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This is a book.
This is a film.
This is night.

In the wake of sudden and resounding success of The Lover, Duras second-guesses her own telling, coming at it again with an odd darting between distancing of narrative apparatuses -- is she telling a story or planning out its adaptation? -- and a confessional immediacy, disclosing much more of her family and context. But by this point, all Duras' experience and words, and even films, are part of a single body of work. There's no clear novelization or confession here, it's just her own self-distillation beyond fact of fiction. As such there's nothing unnecessary in this doubling of The Lover, even if it may not necessarily be truer or more essential (despite a few telling details withheld til this point). Probably most interesting at most aware of its impending conversion to film, and in its portrait of Duras mother and the dynamics of her by-this-point "ruined" family. But each work, even or especially those that revisit or recompose, adds another piece to Duras' life of literature.