Born in 1972, the author write quite like Frédéric Beigbeder; yet the violence in the words is different since there are no drugs and a little bit more lasting grace left after you've read the last lines. It's very much accurate in the depiction of the french new lost generation, those 30 something young men for whom introspection is the way to go. In literature at least, the results of this constant thinking is awesome, as Nicolas Fargues gives a vibrant depiction of the breakdown of his main character's couple and the man's encounter with his italian student lover. A common subject is treated there, but I felt for this man, I ached when the manipulative wife beats him with words and kicks, and I dreamed I could be this girl he fell for in a little Tuscana village. I - again - fell in love with a book character and a man who didn't exist. If this is a mistake this is the sweetest one I'm making book after book and I hope it will never end. But that's another story.
Like a symphony, there are different rythms in this novel, and sometimes the authors talks - out of the blue - to the reader. There is a nice conclusion, a wee bit expected but cute nonetheless, which makes you want to start again from page 1. Which I did again several years after my first reading. I was amazed by this second one, given the fact it gave me the exact same feeling I had at the time and brought back memories from my own romantic love stories.
In two words, reading this book, ideally with a glass of chianti and a lover on the side, might be the inner meaning of Dolce Vita..
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