David Foenkinos returns with a story about a non-standard love - as everyday, as poetic, rich in humor, twists and charm!
“ Our Sections” will introduce you to Fritz and Alice, an almost impossible couple – he is the son of a hippie, she was raised in a bourgeois Catholic family. The two love each other and separate, get together again and separate again. The reasons are usual: parents, jealousy, betrayal, chance… Their love turns out to be more stubborn than they are and breaks all resistance. The novel also features: their friends Paul and Virginie, Iris - the writer, temporary wife of Fritz, Celine - the publisher, temporary lover of Fritz, a man in mourning, a suitcase of unsold ties, the dictionary "Larus" and two teenagers who trying to succeed where their parents failed. It seems first love is sometimes a life sentence.
David Foenkinos is the recipient of dozens of prestigious awards, and his books have been translated into more than 40 languages. In 2014, Hummingbird published the elegant bestseller Delicacy, one of the writer's most award-winning and beloved novels, adapted into a film starring Audrey Tautou. That same year, Foenkinos won a Ryonodo Award for the biographical work Charlotte, dedicated to the artist Charlotte Salomon, who was killed in Auschwitz at the age of 26. The novels "Memories", "Inversion of feeble-mindedness" and "In case of happiness" have also been translated into Bulgarian. "Memories" is an exciting story about relationships in the modern world, about the past, continuity and human love. The novel was adapted for the big screen under the direction of Jean-Paul Rouve.
I feel like death is a gaze constantly stalking me. My every gesture is doomed to be interpreted by some higher power-the power that represents my future as a man turned to dust. I have been like this from a young age. I live without stopping to think that one day I will no longer live. This often has a positive effect, it allows me to enjoy every moment - I am able to find something pleasant even in the worst moments. I am able, for example, in the subway, pressed from everywhere and all sweaty, to say to myself: "How lucky I am, after all, to be alive." This also applies to my love relationships. I watch myself love, listen to every beat of my heart. When I wake up next to a woman, I contemplate her ear and try to seal in my mind the magnificence of its uniqueness. I know that one day I will lie motionless, face to face with death, and then all I will have left is the memories of past sensuality.
There are three billion women in the world. So I have every right to ask: why Alice? Especially on days when we fight. Why her out of all the Chinese and Russian women? Why is she present in my life, as if born to excite and despair me? I tell myself that surely there is an Australian woman I will be very happy with. Undoubtedly, there are gentle and loving Aussies out there (a Swiss born Aussie would be ideal). But that would also have inconveniences: what a horror – flying all day to see her parents. I hate airplanes; at last I would put up with them if they put rails in the sky. Still, I think I'm lucky.
– I could have met a much worse girl than you, Alice.
– You're annoying, Fritz. You are really annoying. - Good night then. I remember our argument. I also remember lying next to Alice. In the silence of that night we seemed happy. We were barely twenty years old then. I was trying to simultaneously exercise to get a good body and read all of Schopenhauer to get an accurate picture of suffering. According to the friends whose compliments I managed to beg, this combination gave me a certain sophistication. Maybe I would become a modern hero. The only obstacle to this potential heroism was my insomnia. One cannot save humanity without one's eight hours of sleep. All characters sleep well, even if they are always alert. They rule the night while I count all the sheep in the world. Not one jumped out at me. At least one should try and fail. You will surely fall asleep if such a ragged pile falls on you. Over the years I have learned to bear my trouble patiently. At night I get up and read for hours. Words often become my refuge until dawn, and sometimes, when I cross the border of slumber, letters mingle with my dreams.