this novella has stayed in my mind the most this year, i think it serves as a long suicide note even though edouard leve isn’t presenting it as such. it’s hard not to see how personal it is and how it’s written with a sense of urgency, since he ended his life after handing in the manuscript
What we love becomes slightly less ours the moment we explain it to someone else. A genuine passion is perfectly intelligible to the one who suffers it and perfectly unjustifiable to everyone else