欧宝娱乐

鈥�This feeling of love, it transports me, it makes me happy. At the same time, it consumes me and makes me miserable, the way all impossible loves are miserable.鈥�

鈥�When I threw myself into writing Lie with Me, I placed [The Lover] in front of me. I knew I was going to write about my seventeen-year-old self, about what happened the year I turned seventeen, and I have never forgotten that was the year I read The Lover. I understood that I was going to call forth my memories, that I was going to write about the memory of adolescence, like Duras.鈥�

鈥�All the same, I wondered if this could be a complete invention. As you already know, I invented stories all the time, with so much authenticity that people usually ended up believing me sometimes even I was no longer able to disentangle the true from the false). Could I have made this story up from scratch? Could I have turned an erotic obsession into a passion? Yes, it's possible.鈥�

鈥�This passion that can鈥檛 be talked about, that has to be concealed, gives way to the terrible question: if it isn鈥檛 talked about, how can one know that it really exists?鈥�

鈥�Those who have not taken this step, who have not come to terms with themselves, are not necessarily frightened, they are perhaps helpless, disoriented, lost as one is in the middle of a forest that鈥檚 too dark or dense or vast.鈥�

鈥�There were a few different ones being considered. Lie with Me felt like the right one鈥攖he double meaning of embracing someone, the romantic mixed with the duplicity implied by being a writer and inventing stories for a living.鈥�

鈥�Should the translator鈥檚 job be to bring the culture to the reader, or should we be bringing the reader to the culture? I feel like I was intuitively the latter. To strip the world of its foreignness feels to me like visiting a foreign country and staying at your hotel eating cheeseburgers and watching all of the television programs you watch at home. There is no revelation about the differences in culture鈥攐r the similarities, for that matter.鈥�

And so this book becomes that closure that we want, the closure that confirms that - yes - you mattered, that - yes - it was all ultimately revolving around you, that - yes - your choices were true and special and right, that - yes - you weren鈥檛 the only one still reeling from the long-lost love, that - yes - it was all reciprocated and real and validated.

鈥淭he image doesn鈥檛 fit: my thick glasses, my stretched-out blue Nordic sweater, the student head slaps, the too-good grades, the feminine gestures. Why me?

He says: Because you are not like all the others, because I don鈥檛 see anyone but you and you don鈥檛 even realize it. He adds this phrase, which for me is unforgettable: Because you will leave and we will stay."

鈥淲e drive at high speed along back roads, through woods, vineyards, and oat fields. The bike smells like gasoline and makes a lot of noise, and sometimes I鈥檓 frightened when the wheels slip on the gravel on the dirt road, but the only thing that matters is that I鈥檓 holding on to him, that I鈥檓 holding on to him outside.鈥�

鈥淗e says I鈥檓 a boy of books, from somewhere else. This is important: he sees me in a certain way, a way he will never deviate from. In the end, love was only possible because he saw me not as who I was, but as the person I would become.鈥�

鈥淓verything is in its place, everything reassures me. Except that I miss Thomas. I miss him terribly. And that changes everything. Have you noticed how the most beautiful landscapes lose their brilliance as soon as our thoughts prevent us from seeing them properly?鈥�

鈥淭his feeling of love, it transports me, it makes me happy. At the same time, it consumes me and makes me miserable, the way all impossible loves are miserable.鈥�

鈥淚 know you would have liked for things to be different, for me to say the words that would have reassured you, but I could not, and I never knew how to talk anyway. In the end, I tell myself that you understood. It was love, of course. And tomorrow, there will be a great emptiness. But we could not continue 鈥� you have your life waiting for you, and I will never change. I just wanted to write to tell you that I have been happy during these months together, that I have never been so happy, and that I already know I will never be so happy again.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 seventeen years old. I don鈥檛 know then that one day I won鈥檛 be seventeen. I don鈥檛 know that youth doesn't last, that it鈥檚 only a moment, and then it disappears and by the time you finally realize it, it鈥檚 too late. It鈥檚 finished, vanished, lost.鈥�

鈥淚 think I love him for this loneliness, that it鈥檚 what pushed me toward him. I love his aloofness, his disengagement with the outside world. Such singularity moves me.鈥�

鈥淚 discover that absence has a consistency, like the dark water of a river, like oil, some kind of sticky dirty liquid that you can struggle and perhaps drown in. It has a thickness like night, an indefinite space with no landmarks, nothing to bang against, where you search for a light, some small glimmer, something to hang on to and guide you. But absence is, first and foremost, silence. A vast, enveloping silence that weighs you down and puts you in a state where any unforeseeable, unidentifiable sound can make you jump.鈥�

鈥淭here is the insanity of not being able to be seen together. An insanity that is aggravated in this case by the unprecedented situation of finding ourselves in the middle of a crowd and having to act like strangers. It seems crazy not to be able to show our happiness. Such an impoverished word. Others have this right, and they exercise it freely. Sharing their happiness makes them even more happy, makes them expand with joy. But we鈥檙e left stunted, compromised, by the burden of having to always lie and censor ourselves.鈥�

鈥淎nd when you鈥檝e been hurt once, you鈥檙e afraid to try again later, in dread of enduring the same pain. You avoid getting hurt in an attempt to avoid suffering.鈥�

鈥淚 had time to think all the way home about how affairs of the body are so much more preferable to affairs of the heart, but that sometimes you don鈥檛 have the choice.鈥�

鈥淵ou can never really let go of your childhood. Especially when it was happy.鈥�

鈥淎bove all, we will no longer find the thing that first pushed us toward one another that day. That singular moment. The pure urgency of it. There were circumstances 鈥� a series of coincidences and simultaneous desire. There was something in the atmosphere, something in the time and the place, that brought us together. And then everything broke 鈥� like a firework exploding on a dark night in July that spirals out in all directions, blazing brightly, dying before it touches the ground, so that no one gets burned. No one gets hurt.鈥�

This passion that can鈥檛 be talked about, that has to be concealed, gives way to the terrible question: if it isn鈥檛 talked about, how can one know that it really exists? One day, when it鈥檚 over, when it finally comes to an end, no one will be able to attest to what took place.

芦听L'茅criture peut 锚tre un bon moyen pour survivre. Et pour ne pas oublier les disparus. Pour continuer le dialogue avec eux. Mais le manque prend probablement sa source dans cette premi猫re d茅fection, dans une imb茅cile br没lure amoureuse听禄

芦听脡videmment, je "pr茅f猫re les gar莽ons".
Mais je ne suis pas encore capable de prononcer cette phrase听禄

芦听il me regarde d'une certaine mani猫re et n'en d茅viera pas. En fin de compte, l'amour n'a 茅t茅 possible que parce qu'il m'a vu non pas tel que j'茅tais, mais tel que j'allais devenir.听禄

芦听Il dit听: parce tu n'es pas du tout comme les autres, parce qu'on ne voit que toi sans que tu t'en rendes compte.
Il ajoute cette phrase, pour moi inoubliable听: parce que tu partiras et que nous resterons.听禄

鈥淭么i ch峄 b峄ヽ 岷h 岷. Trong b峄ヽ 岷h 岷, b岷璶 qu岷 jean, chi岷縞 谩o s啤mi car么 x岷痭 tay, anh c岷 c峄峮g c峄� gi峄痑 nh峄痭g ng贸n tay. V脿 anh m峄塵 c瓢峄漣. M峄檛 n峄� c瓢峄漣 nh岷� nh脿ng, t矛nh t峄�, tr矛u m岷縩, t么i c岷 nh岷璶 v岷瓂. Khi岷縩 t么i chao 膽岷 m茫i m峄檛 th峄漣 gian d脿i sau 膽贸 m峄梚 khi nh矛n l岷 h矛nh 岷h 岷. V岷玭 c貌n khi岷縩 t么i chao 膽岷 khi t么i vi岷縯 l岷 nh峄痭g d貌ng n脿y v脿 t么i ng岷痬 nh矛n b峄ヽ 岷h, 膽岷穞 tr锚n b脿n l脿m vi峄嘽 c峄 t么i, 峄� 膽贸, ngay b锚n c岷h b脿n ph铆m m谩y t铆nh t么i. B芒y gi峄� 膽芒y t么i 膽茫 bi岷縯. T么i bi岷縯 r岷眓g Thomas 膽茫 膽峄搉g 媒 ch峄 b峄ヽ 岷h duy nh岷 n脿y ch峄� b峄焛 v矛 anh 膽茫 hi峄僽 (膽茫 quy岷縯 膽峄媙h) 膽贸 l脿 l岷 cu峄慽 c霉ng ch煤ng t么i 峄� c岷h nhau. Anh m峄塵 c瓢峄漣 膽峄� t么i mang n峄� c瓢峄漣 anh 岷 theo c霉ng t么i.鈥�

鈥淰脿 nh岷 l脿, ch煤ng t么i s岷� kh么ng t矛m th岷 l岷 c谩i 膽i峄乽, 膽茫 th煤c gi峄 ch煤ng t么i ng瓢峄漣 n脿y 膽岷縩 v峄沬 ng瓢峄漣 kia, c峄 ng脿y 岷. S峄� th么i th煤c r岷 tinh kh么i 岷. C谩i kho岷h kh岷痗 duy nh岷 岷. 膼茫 c贸 nh峄痭g t矛nh hu峄憂g 膽瓢a 膽岷﹜, s峄� g岷痭 k岷縯 c峄 s峄� ph岷璶, m峄檛 s峄� s峄� tr霉ng h峄, nh峄痭g ham mu峄憂 膽峄搉g th峄漣, 膽i峄乽 g矛 膽贸 trong kh么ng kh铆, 膽i峄乽 g矛 膽贸 n峄痑 c峄 th峄漣 kh岷痗, c峄 n啤i ch峄憂, t岷 c岷� t岷 l脿m th脿nh m峄檛 kho岷h kh岷痗, t岷 n锚n s峄� g岷穚 g峄�, nh瓢ng t岷 c岷� l岷 膽峄﹖ 膽o岷, m峄峣 th峄� xoay chuy峄僴 nhi峄乽 h瓢峄沶g kh谩c nhau, t岷 c岷� n峄� bung l锚n, gi峄憂g ki峄僽 nh峄痭g tia ph谩o hoa bung ra t峄� ph铆a tr锚n b岷 tr峄漣 膽锚m r峄搃 r峄泃 xu峄憂g nh瓢 m瓢a tu么n, r峄搃 l峄媘 t岷痶 khi c脿ng xu峄憂g th岷 v脿 t岷 ng岷 tr瓢峄沜 khi ch岷 膽岷縩 m岷穞 膽岷, 膽峄� kh么ng thi锚u ch谩y ng瓢峄漣 n脿o, th岷� r峄搃 kho岷h kh岷痗 膽茫 k岷縯 th煤c, 膽茫 m岷, n贸 s岷� kh么ng quay tr峄� l岷; 膽贸 ch铆nh l脿 chuy峄噉 x岷 ra gi峄痑 ch煤ng t么i.鈥�

鈥淢矛nh ch峄� mu峄憂 n贸i v峄沬 c岷璾 r岷眓g m矛nh 膽茫 h岷h ph煤c trong nh峄痭g th谩ng ng脿y ch煤ng ta b锚n nhau, r岷眓g m矛nh ch瓢a bao gi峄� h岷h ph煤c nh瓢 th岷�, v脿 m矛nh bi岷縯 m矛nh s岷� ch岷硁g bao gi峄� h岷h ph煤c nh瓢 v岷瓂 n峄痑.鈥�

I'm not beautiful, but I get attention; that I know. Not because of my appearance, but because of my {good} grades. "He is brilliant," they whisper, "much more advanced than the others, he will go far, like his brother, this family is one to be reckoned with." We are in a place, in a moment, where nearly everyone goes nowhere; it garners me equal parts sympathy and antipathy.

Upstairs, after climbing a makeshift staircase, you would enter a room full of anything and everything. There was even a mattress. It was on this mattress where I rolled around in {his first love}'s embrace for the first time. We had not gone through puberty yet, but we were curious about each other's bodies. His was the first male sex I held in my hand, other than my own. My first kiss was the one he gave me. My first embrace, skin against skin, was with him. ... Today I'm struck by our creativity because at the time, there was no internet, not even videocassettes or cable TV. We had never seen any porn, and yet we still knew how to do it. There are things one knows how to do even as a child. By puberty, we would be even more imaginative. That would come fast

A million questions flash through my mind: How did it begin for him? How and at what age did it reveal itself? How is it that no one can see it on him? Yes, how can it be so undetectable? And then: Is it about suffering? Only suffering? And again: Will I be the first? Or were there others before me? Others who were also secret? And: What does he imagine exactly? I don't ask any of these questions, of course. I follow his lead, accepting the rules of the game.

He says: I know a place.

I discover that absence has a consistency, like the dark water of a river, like oil, some kind of sticky dirty liquid that you can struggle and perhaps drown in. It has a thickness like night, an indefinite space with no landmarks, nothing to bang against, where you search for a light, some small glimmer, something to hang on to and guide you. But absence is, first and foremost, silence. A vast, enveloping silence that weighs you down and puts you in a state where any unforeseeable, unidentifiable sound can make you jump.

He says that for me things are simple, that everything will be fine, that I will get out of it, it's already written, that there's nothing to worry about, the world will greet me with open arms. Whereas for him there's a barrier, an impenetrable wall, forbidding him to deviate from what has been predetermined.

Whenever he mentions this question of the forbidden I will try in vain to show him that he's wrong.

A few weeks later he'll take me for a ride. He'll pick me up at the edge of town, with a helmet this time. I don't know if it's as a precaution, to respect the law, or so that we won't be recognized, but I get on the back of the bike and hold on to him. We drive at high speed along back roads, through woods, vineyards, and oat fields. The bike smells like gasoline and makes a lot of noise, and sometimes I'm frightened when the wheels slip on the gravel on the dirt road, but the only thing that matters is that I'm holding on to him, that I'm holding on to him outside.

...there is often a staggering intimacy between us, a closeness beyond imagining, but the rest of the time our separateness is absolute. Such schizophrenia could bring even those with the strongest equilibrium to the edge of reason, and let's admit it, I didn't have much equilibrium to begin with.

There is the insanity of not being able to be seen together. An insanity that is aggravated in this case by the unprecedented situation of finding ourselves in the middle of a crowd and having to act like strangers. It seems crazy not to be able to show our happiness. Such an impoverished word. Others have this right, and they exercise it freely. Sharing their happiness makes them even more happy, makes them expand with joy. But we're left stunted, compromised, by the burden of having to always lie and censor ourselves.

This passion that can't be talked about, that has to be concealed, gives way to the terrible question: if it isn't talked about, how can one know that it really exists? One day, when it's over, when it finally comes to an end, no one will be able to attest to what took place.

...I hurry to get what I want before he changes his mind. I take the picture. In it, he's wearing jeans, a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He has the blade of grass between his fingers and he's smiling, a slight, complicit smile, almost tender. This smile devastated me for a long time after, whenever I happened to look at this photograph. It upsets me even now as I write these lines and contemplate the image, resting on my desk, right next to my keyboard. Because now I know. I know that {he} consented to this single picture only because he knew (had decided) that it was our last moment together. He smiled so that I could take his smile with me.

I know that there are those who will object to my refusal to accept that he changed course, switched orientation, simply succumbed to a feeling that was previously unknown to him. I could be seen as upset, jealous, or even obtuse, and yet I persist in thinking that he put the same stubborn application into this as he did to his work. The same desire to forget himself, to return to the righteous path set out by his mother, the only one permissible. Does he end up believing it himself? That's the fundamental question. If the answer is yes, then moving forward in life would be possible. If the answer is no, then it is a life condemned to interminable misery.

(I correct myself because I've just been lying. Of course, it took time, a lot of time, before I admitted that everything was lost, before I decided to say goodbye forever. I kept hoping for a sign. I thought of initiating another meeting, I started letters that I never sent. Desire does not go out like a match, it extinguishes slowly as it burns into ash. In the end I gave up on all possibility of a reunion.)

...I live with a man with a man who is fifteen years younger than me and doesn't like boys but loves me. Who knows why? It's a vulnerable relationship, and I will be scared to disturb this precarious equilibrium. Calling {him}, talking to him, asking to see him again, would be anything but innocuous. I cannot say: This is only a phone call. I know it's more than that. Even if I were granted immunity, the act of calling him has the allure of betrayal (we come back to that, always we come back to it) or without going to that extreme, a gesture toward {him} would be a gesture of mistrust toward the man I live with鈥攁 decision to put distance between us, to admit to a love that is not enough.

In that first moment, when he heard me say that I had seen you, he didn't move, but I swear he lost his balance. At that exact moment I was certain that he had been in love with you. That such a thing had existed鈥攎y father in love with a boy. I didn't need to ask him the question. I couldn't have found the courage anyway. Afterward, I said to myself: Maybe it was just a phase. Okay, yes, it existed, but it ended. He moved on to something else鈥攖o a life, a woman, a child...that must happen often, these things. I told myself: when he saw you on TV, it brought back the memory, but it was just nostalgia. A secret from the past...everyone has secrets; besides, it's good to have things that belong only to you. I could have stayed there. It should have stayed there. Except that two days after our conversation, my father brought us together to announce he was leaving.