Getting Lost

by Annie Ernaux

Now, I no longer seek truth in love, but the perfection of a relationship, beauty and pleasure. Avoid saying things that wound, in other words, only say things he will like. Also avoid anything which, though true, would present an unflattering image of me. Truth can only rule in writing, not in life.

That life consists of this accumulation of endeavors, bland and burdensome actions, punctuated only occasionally by moments of intensity, outside of time, is horrifying. Love and writing are the only two things in the world that I can bear, the rest is darkness. Tonight I have neither.

But that self is contained in the present one, along with the others, like millions of Russian dolls.

Still, I think of S much less and wonder if, obscurely, all I expect from a man is to be fertilized like a bitch and then show him my teeth.

For five years, I’ve ceased to experience with shame what can be experienced with pleasure and triumph (sexuality, jealousy, class differences). Shame spreads over everything, prevents any further progress.

was playing the role of “extra” in my own life for the entire year.

“Take no action. Expect nothing.” I was searching my mind for the name of the play those lines are from. They’re not from a play, but the Tarot. I don’t know which card—the Tower, I think.

Someday, someone should probably say how close a woman feels to adolescence between the ages of forty-eight and fifty-two. Same expectations, same desires, but you’re heading into winter instead of summer. But you “know life!” So little.