-vous peur de la mort ? - Oui, évidemment.
180 pages, Paperback
First published January 3, 2003
6 people are currently reading
127 people want to read
About the author
Florian Zeller
35 books94 followersFlorian Zeller is a French novelist and playwright. His work has been translated into a dozen languages, including English. He won the Prix Interallié in 2004 for his novel "Fascination of Evil" ("La Fascination du Pire").
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
July 17, 2009
Firstly this book is not called love or something like it, that is the title of a book by Deirdre Shaw. This book is called lovers or something like it.
France
*Review starts now*
Reading this book is like cheating on Milan Kundera. not that I'm suggesting that Milan's wife should cheat on him with Florian, although Florian is younger and hotter.
The fact is that this is a lot like reading the unbearable lightness of being, but is actually more in depth, at least on the cheating.
It is nice to know that someone is picking up when Milan left off since Milan is getting too old to get it up and has only been writing theory.
France
*Review starts now*
Reading this book is like cheating on Milan Kundera. not that I'm suggesting that Milan's wife should cheat on him with Florian, although Florian is younger and hotter.
The fact is that this is a lot like reading the unbearable lightness of being, but is actually more in depth, at least on the cheating.
It is nice to know that someone is picking up when Milan left off since Milan is getting too old to get it up and has only been writing theory.
December 21, 2011
** Everything in italics came out of the book itself**
I’ve always know that there is a special kind of hell for those people who don't know how to suffer those people who come upon the world being one of those people who don't know how to love. I’ve always known that I grew up to become one of those people thinking of the happiness we were expecting, but which will not come. Those people who have realized the comic illusion have come upon the children, the bad poets have scorned their belief in eternity, in the power of what they are saying and become mired in the banality left over. Those who’ve seen love would have been the way out but somehow it became incompatible, it was outsed from our lives.
We are left under the constant attack of pure possibility a desireto become everything. Not to close any door on the infinite number of possibilities. We cease making plans and taking time for fear of losing our way among the doors and shedding options, until desiring everything and its opposite comes close to not desiring anything at all, and quitting existence. The constant harassment of the possibilities,the feeling of jubilation at extending theempire leaves us the amused corpse of the person we no longer are.
We begin to realize that you never love her as much as when something is absent. That somehow meaning can only exist in the state of desire. That somehow when something opens its eyes, and is beautiful, and once again you detest it for existing: a modern fairytale. That when something exists it exists only as a barrier but as it dissipates you will retain only what is liable to move you. That only can you find meaning in longing and despair, but in the act of having there is simply a void.
We are left to discover that we have to destroy and destroy and destroy without which we do not live. Excessive violence becomes the price of salvation and that that salvation is not something we ever wanted in the first place. We take aim, there is something indecent about other people's happiness perhaps it is not that it is temporary and founded on illusions that life will rapidly take care of dispelling but that we are personally incapable of such delusions. We dreamed of a heroic life but the age of heroes is now dead and buried, of love, while being only a caricature of it. We can consider others worthy of being loved--but we lack the ability to lovethem. When we think of them it’s not of them but of ourselves. We’re not weeping because of our love of them but out of love for our own wounded face theirs moreover we don’t even see. We are at best like a tourist lettingourselves be photographed in front of a monument which, basically, we couldn't give a damn about.
We are the spectators, we have forgotten that anguish of passing life by. We have ignored that are are those who do not know how to live. In favor of pretending that our lives will somehow sustain us as they are.
I’ve always know that there is a special kind of hell for those people who don't know how to suffer those people who come upon the world being one of those people who don't know how to love. I’ve always known that I grew up to become one of those people thinking of the happiness we were expecting, but which will not come. Those people who have realized the comic illusion have come upon the children, the bad poets have scorned their belief in eternity, in the power of what they are saying and become mired in the banality left over. Those who’ve seen love would have been the way out but somehow it became incompatible, it was outsed from our lives.
We are left under the constant attack of pure possibility a desireto become everything. Not to close any door on the infinite number of possibilities. We cease making plans and taking time for fear of losing our way among the doors and shedding options, until desiring everything and its opposite comes close to not desiring anything at all, and quitting existence. The constant harassment of the possibilities,the feeling of jubilation at extending theempire leaves us the amused corpse of the person we no longer are.
We begin to realize that you never love her as much as when something is absent. That somehow meaning can only exist in the state of desire. That somehow when something opens its eyes, and is beautiful, and once again you detest it for existing: a modern fairytale. That when something exists it exists only as a barrier but as it dissipates you will retain only what is liable to move you. That only can you find meaning in longing and despair, but in the act of having there is simply a void.
We are left to discover that we have to destroy and destroy and destroy without which we do not live. Excessive violence becomes the price of salvation and that that salvation is not something we ever wanted in the first place. We take aim, there is something indecent about other people's happiness perhaps it is not that it is temporary and founded on illusions that life will rapidly take care of dispelling but that we are personally incapable of such delusions. We dreamed of a heroic life but the age of heroes is now dead and buried, of love, while being only a caricature of it. We can consider others worthy of being loved--but we lack the ability to lovethem. When we think of them it’s not of them but of ourselves. We’re not weeping because of our love of them but out of love for our own wounded face theirs moreover we don’t even see. We are at best like a tourist lettingourselves be photographed in front of a monument which, basically, we couldn't give a damn about.
We are the spectators, we have forgotten that anguish of passing life by. We have ignored that are are those who do not know how to live. In favor of pretending that our lives will somehow sustain us as they are.
December 23, 2017
J'ai adoré son style. Florian Zeller arrive à transmettre la toxicité de la relation entre Tristan et Amélie jusqu'à en suffoquer. La confusion de Tristan devient parfois intolérable. La peine d'Amélie est déchirante. Tout le long de la lecture, je continue à poser les mêmes questions : Pourquoi continuent-ils à être ensemble? Pourquoi s'infligent-ils autant du mal? Est-ce de l'amour qui les relie? Et si c'est de l'amour, doit-il faire souffrir comme cela ? Un petit livre, facile à lire, pénible à absorber.
September 12, 2018
Ho aspettato quasi due anni per leggere questo libro, che mi aspettava in libreria. E poi l'ho finito in un pomeriggio! Atmosfera che mi ha ricordato molto Kundera, che leggevo anni fa. Consigliato per riflettere sulla natura dei rapporti d'amore.
June 10, 2025
belle écriture, j'aime bien les descriptions mais certaines réflexions misogynes et récit sur une relation amoureuse cliché : l'homme trompeur torturé et la femme fragile.. bof
May 18, 2023
I have no idea what I just read and I don't know if I like it. But the writing was really good. I'll probably update my review after I digest it. This book breaks my mind
July 2, 2008
I read this book when I want to understand men, love and relationships. Tristan is the ultimate cad. He's a coward who is in typical male fashion afraid to commit to the sensitive and lovelorn Amelie and predictable as it sounds, the author writes a beautiful short novel with such wonderful memorable passages, that my poor book is scribbled with notes and lines of my favorite quotes. I became a huge fan of Florian after I read this.
September 19, 2009
This book discusses the insecurities ,doubts and misgivings of people beautifully.The indepth explanation of the psychology of Tristan and Amelie is also very interesting.It helped me better understand myself and people around me.I love psychological books and this book definitely had that angle to it.
July 13, 2011
Well observed, subtle and beautifully written. It's short so can be read in one sitting, but this is a book to read slowly and savour, or to read several times over. Both characters inspire sympathy and dislike by turns, and Zeller shows a remarkable insight in his depictions of both characters hopes and fears.
December 13, 2019
Je suis amoureuse de ce bouquin et de Florian Zeller d’ailleurs lol
Livre facile à lire, et une fois commencé il est difficile de décrocher.
Livre facile à lire, et une fois commencé il est difficile de décrocher.
February 18, 2022
Misogyne as fuck
April 22, 2025
Les revers d’une relation toxique qui se termine cruellement. Ils passent un week-end Deauville, il avait prévu envers et contre lui de la demander en mariage, mais finalement se sauvera en pleine nuit pour ne plus jamais la revoir. Et l’aimer enfin. Peut-être.
Tristan rencontre Amélie par hasard, dans la rue, est « entrée dans sa vie comme une voleuse ». Lui, l’homme libre, amoureux des femmes, séducteur insatiable se sent pris au piège. Le voilà engagé, incapable de la quitter, mais rêvant de sa disparition par tous les moyens. Le voilà engagé, attendri par sa fragilité et la peur de la perdre.
Amélie improvise sa rencontre avec Tristan, dans la rue. Elle, si peu sûre d’elle, l’enfant de trop abandonnée par le père étouffant et ignorée par la mère blessée dépressive, maladivement jalouse et détestant toutes les femmes. La voilà engagée dans une histoire de couple inespérée, guettant les signes annonciateurs d’un abandon programmé.
Un petit livre qui se lit d’une traite mais qui fait mal au ventre, aux tripes, aux entrailles.
Tristan rencontre Amélie par hasard, dans la rue, est « entrée dans sa vie comme une voleuse ». Lui, l’homme libre, amoureux des femmes, séducteur insatiable se sent pris au piège. Le voilà engagé, incapable de la quitter, mais rêvant de sa disparition par tous les moyens. Le voilà engagé, attendri par sa fragilité et la peur de la perdre.
Amélie improvise sa rencontre avec Tristan, dans la rue. Elle, si peu sûre d’elle, l’enfant de trop abandonnée par le père étouffant et ignorée par la mère blessée dépressive, maladivement jalouse et détestant toutes les femmes. La voilà engagée dans une histoire de couple inespérée, guettant les signes annonciateurs d’un abandon programmé.
Un petit livre qui se lit d’une traite mais qui fait mal au ventre, aux tripes, aux entrailles.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 12, 2025
que le personnage principal soit misogyne passe encore, mais le narrateur aussi ??? certaines réflexions passent vraiment mal, c’est dommage car l’écriture est superbe
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews