Jasmine's Reviews > Les Amants Du N'mporte Quoi

Les Amants Du N'mporte Quoi by Florian Zeller
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Dec 20, 2011

it was amazing
bookshelves: french

** 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.


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Reading Progress

Started Reading (Paperback Edition)
July 16, 2009 – Shelved (Paperback Edition)
July 16, 2009 – Finished Reading (Paperback Edition)
October 15, 2010 – Shelved as: french (Paperback Edition)
December 20, 2011 – Started Reading
December 20, 2011 – Shelved
December 20, 2011 –
0.0% "I'm not reading this in french, I'm just rereading this in english: "Oh! and yet I just want her to love me once again so that I can continue not to love her any more." bernard frank"
December 20, 2011 – Finished Reading
December 21, 2011 – Shelved as: french

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Jasmine well they are both french


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