Duras’ use of repetitions should be compelling: she has an almost biblical style and achieves an almost childlike innocence. A “vérité” of writing (two words she over-uses). However, she seems to be at the center of everything- even the tale of an English soldier killed in the last days of the war. There is a narcissism of the writer enamored with their own craft in a way that doesn’t appear to include anyone else, not even the stories being written. And for someone who is so incredibly honest and in touch with herself, Duras is at times vague and cliche, using words such as “fou”, for instance, romanticizing lunacy, or using the word admit to mean aloof but in a much more mysterious and, I dare say, abstract sense. I find this kind of writing tiresome and unsubstantial- perhaps because it is so earnestly presented by the writer as extracted from an abyss of emotions and truths. As such, it obviously disappoints.