"Love lives for three years" book. Love lives for three years: myth or truth of life? Love lives 3 years description
Frederic BEGBEDER
LOVE LIVES FOR THREE YEARS
Dedicated to Sophie Christine de Chastenier and Jean-Michel Beigbeder, without whom this book would not have been possible (and so am I)
As a loser, I know what I'm talking about.
Scott Fitzgerald
So what? Well, yes! We must call a spade a spade! A person loves, and then no longer loves.
Françoise Sagan (at a dinner party at her home with Brigitte Bardot and Bernard Franck)
COMMUNICATING VESSELS
With time love passes
Love is a battle. Lost in advance.
At first, everything is fine, even you. You are only amazed that you can be so in love. Every day brings a new batch of miracles. No one on Earth has ever felt so good. There is happiness, it is simpler than simple: it is someone's face. The whole world is smiling. For a whole year, your life is one continuous sunny morning, even at dusk and when it snows. You write books about it. Hurry up to get married - why pull if you are so happy? I don’t want to think, it makes me sad; let life decide for you.
Something changes in the second year. You have become softer. Be proud of how well you and your half got used to each other. You understand your wife "at a glance"; it's great to be one. The wife is taken on the street for your sister - it flatters you, but it also affects the psyche. You make love less and less and think: it's okay. You arrogantly believe that this same love is growing stronger every day, when the end of the world is just around the corner. You defend marriage in front of bachelor friends who don't recognize you. And you yourself are sure that you will recognize yourself when you chant a learned lesson, trying your best not to look at fresh girls, from which it is brighter on the street.
In the third year, you no longer try not to look at fresh girls, from whom it is brighter on the street. You don't talk to your wife anymore. Spend long hours with her in a restaurant, listening to what the table neighbors babble. You and her are increasingly out of the house: this is an excuse not to fuck. And soon there comes a moment when you can no longer endure your half for a single extra second, because you fell in love with the other. Only in one thing you were not mistaken: the last word really always remains with life. In the third year, you have two news - good and bad. The good news is your wife is fed up and is leaving you. The bad news: you're starting a new book.
Divorce in a festive way
When you go poddaty, the main thing is to aim between the houses and do not miss. Marc Marronnier steps on the gas, causing his scooter to pick up speed. He maneuvers between cars. They flash their headlights at him, honk when he hits them, just like at weddings in the countryside. Here's the irony of fate: Marronier is just celebrating his divorce. Today he is touring route number 5 bis, and every minute counts: five places per evening (“Castel” - “Buddha” - “Bus” - “Cabaret” - “Queen”) - this is already cool, but think about it, that the 5-bis, as the name implies, is performed twice a night.
In such places, he is often alone. Secular people are generally loners, lost in a sea of vaguely familiar faces. They cheer up by shaking hands. Every new kiss is a trophy. They indulge themselves in the illusion of their own importance, greeting celebrities, although they themselves have not done a damn thing in life. They try to visit only where it is noisy - you can not talk. Holidays are given to a person to hide what is on his mind. Few people know more people than Mark, and few people are so lonely.
And tonight is not just a holiday. Today he has a divorce-party! Hooray! To begin with, he bought a bottle in each institution. And, it seems, he managed to cling to each robustly.
Mark Marronnier, you are the King of the Night, wherever you go, the owner of the establishment kisses you on the lips, you skip the line, the best table is waiting for you, you know everyone by their last names, you laugh at all jokes (especially the most unfunny ones), they give you dope for nothing, you show off everywhere in the photographs, it is not clear why on earth, it’s crazy how high you have soared in a few years in the gossip column! Nabob! "Secular Lion"! But tell me, explain for a minute, why did your wife make you a pen?
“We broke up by mutual disagreement,” Mark says through gritted teeth as he enters the Bus.
He later adds:
- I married Anna because she was an angel - and that is the reason we divorced. I thought I was looking for love, until one day I realized that I wanted the exact opposite - to stay away from her.
A quiet angel flies inappropriately, and Mark changes the subject.
- Hell! he barks. - And the girls are nothing here, sorry, I didn’t brush my teeth when I was going. Op-la! Mademoiselle, you are wonderfully good. Be kind, let me undress you!
He is like that, Marc Marronier: he pretends to be cool in his velvet suit, because he is ashamed to be gentle. He was in his thirties: the middle age, when you are too old to be young and too young to be old. He does everything to be like his reputation: God forbid disappoint anyone. He tried so hard to expand his track record that he became a caricature of himself. He is tired of proving that he has a kind and deep soul, so he makes himself out to be a mean and superficial, purposely demonstrating a violent, and even rude disposition. So when he runs out onto the dance floor yelling, “Hurrrah! r-r-divorced!" - no one wants to console him. Only laser beams pierce the heart like sharp blades.
There comes a time when rearranging the legs becomes a complex operation. Staggering, he saddles the scooter again. The night is cold. Starting right off the bat, Mark feels tears running down his cheeks. Probably from the wind. His eyelids are still stony. He doesn't wear a helmet. Dolce Vita? What is Dolce Vita? Where's she? There are too many memories, too much to forget, it will be a hell of a job to erase all this from memory, how many wonderful minutes will have to be experienced instead of those former ones.
He meets his buddies at the Baron on avenue Marceau. Champagne is exorbitant, girls too. For example, if you want to fuck with two - lay out six thousand, and with one - three. They don't even give discounts. They demand to pay in cash; Mark walks out to the ATM with his credit card; they take him to a hotel, undress in a taxi, suck him for a couple, and you know he presses on the heads; in the room they are smeared with fragrant cream, he inserts one and licks the other; after a while, realizing that he will not finish, he fakes an orgasm, after which he goes to the bathroom to stealthily throw away the empty condom.
In a taxi on the way back, early in the morning, he hears:
Alcohol is slightly bitter
The day has passed and the day is dead.
seedy musician
played my life
(Christophe, "Beautiful eccentric.")
He decides to continue to masturbate before going out so that he no longer confuses the demon to get up God knows what.
On the beach, all alone
Hi everyone, I'm an author. Welcome to my brain, sorry for the intrusion. I will no longer fool you: I am my main character. Everything that usually happens to me is, well, seeds. Nobody dies from this. For example, my foot has never been in Sarajevo. My dramas play out in restaurants, nightclubs and stucco apartments. The biggest tragedy I've had to endure lately is that I wasn't invited to a John Galliano celebration. And suddenly on you: for no reason I die, before I feel bad. I remember the time when all my friends drank bitter, then they got big, then they got married, and now the period has come when everyone gets divorced before dying. And this happens, by the way, in the most fun places, here, for example, on the Red Sail, the beach in St. Tropez, the heat, Eurodance at the bar to refresh the lumpen pussies in bikinis, they are poured with Crystal Roederer for a million old 0.75 l, and then they suck on their navels. In all corners they chuckle. I would drown myself in the sea, but there are too many people water skiing.
How did I allow window dressing to crush my life to such an extent? It is often said: "We must save face." And I say, the face must be killed, only in this way you will be saved yourself.
The saddest person I've ever met
There are places in Paris in winter where it is somehow especially cold. No matter how hard you drink strong drinks, it seems like a blizzard blows through the bars. The ice age is coming. Even in the crowd, a thumper makes its way.
I did everything right: I was born into a good family, studied at the Lycée Montaigne, then at the Lycée Louis the Great, received higher education at institutes where I moved among intelligent people; I invited them to dance, there were those who gave me work; I married the most beautiful girl of all my acquaintances. Why is it so cold here? At what point did I fail? I only wanted to please you, and it was not so difficult for me to comply. Why don't I have the right to live like everyone else? Why, instead of the simple happiness with which I was beckoned, did I get only difficulties and tears?
Dedicated to Sophie Christine de Chastenier and Jean-Michel Beigbeder, without whom this book would not have been possible (and so am I)
As a loser, I know what I'm talking about.
Scott Fitzgerald
So what? Well, yes! We must call a spade a spade! A person loves, and then no longer loves.
Françoise Sagan (at a dinner party at her home with Brigitte Bardot and Bernard Franck)
Translation from French Nina Khotynskaya
Art design by Nadezhda Cheremnykh
Begbeder F. Love Lives for Three Years: Roman / Frederic Begbeder; per. from French N. Khotinsky. - M.: Foreigner, Azbuka-Atticus, 2012. - 192 p.
ISBN 978-5-389-00641-6
UDC 821.133–312.6Begbeder BBK 84(4Fra)–44
ISBN 978-5-389-00641-6
Communicating vessels
With time love passes
Love is a battle. Lost in advance.
At first, everything is fine, even you. You are only amazed that you can be so in love. Every day brings a new batch of miracles. No one on Earth has ever felt so good. There is happiness, it is simpler than simple: it is someone's face. The whole world is smiling. For a whole year, your life is one continuous sunny morning, even at dusk and when it snows. You write books about it. Hurry up to get married - why pull if you are so happy? I don’t want to think, it makes me sad; let life decide for you.
Something changes in the second year. You have become softer. Be proud of how well you and your half got used to each other. You understand your wife "at a glance"; it's great to be one. The wife is taken on the street for your sister - it flatters you, but it also affects the psyche. You make love less and less and think: it's okay. You arrogantly believe that this same love is growing stronger every day, when the end of the world is just around the corner. You defend marriage in front of bachelor friends who don't recognize you. And you yourself are sure that you will recognize yourself when you chant a learned lesson, trying your best not to look at fresh girls, from which it is brighter on the street.
In the third year, you no longer try not to look at fresh girls, from whom it is brighter on the street. You don't talk to your wife anymore. Spend long hours with her in a restaurant, listening to what the table neighbors babble. You and her are increasingly out of the house: this is an excuse not to fuck. And soon there comes a moment when you can no longer endure your half for a single extra second, because you fell in love with the other. Only in one thing you were not mistaken: the last word really always remains with life. In the third year, you have two news - good and bad. The good news is your wife is fed up and is leaving you. The bad news: you're starting a new book.
Divorce in a festive way
When you go poddaty, the main thing is to aim between the houses and do not miss. Marc Marronnier steps on the gas, causing his scooter to pick up speed. He maneuvers between cars. They flash their headlights at him, honk when he hits them, just like at weddings in the countryside. Here's the irony of fate: Marronier is just celebrating his divorce. Today he is touring route number 5 bis, and every minute counts: five places per evening (“Castel” - “Buddha” - “Bus” - “Cabaret” - “Queen”) - this is already cool, but think about it, that the 5-bis, as the name implies, is performed twice a night.
In such places, he is often alone. Secular people are generally loners, lost in a sea of vaguely familiar faces. They cheer up by shaking hands. Every new kiss is a trophy. They indulge themselves in the illusion of their own importance, greeting celebrities, although they themselves have not done a damn thing in life. They try to visit only where it is noisy - you can not talk. Holidays are given to a person to hide what is on his mind. Few people know more people than Mark, and few people are so lonely.
And tonight is not just a holiday. Today he has a divorce-party! Hooray! To begin with, he bought a bottle in each institution. And, it seems, he managed to cling to each robustly.
Mark Marronnier, you are the King of the Night, wherever you go, the owner of the establishment kisses you on the lips, you skip the line, the best table is waiting for you, you know everyone by their last names, you laugh at all jokes (especially the most unfunny ones), they give you dope for nothing, you show off everywhere in the photographs, it is not clear why on earth, it’s crazy how high you have soared in a few years in the gossip column! Nabob! "Secular Lion"! But tell me, explain for a minute, why did your wife make you a pen?
“We broke up by mutual disagreement,” Mark says through gritted teeth as he enters the Bus.
He later adds:
- I married Anna because she was an angel - and that is the reason we divorced. I thought I was looking for love, until one day I realized that I wanted the exact opposite - to stay away from her.
A quiet angel flies inappropriately, and Mark changes the subject.
- Hell! he barks. - And the girls are nothing here, sorry, I didn’t brush my teeth when I was going. Whoops! Mademoiselle, you are wonderfully good. Be kind, let me undress you!
He is like that, Marc Marronier: he pretends to be cool in his velvet suit, because he is ashamed to be gentle. He was in his thirties: the middle age, when you are too old to be young and too young to be old. He does everything to be like his reputation: God forbid disappoint anyone. He tried so hard to expand his track record that he became a caricature of himself. He is tired of proving that he has a kind and deep soul, so he makes himself out to be a mean and superficial, purposely demonstrating a violent, and even rude disposition. So when he runs out onto the dance floor yelling, “Hurrrah! I'm r-r-divorced!" - no one wants to console him. Only laser beams pierce the heart like sharp blades.
There comes a time when rearranging the legs becomes a complex operation. Staggering, he saddles the scooter again. The night is cold. Starting right off the bat, Mark feels tears running down his cheeks. Probably from the wind. His eyelids are still stony. He doesn't wear a helmet. Dolce Vita? What is Dolce Vita? Where's she? There are too many memories, too much to forget, it will be a hell of a job to erase all this from memory, how many wonderful minutes will have to be experienced instead of those former ones.
He meets his buddies at the Baron on avenue Marceau. Champagne is exorbitant, girls too. For example, if you want to fuck with two - lay out six thousand, and with one - three. They don't even give discounts. They demand to pay in cash; Mark walks out to the ATM with his credit card; they take him to a hotel, undress in a taxi, suck him for a couple, and you know he presses on the heads; in the room they are smeared with fragrant cream, he inserts one and licks the other; after a while, realizing that he will not finish, he fakes an orgasm, after which he goes to the bathroom to stealthily throw away the empty condom.
In a taxi on the way back, early in the morning, he hears:
He decides to continue to masturbate before going out so that he no longer confuses the demon to get up God knows what.
On the beach, all alone
Hi everyone, I'm an author. Welcome to my brain, sorry for the intrusion. I will no longer fool you: I am my main character. Everything that usually happens to me is, well, seeds. Nobody dies from this. For example, my foot has never been in Sarajevo. My dramas play out in restaurants, nightclubs and stucco apartments. The biggest tragedy I've had to endure lately is that I wasn't invited to a John Galliano celebration. And suddenly on you: for no reason I die, before I feel bad. I remember the time when all my friends drank bitter, then they got big, then they got married, and now the period has come when everyone gets divorced before dying. And this happens, by the way, in the most cheerful places, here, for example, on the Red Sail, the beach in Saint-Tropez, the heat, eurodance at the bar, to freshen up bikini-clad lumpen pussies, they are poured with Crystal Roederer for a million old 0.75 liters, and then sucked on their navels. In all corners they chuckle. I would drown myself in the sea, but there are too many people water skiing.
Frederic Begbeder.
Love lives for three years
As a loser, I know what I'm talking about.
Scott Fitzgerald
So what? Well, yes! We must call a spade a spade! A person loves, and then no longer loves.
Françoise Sagan (at a dinner party at her home with Brigitte Bardot and Bernard Franck)
Dedicated to Sophie Christine de Chastenier and Jean Michel Beigbeder, without whom this book would not have been possible (and so am I)
PART I COMMUNICATING VESSELS
With time love passes
Love is a battle. Lost in advance.
At first, everything is fine, even you. You are only amazed that you can be so in love. Every day brings a new portion of miracles. No one on Earth has ever felt so good. There is happiness, it is simpler than simple: it is someone's face. The whole world is smiling. For a whole year, your life is one continuous sunny morning, even at dusk and when it snows. You write books about it. Hurry up to get married - why pull if you are so happy? I don’t want to think, it makes me sad; let life decide for you.
In the second year, a few things change. You have become softer. Be proud of how well you and your half got used to each other. You understand your wife "at a glance"; it's great to be one. The wife is taken on the street for your sister - it flatters you, but it also affects the psyche. You make love less and less and think: it's okay. You arrogantly believe that this same love is growing stronger every day, when the end of the world is just around the corner. You defend marriage in front of your bachelor friends - they don't recognize you. And you yourself are sure that you will recognize yourself when you chant a learned lesson, trying your best not to look at fresh girls, from which it is brighter on the street.
In the third year, you no longer try not to look at fresh girls, from whom it is brighter on the street. You don't talk to your wife anymore. Spend long hours with her in a restaurant, listening to what the table neighbors babble. You and her are increasingly out of the house: this is an excuse not to fuck. And soon there comes a moment when you can no longer endure your half for a single extra second, because you fell in love with the other. Only in one thing you were not mistaken: the last word really always remains with life. In the third year, you have two news - good and bad. The good news is your wife is fed up and is leaving you. The bad news: you're starting a new book.
II Divorce on holiday
When you go poddaty, the main thing is to aim between the houses and do not miss. Marc Marronnier steps on the gas, causing his scooter to pick up speed. He maneuvers between cars. They flash their headlights at him, honk when he hits them, just like at weddings in the countryside. Here's the irony of fate: Marronier is just celebrating his divorce. Today he is touring route number 5 bis, and every minute counts: five places per evening (“Castel” - “Buddha” - “Bus” - “Cabaret” - “Queen”) - this is already cool, but think about what 5 bis, as the name implies, is performed twice a night.
In such places, he is often alone. Secular people are generally loners, lost in a sea of vaguely familiar faces. They cheer up by shaking hands. Every new kiss is a trophy. They indulge themselves in the illusion of their own importance, greeting celebrities, although they themselves have not done a damn thing in life. They try to visit only where it is noisy - you can not talk. Holidays are given to a person to hide what is on his mind. Few people know more people than Mark, and few people are so lonely.
And tonight is not just a holiday. Today he has a divorce party! Hooray! To begin with, he bought a bottle in each institution. And, it seems, he managed to cling to each robustly.
Mark Marronnier, you are the King of the Night, wherever you go, the owner of the establishment kisses you on the lips, you skip the line, the best table is waiting for you, you know everyone by their last names, you laugh at all jokes (especially the most unfunny ones), they give you dope for nothing, you show off everywhere in the photographs, it is not clear why on earth, it’s crazy how high you have soared in a few years in the gossip column! Nabob! "Secular Lion"! But tell me, explain for a moment, why did your wife do that to you with a pen?
“We broke up by mutual disagreement,” Mark says through gritted teeth as he enters the Bus.
He later adds:
- I married Anna because she was an angel - and that is the reason we divorced. I thought I was looking for love, until one day I realized that I wanted the exact opposite - to stay away from her.
A quiet angel flies inappropriately, and Mark changes the subject.
- Hell! he barks. - And the girls are nothing here, it’s a pity, I didn’t brush my teeth when I was going. Oh la! Mademoiselle, you are wonderfully good. Be kind, let me undress you!
He is like that, Marc Marronier: he pretends to be cool in his velvet suit, because he is ashamed to be gentle. He was in his thirties: the middle age, when you are too old to be young and too young to be old. He does everything to be like his reputation: God forbid anyone to disappoint. He tried so hard to expand his track record that he became a caricature of himself. He is tired of proving that he has a kind and deep soul, so he makes himself out to be a mean and superficial, purposely demonstrating a violent, and even rude disposition. So when he runs out onto the dance floor yelling, “Urr ra! rr divorced!” - no one wants to console him. Only laser beams pierce the heart like sharp blades.
There comes a time when rearranging the legs becomes a complex operation. Staggering, he saddles the scooter again. The night is cold. Starting right off the bat, Mark feels tears running down his cheeks. Probably from the wind. His eyelids are still stony. He doesn't wear a helmet. Dolce Vita? What is Dolce Vita? Where's she? There are too many memories, too much to forget, it will be a hell of a job to erase all this from memory, how many wonderful minutes will have to be experienced instead of those former ones.
He meets his buddies at the Baron on avenue Marceau. Champagne is exorbitant, girls too. For example, if you want to fuck with two - lay out six thousand, and with one - three. They don't even give discounts. They demand to pay in cash; Mark walks out to the ATM with his credit card; they take him to a hotel, undress in a taxi, suck him for a couple, and you know he presses on the heads; in the room they are smeared with fragrant cream, he inserts one and licks the other; after a while, realizing that he will not finish, he fakes an orgasm, after which he goes to the bathroom to stealthily throw away the empty condom.
In a taxi on the way back, early in the morning, he hears:
Alcohol is slightly bitter
The day has passed and the day is dead.
seedy musician
On the bridge
played my life
Emptiness.
(Christophe, "Beautiful eccentric.")
He decides to continue to masturbate before going out so that he no longer confuses the demon to get up God knows what.
III On the beach, all alone
Hi everyone, I'm an author. Welcome to my brain, sorry for the intrusion. I will no longer fool you: I am my main character. Everything that usually happens to me is, well, seeds. Nobody dies from this. For example, my foot has never been in Sarajevo. My dramas play out in restaurants, nightclubs and stucco apartments. The biggest tragedy I've had to endure lately is that I wasn't invited to a John Galliano celebration. And suddenly on you: for no reason I die, before I feel bad. I remember the time when all my friends drank bitter, then they got big, then they got married, and now the period has come when everyone gets divorced before dying. And this happens, by the way, in the most fun places, here, for example, on the Red Sail, the beach in St. Tropez, the heat, eurodance at the bar to refresh the lumpen pussies in bikinis, they are poured with Crystal Roederer for a million old 0, 75 liters, and then they suck on their navels. In all corners they chuckle. I would drown myself in the sea, but there are too many people water skiing.
How did I allow window dressing to crush my life to such an extent? It is often said: "We must save face." And I say, the face must be killed, only in this way you will be saved yourself.
IV The saddest person I've ever met
There are places in Paris in winter where it is somehow especially cold. No matter how hard you drink strong drinks, it seems like a blizzard blows through the bars. The ice age is coming. Even in the crowd, a thumper makes its way.
I did everything right: I was born into a good family, studied at the Lycée Montaigne, then at the Lycée Louis the Great, received higher education at institutes where I moved among intelligent people; I invited them to dance, there were those who gave me work; I married the most beautiful girl of all my acquaintances. Why is it so cold here? At what point did I fail? I only wanted to please you, and it was not so difficult for me to comply. Why don't I have the right to live like everyone else? Why, instead of the simple happiness with which I was beckoned, did I get only difficulties and tears?
Dedicated to Sophie Christine de Chastenier and Jean-Michel Beigbeder, without whom this book would not have been possible (and so am I)
As a loser, I know what I'm talking about.
Scott Fitzgerald
So what? Well, yes! We must call a spade a spade! A person loves, and then no longer loves.
Françoise Sagan (at a dinner party at her home with Brigitte Bardot and Bernard Franck)
Part I
COMMUNICATING VESSELS
I
With time love passes
Love is a battle. Lost in advance.
At first, everything is fine, even you. You are only amazed that you can be so in love. Every day brings a new portion of miracles. No one on Earth has ever felt so good. There is happiness, it is simpler than simple: it is someone's face. The whole world is smiling. For a whole year your life is one continuous sunny morning, even at dusk and when it snows. You write books about it. Hurry up to get married - why pull if you are so happy? I don’t want to think, it makes me sad; let life decide for you.
Something changes in the second year. You have become softer. Be proud of how well you and your half got used to each other. You understand your wife "at a glance"; it's great to be one. The wife is taken on the street for your sister - it flatters you, but it also affects the psyche. You make love less and less and think: it's okay. You arrogantly believe that this same love is growing stronger every day, when the end of the world is just around the corner. You defend marriage in front of bachelor friends - they do not recognize you. And you yourself are sure that you will recognize yourself when you chant a learned lesson, trying your best not to look at fresh girls, from which it is brighter on the street.
In the third year, you no longer try not to look at fresh girls, from whom it is brighter on the street. You don't talk to your wife anymore. Spend long hours with her in a restaurant, listening to what the table neighbors babble. You and her are increasingly out of the house: this is an excuse not to fuck. And soon there comes a moment when you can no longer endure your half for a single extra second, because you fell in love with the other. Only in one thing you were not mistaken: the last word really always remains with life. In the third year, you have two news - good and bad. The good news is your wife is fed up and is leaving you. The bad news: you're starting a new book.
II
Divorce in a festive way
When you go poddaty, the main thing is to aim between the houses and do not miss. Marc Marronnier steps on the gas, causing his scooter to pick up speed. He maneuvers between cars. They flash their headlights at him, honk when he hits them, just like at weddings in the countryside. Here's the irony of fate: Marronier is just celebrating his divorce. Today he is touring route number 5 bis, and every minute counts: five places per evening ("Castell" - "Buddha" - "Bus" - "Cabaret" - "Queen") - this is already cool, but think about it, that the 5-bis, as the name implies, is performed twice a night.
In such places, he is often alone. Secular people are generally loners, lost in a sea of vaguely familiar faces. They cheer up by shaking hands. Every new kiss is a trophy. They indulge themselves in the illusion of their own importance, greeting celebrities, although they themselves have not done a damn thing in life. They try to visit only where it is noisy - you can not talk. Holidays are given to a person to hide what is on his mind. Few people know more people than Mark, and few people are so lonely.
And tonight is not just a holiday. Today he has a divorce-party! Hooray! To begin with, he bought a bottle in each institution.
Modern French prose writer, publicist, literary critic and editor (Born: September 21, 1965 (age 50), Neuilly-sur-Seine, France).
Quotes from the book "Love lives for three years"
- My problem is that you are the solution.
- There is happiness, it is simpler than simple: it is someone's face.
- The only good news is that they lose weight from grief. No one advertises this diet, and yet it is the most effective of all. Depression For Weight Loss. Do you want to lose weight?
Get divorced, fall in love with someone who doesn't love you, live alone and be sad from morning till night. Extra pounds will melt like snow in the sun. Your body will become lean again and serve you well - if you survive, of course. - You build sand castles, then jump on them with both feet and build again, again and again, knowing full well that the ocean will lick them anyway.
- A woman needs a man's admiration in order to flourish.
- Which is worse, making love without loving, or loving without making love?
- Here's a simple test for falling in love: if, after spending four or five hours without your mistress, you start to miss her, then you are not in love - otherwise ten minutes of separation would be enough to make your life absolutely unbearable.
- The most reliable test is the pool. By the pool it is clear who is who: an intellectual will bury her head in a book in a bathing cap, an athlete will arrange a water polo match, those prone to narcissism will take care of the tan, those prone to hypochondria will smear themselves with protective cream ... If a woman at the pool is afraid to wet her hair so as not to ruin her hair - run away. If she jumps into the water with laughter, jump after her.
- The truth is love starts with roses and ends with thorns.
- And they are waiting for Prince Charming, having hammered into their heads this stupid advertising image that breeds losers, future old maids and vixens, because only a man who is far from perfect can make them happy.
- Love is an incomprehensible thing. When you see it in others, you don’t understand anything, and even less when it happens to you.
- We need to part. Better to be miserable without you than with you.
- I understood one thing: for love not to pass, there must be something elusive in everyone. To prevent insipidity - no, this does not mean spurring yourself on with artificially created stupid shakes, you just need to be able to be surprised at the miracle of every day. Be generous and don't be smart. You are definitely in love when you start squeezing toothpaste onto another brush that is not yours.
- I am a dead person. I wake up in the morning, and I unbearably want one thing - to sleep. I dress in black: I mourn for myself. Mourning for the man he didn't become.
- The only question in love is when do we start to lie? Are you still happy when you return home, where the same person is waiting for you? When you say "I love you" to him, do you still think that? There comes - inevitably comes - a moment when you have to make an effort on yourself. When "I love" no longer has that taste. For me, the first call was shaving. I shaved every night so I wouldn't prick Anna with my stubble while kissing her in bed. And then one night - she was already asleep (I was somewhere without her, returned in the morning, a typical small piggy of those that we allow ourselves, justified by marital status) - she took it and did not shave. I thought it was okay, she wouldn't even notice. And that just meant that I didn't love her anymore.
- To fall in love with someone is a couple of trifles: pretend that you don't give a damn, and that's it. Win-win strategy. Men and women alike fall for those who do not pay attention to them. I love Christina because she doesn't even pretend, she really doesn't care about me. Or, to be precise to the end, spit from a high bell tower. Having fallen in love, you should first of all convince the person you want more than anything in the world that you are neither hot nor cold from him. To love means to play indifference, to drown out the beating of the heart, to say the opposite of what you feel. Basically, love is a scam.
- For love to live forever, it is enough to forget about time. This modern world kills love.
- To frame beautiful girls, there is no need to talk to them. You have to pretend like they don't exist.
- The strongest love is unrequited. I'd rather never know, but this is the truth: there's nothing worse than loving someone who doesn't love you, and at the same time, nothing more beautiful than this has ever happened to me in my life. Loving someone who loves you is narcissism. Loving someone who doesn't love you - wow, that's love.
- We get married the same way we pass Abitur exams or driver's licenses: there are always the same limits that you have to squeeze into in order to be like everyone else, like everyone else, LIKE EVERYONE at any cost. If it doesn’t work out best of all, you try to at least keep up, but what’s good, you will turn out to be worse than everyone else. And this is the best way to ruin true love.