LOVE LASTS THREE YEARS EBOOK

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One night in a Parisian nightclub and the aftermath of a marriage provide the stories for these two novels by Frederic Beigbeder, award-winning author of 'Windows on the World'. Translations of: Vacances dans le coma and L'amour dure trois ans. Frédéric Beigbeder ; translated. Editorial Reviews. Review. `A stylist of considerable talent Holiday in a Coma reminds me of site Store; ›; site eBooks; ›; Literature & Fiction. Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years. two novels by Frédéric Beigbeder. by Frédéric Beigbeder Author · Frank Wynne Translator. ebook.


Love Lasts Three Years Ebook

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All it takes is for you to realize suddenly that love lasts three years. Its the kind of discovery that I wouldnt wish on my worst enemywhich is a figure of speech. Title: Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years: two novels by Frederic Beigbeder Rating: Likes: Types: ebook | djvu | pdf | mp3 score: / download the eBook Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years, two novels by Frederic Beigbeder by Frédéric Beigbeder online from Australia's leading online .

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Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years

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The publisher encourages visitors to frequently check this page for any changes to its Privacy Policy. Your continued use of this site after any change in this Privacy Policy, whether or not you are aware of any change, will constitute your acceptance of such change. He has a theory that love lasts no more than three years, and here — recounting the highs and lows of his marriage and taking us through brash nightclubs, vainglorious offices and soulless designer apartments — he brings to bear the theoretical and the empirical to prove his point.

Youre in love, and then youre not. Frdric Beigbeder est crivain, critique littraire, et ralisateur franais. Il a obtenu en le prix Interailli pour Windows on the World et en , le prix Renaudot pour son livre Un roman franais.

Lamour dure trois ans est avant tout lhistoire dun homme qui, tel un Sisyphe romantique, sefforce de donner du sens lune des motions les plus profondes de notre existence, quand les donnes biochimiques et statistiques indiquent que lamour nest quun combat perdu davance. Ce qui est le plus tonnant dans ce livre, cest sa sincrit. Les relations amoureuses ont tendance faire ressortir le meilleur ainsi que le pire, et Beigbeder excelle tout dcrire dans un style aussi sardonique que lyrique.

Rien nest interdit dans luvre de Beigbedersexe, drogues, tentatives de suicide, misre, extase ; et le gnie de Beigbeder consiste en sa capacit capturer ces moments quen gnral on ne partage jamais: Marc Marronnier, lalter ego de Beigbeder, est peut-tre une caricature de soi-mme, mais il reprsente aussi une caricature de lhomme htro ais au 21e sicle.

Bien lev, instruit, connu ; il se marie, puis vite se dcide quil ne veut rien avoir avec. Notre gnration est si habitue la vitesse, la nouveaut, quon oublie parfois comment rester amoureux. Lamour dure trois ans est dans le fond lhistoire dun homme qui apprend, petit petit, que lamourmalgr les statistiques, la biochimie, la phenethylaminedurera. Love is a battle lost from the start.

At first, everything is beautiful, even you. Youre amazed by how in love you are. Each day brings its own gentle delivery of miracles.

Nobody on earth has ever known the passion you share. Happiness exists, and its simpleits a face. The entire universe is smiling. For a year, life consists of one sun-bathed morning after anothereven in the afternoon when it snows. You write whole books about it. You get married, as soon as possiblewhy think twice if youre happy? Thinking will only bring you down; life will prevail in the end.

The second year, things begin to change. Youve grown complacently affectionate. Youre proud of the bond youve established. You know what your wife will say before she opens her mouthhow kind of you to save her the trouble.

In the street, people mistake your wife for your sister; you find this flattering, but it starts to wear on you. You make love less and less often but think its no big deal. You believe each day solidifies your love when in fact the end is nigh. You defend marriage to your single friends, who dont recognize you anymore. Are you sure you even recognize yourself when you recite the lesson. The third year, youve stopped trying not to look at the beautiful young women that light up the street.

Youve stopped talking to your wife. You spend hours with her at a restaurant listening to what the people at the table over are discussing. You go out more and more often: Before long you cant tolerate your spouse another second, because youve fallen in love with someone else. There was one thing about which you werent mistaken: The third year, theres good news and bad news. The good news: The bad news: The secret to driving wasted is to aim between the buildings.

Marc Marronnier clutches the throttle which has the effect of increasing the speed of his moped. He totters between the cars. They flash their lights and honk when he skims past them, like at a country bumpkin wedding. Its sort of ironic: Marronnier happens to be celebrating his divorce. Tonight, hes doing the Double-5 tour and he mustnt waste time: He often goes out alone. Socialites are solitary people lost in a sea of vague acquaintances.

They comfort themselves with handshakes. Each new kiss on the cheek is a trophy. They make themselves feel important by greeting famous people, while in fact they themselves are utterly useless.

They make sure only to visit noisy places so as not to have to talk.

God gave mankind parties so they could hide their feelings. Few know as many people as Marc, and few are as lonely. This party isnt like the others. Its his divorce party. He starts by downloading a bottle at each club.

It seems hes made quite a dent in each, too. Marc Marronnier, youre the King of the Night, everybody adores you, wherever you go the club managers kiss you on the lips, you get to cut to the front of the line, you get the best tables, you know everybodys last name, you laugh at all their jokes especially the least funny ones , people give you drugs for free, you show up in photos everywhere for no apparent reason, its incredible how popular youve become after a few years in the gossip columns!

Youre a social mogul! A socialite extraordinaire!

Wait, why is it your wife ran off, anyway? We split up due to a mutual disagreement, mutters Marc as he enters The Bus. Then he adds: I married Anne because she was an angeland thats precisely why were getting divorced. I thought I was looking for love up until the moment I realized that all I wanted was to flee it.

Awkward silence. He changes the subject. Fuck, the girls here look decent! I should have brushed my teeth before coming. Mademoiselle, youre as cute as button. May I please take off your clothes? Thats the way he is, Marc Marronnier: Hes just turned He does everything to live up to this reputation, so as not to disappoint anyone. Hes spent so long just trying to expand his pressbook that little by little hes become a caricature of himself. He finds it. So he has no one to blame but himself if, when he yells out on the dance floor Hooray!

Im divorceddd! The laser beams pierce his heart like swords. Before long, just putting one foot in front of the other becomes a difficult task. He staggers back onto his scooter. Its freezing out. Jolting forward, Marc feels tears streaming down his face. Surely its just the wind. His eyes are impassive. Hes not wearing a helmet. La Dolce Vita? What Dolce Vita? What happened to it? There are too many memories, too much to forget, its not easy erasing all that, youd have to relive so many perfect moments to replace the beauty of before.

He meets up with some friends at the Baron, on Avenue Marceau. The champagne isnt cheap and neither are the girls. You dont even get a bulk discount. The girls only take cash; Marc gets money out of an ATM with his credit card; they lead him to a hotel, strip in the taxi, suck him off together, he presses on their heads; in the hotel room they cover themselves in scented lotion, he fucks one of them while she licks the other; after a while, unable to come, he fakes an orgasm then rushes into the bathroom to discreetly throw away the empty condom.

He takes the cab back as the sun starts to come up, and hears a song on the radio:. Lalcool a un got amer Le jour ctait hier Et lorchestre dans un habit Un peu pass Joue le vide de ma vie Dsintgre. Alcohol has a bitter taste The day was yesterday And a band wearing sharp suits Just out of style Plays the silence of my life Deserted a while. Hey everyone, the author here. Welcome to my brain please excuse me for intruding. No more cheating: Ive decided to be my own protagonist.

Usually, what happens to me is never particularly serious. My loved ones arent dying. Ive never set foot in Sarajevo. The drama in my life unfolds in restaurants, clubs, and elegant apartments. The most upsetting thing to have happened to me recently was not being invited to John Gallianos fashion show. And then, all of a sudden, I find myself dying of a broken heart.

There was a phase when all my friends drank, then when they all took drugs, then when they all got married, and now were all getting divorced before we perish. Im surrounded by forced laughter.

I want to drown myself in the sea but there are too many jet skis. How have I let such superficiality so dictate my life? People always say that you have to keep up appearances. Personally I say you should assassinate them because its the only way to keep up yourself. During the winter in Paris, there are some places that get colder than others.

We fill ourselves up with liquor, but its as if a blizzard was blowing through every bar. The ice age has come early. Even crowds make me shiver. I did everything I was supposed to: Why is it so cold here? Where did I go wrong? I never wanted anything more than to make you happy. Dont I have the right to be happy too?

Why is it that, instead of the simple happiness thats been dangled before me, Ive found nothing but excruciating despair? Im a dead man. I wake up every morning with an intolerable longing to go back to sleep.

I dress in black because Im in mourning for myself. Im in mourning for the man I could have been. I traipse around mechanically, rue des Beaux-Artsthe street where Oscar Wilde died, like me. I go to restaurants and eat nothing. The managers are offended that I never order anything. But do you know many corpses that lick their plate clean So whenever I drink, its on an empty stomach.

Ive ceased to smile. Its more than I can manage. Im dead and buried. I wont have children. The dead do not procreate. Im a corpse that shakes hands in cafs. Im a rather friendly corpse, and very timid. I think I may be the saddest person Ive ever met. In the depths of the Paris winter, when the thermometer drops below freezing, human beings seek out bright, cozy bars to take shelter in at night. There, hidden among the crowd, you can finally allow yourself to shiver.

You can be an adult, dark-haired man and cry. All it takes is for you to realize suddenly that love lasts three years. Its the kind of discovery that I wouldnt wish on my worst enemywhich is a figure of speech, because I dont have any. Snobs dont have enemies, which is why they talk shit about everyone: A mosquito lasts a day; a rose, three days. A cat lasts thirteen years; love lasts three. Thats the way it is. First theres a year of passion, then a year of comfortable intimacy, and finally a year of boredom.

The first year, you say: The second year, you say: If you leave me, Ill suffer, but Ill eventually get over it. The third year, you say: If you leave me, Im breaking out the champagne.

Nobody warns you that love lasts three years. The conspiracy of love is a well-guarded secret. Youre led to believe that its for life when in fact love disappears, chemically, at the I read it in a womens magazine: A tiny molecule, phenethylamine PEA , triggers feelings of happiness, exaltation, and euphoria.

When you fall head over heels for someone, its just your neurons saturated with PEA.

Reward Yourself

As for intimacy, its endorphins the opium of lovers. Society has deceived you: Whats more, the statistics speak for themselves: According to the demographic records of the United Nations, census experts have been studying divorce rates in sixty-two countries since The majority of divorces occur during the fourth year of marriage meaning that the process was set in motion at the end of the third year.

In Finland, in Russia, in Egypt, in South Africa, for hundreds of millions of men and women studied by the UN, who speak different languages, have different jobs, dress differently, handle different money, whisper different prayers, fear different demons, nurture an infinite variety of hopes and dreams The banality of divorce is just one more humiliation. Three years!

Statistics, biochemistry, my own personal experience: Disturbing coincidence. Why three years and not two, or four, or six hundred? Personally, this all confirms the existence of the three stages defined by Stendhal, Barthes, and Barbara Cartland: The first year, you download the furniture. The second year, you rearrange the furniture.

The third year, you argue over who gets to keep the furniture. The song by Lo Ferr sums it up nicely: Avec le temps on naime plus. You can try to make a case for the lyricism of poetrybut faced with the twin forces of science and statistics, love is doomed from the start. I got home shit-faced. Its fucking miserable to find yourself in this state at my age. Getting wasted gets old when youre 18; at 30 its just pathetic. I popped half a tab of molly so Id have the nerve to hook up with strangers.

Otherwise Id be too shy. The number of girls that I havent kissed for fear of getting turned down is incalculable. I think thats what makes me charming: I always think Im not.

Holiday in a coma ; and, Love lasts three years : two novels

At The Queen, two cute drunk blonds asked me as they stuffed their tongues into my ears, creating a stereophonic gurgling sound: Your place or ours? After Id made out with them both for a while and bitten their four breasts , I responded proudly: You go back to yours, and Ill go back to mine.

I dont have any condoms and besides, tonight Im celebrating my divorce, Id be too nervous to get it up. Getting off my scooter, I entered my deserted apartment. I felt my stomach clench with despair; comedown from E. What was I thinking? What good is it to spend the night hiding from yourself if its only to end the night alone again in your room? In my jacket pocket I found a bit of coke in an envelope.

Snorted it right down to the kraft paper.

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Thatll soften my misery. A bit of white powder sticks to my nostril. Now Im not tired. The suns come up and France heads off to work. And all the while a man whos outgrown his adolescence doesnt move. Too fucked up to sleep, read, or write, Ill stare at the ceiling and grind my teeth. With my red face and white nose, I look like clown in reverse. I wont be going to work today.

Too ashamed of having turned down a threesome the day after my divorce. Fed up with these girls you sleep with but hate to wake up next to. Beside a saucepan of milk boiling over, there are few things on earth as foul as I.

Repeat the following three phrases regularly: Seriouslythis may sound stupid, but this method might have saved my life when I hit bottom. Try it the next time you have a breakdown. I highly recommend it. Im also including a list of songs to listen to, to help you get back on your feet: Its a great idea for a compilation albumIve already figured out a great slogan: Mixtape for the depressed: At 30, I still cant look a cute girl in the eyes without blushing.

Its rather disconcerting to be this sensitive. Im too jaded to truly fall in love, yet too sensitive to remain indifferent. In short, too weak to stay married. Whats the matter with me? Of course, Id love to just refer you to my last two books, but that wouldnt be very nice of me, given how these contemporary masterpieces were remaindered shortly after their critical success. So lets sum up the previous episodes, shall we?

I was an unrepentant viveur, a product of our useless, exorbitant society. I was born September 21st, , twenty years after Auschwitz, on the first day of autumn. I was born into the world on the day the leaves began to fall from the trees, when the days began to shorten. Which explains, perhaps, my disillusioned temperament. I earned a living stringing words together, for newspapers or advertising agencies: I made myself known throwing parties when no one threw parties in Paris anymore.

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That has nothing to do with words, but its how I made a name for myself, probably because these days people who string words together are seen as less important than people with their photo in the pages of some magazine. I surprised those who knew me when I got married out of love. One day, as I gazed into her big blue eyes, I thought Id glimpsed eternity. Me, always running from party to party, from job to job, all just to avoid the inexorable depression, all of a sudden I could picture myself happy.

Anne, my wife, was unreal, a luminous kind of beautiful, it seemed impossible.

Way too pretty to be happybut that I didnt realize until later. I would look at her for hours. Sometimes shed realized what I was doing and would yell at me: Stop looking at me, shed say, youre being annoying. But just watching her live became my favorite pastime. Guys like me, who thought themselves ugly growing up, are generally so surprised when they manage to court a pretty girl that they ask for them in marriage a tad quick. What happened next isnt particularly original: All of a sudden, we were going out too often, and were swept away by a rather treacherous whirlwind.

People would say: Those two go out often, dont they. They do, poor things. Things must be going so badly for them! And they werent entirely wrong, even if they were quite pleased to finally have a pretty girl at their sleazy parties for once. And thats the way it goesas soon as youre the least bit happy, life sees to it that youre brought back down to earth.

We were unfaithful, one right after the other. We broke up like we got married: Marriage is a huge scheme, an infernal fraud, an organized deception in which weve perished like two children. Its quite simple. A young man asks the woman he loves to marry him. Hes scared shitless, its cute, he blushes, he sweats, he stutters, and she, her eyes light up, she laughs nervously, makes him repeat the question.

As soon as shes said yes, suddenly an unending list of obligations falls on top of them, family dinners and lunches, seating arrangements, dress fitting, reprimanding, its forbidden to burp or fart around the in-laws, stand up straight, smile, smile, its an unending nightmare and its only the beginning: Fairy tales exist only in fairy tales. The truth is far more disappointing. The truth is always more disappointing, thats why everybody lies.

The truth is the photo of another woman accidentally discovered in my travel bag in Rio de Janeiro Brazil , on New Years Eve. The truth is that love begins a soppy romance and ends up sopping down the drain. Anne was looking for her hairbrush and wound up disheveled by a Polaroid of a woman accompanied by several love letters that werent from her. At the Rio airport, Anne dumped me. She wanted to go back to Paris without me.

I wasnt in a position to argue. She was sobbing in disbelief. The shock of someone who in twenty seconds has lost everything. She was an adorable little girl who in a single moment has discovered that life is dreadful and that her marriage was falling apart. She was unaware of everything around her, the airport, the line, the notice board, everything had disappeared, except me, her tormentor.

Its unbelievable how much I regret now not having taken her in my arms. But Id have been so ashamed should my tears not cease to flow, and.

Its always rather embarrassing to be a dick in public. Instead of asking for her forgiveness, I said: Hurry up, youre going to miss your plane. Just thinking about it now, my upper lip starts to tremble once again. Her face was imploring, sad, glazed over, hateful, defeated, anxious, disappointed, innocent, proud, scornful, and all the while her eyes looked so blue.

Ill never forget the look on her face as she discovered how it feels to hurt. Ill have to learn how to live with all this guilt on my conscience.

People pity those who suffer but not those who do wrong. Just deal with it like a man, bro. Youre the one who didnt keep your promises. Remember the end of Adolphe: The great question in life is the suffering we cause, and the most ingenious metaphysics doesnt justify the man who has broken the heart that loved him.

Later, I dragged myself around Copacabana, alone, my heart broken; I drank, twenty caipirinhas, I felt like shit, unfair and monstrous. I was like some kind of cold fish. Divine punishment. Knelt down on the sand, the deafening drumming of the samba in my ears, I too began to rain. There are days when falling asleep would be a luxury. To fall asleep, just to wake up from this nightmare. To imagine that none of this had ever happened.

To press Command-Z on your life. Because its yourself you really ruin, when you make someone else suffer. Yes, its true, I remember quite well the day I stopped sleeping. Millions of Brazilians dressed in white, in the rain, on the beach.

Huge fireworks before the Mridien. We were throwing white flowers into the waves as we prayed for our wishes to come true. I tossed a bouquet into a wave, wishing with all my heart that everything would just work out. I dont know what happened: In any case, my wish was never granted. Divorce is not something to be taken lightly.

What kind of filth have we become to think that its not a serious act? Anne believed in me. She promised me her love, with God and, more importantly, the French Republic as her witness. I signed a pact promising to always take care of her and to raise our children.

And I screwed her over. Shes the one who filed for divorce: Well not bear children and thank God for their sake. Im a traitor and a coward, which wouldnt make for a very good family man. I plead guiltyif only to stop feeling riddled with guilt. Why does no one come to a divorce? At my marriage, I was surrounded by all my friends. But the day of my divorce, I am unbelievably alone. No witnesses, no bridesmaids, no family, no wasted friends to pat me on the back.

Id have preferred that someone throw something at me, at least rice, I dont know, rotten tomatoes for example. This sort of projectile is commonplace as you leave the Palais de Justice, after all. Where are all the friends that, happy to stuff themselves with hors d'oeuvres at my reception, now avoid me, when it should be the other way.

Ive heard that certain Anglican ministers see to it that divorce ceremonies are amicable occasions, with a blessing of the divorced couple and a solemn renouncement of the marriage vows. Father, I give you this ring as a sign that my marriage is over. I think they may be on to something. The Pope should look into this idea: Its definitely worth looking into, I think to myself as the judge attempts to reconcile us.

He asks me and Anne if were sure we wanted to get divorced. He talks to us like were four-year olds. I want to tell him that no, actually, we came here to play tennis. Then I think about it and realize he saw right through us: Divorce is a mental abortion. In place of the good war that we deserved, this kind of disaster a lot like losing your mother or father, finding yourself paralyzed after a car crash, or losing your house after getting fired because your boss is a dick is the only thing teaching us how to be men.

What if adultery has made me an adult? We pretend not to care about divorce, but the time will come when you realize youve gone from Sleeping Beauty to We will never grow old together. Farewell fond memories, we. Certain phrases leave you beside yourself: What should I wear?After several weeks of agonizingly wrestling with my conscience, I arrived at the following conclusion: Id have preferred that the devil order me to fuck my wife.

Rated M for sex, drugs and rocknroll. It was July 14th, with fireworks, and Chinese lanterns! Those who engage in transactions with the publisher — by downloading a service or subscription, for example — are asked to provide additional information, including as necessary the personal and financial information required to process those transactions.

A mosquito lasts a day; a rose, three days. Things must be going so badly for them!

FAUSTINA from Danbury
See my other articles. I have a variety of hobbies, like kin-ball. I am fond of studying docunments deceivingly .
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