I was not meant to read this book. I stole it from my sister’s shelf in her bathroom. You know, that place where you put magazines, a Sudoku book with a pencil but not an earser (dammit!), books you read the back cover hundreds of time but never actually start?
The title drew me in. I opened a random page, and poetry jumped at me. So I stole it, and started reading it on the RER on my way back to England. I had to stop.
This book could not be read on the train. This book had to be read in a place where I would be able to break down fearlessly.
So I landed, sat in my bed in a comfy shirt, with a cup of tea, and read it in one go. It is quite a short read, only a few hours, as the book is only about a hundred pages.
Now, if you know me, you know I hate France. I refuse to read in French unless it was originally written in French, I refuse to watch translated movies because, well, I have a weird aversion for anything French.
This book may have been my way back.
The poetry in the sentences, the way the story begins with the end and draws us back to the beggining, the fact that it was a biography of sorts and not an invention made it so much more powerful for me.
This book packs a punch and will leave you crying on the floor and depressed for a few days. Which is why you shoud read it. Because it makes you FEEL so much. I love feeling things through words, because those words were felt, written, and the feelings somehow travel in the book and punches you in the face when you open the book.
What is the story? Well, you know you’re in for a ride when you realise that page 1 tells you that the main character has lost his precious person. And then proceeds to take you through their first encounter, all the way to his lover’s last breath.
Now, I am not partial cancer stories, as they are often overdone and do not feel ‘real’ but ‘made’ for the reader.
The fact that David Lelait is the main character, and that everything he says are words he wrote while the story was happening to him made it special. And the poetry, ah, the poetry.
I cannot stay away from a well-written work of art.
And neither should you.