LOVE LASTS THREE YEARS BOOK
Start by marking “Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years” as Want to Read: 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’. Quotes from Holiday in a. In 'Love Lasts Three Years', our hero Marc has just been divorced and – shallow opportunist that he is – has decided to write a book about it. Marc Marronier comes of age whilst exploring his professed belief that 'love lasts only three years'. Despite the wit worth any effort. Find similar books Profile.
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Love Lasts Three Years is a French-Belgian comedy film written and directed by Frédéric Find sources: "Love Lasts Three Years" – news · newspapers · books · scholar · JSTOR (February ) (Learn how and when to remove this. The bad news: youve started to write a new book. II A Festive Divorce . All it takes is for you to realize suddenly that love lasts three years. Its the kind of. Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years: two novels by Frédéric Beigbeder To read e-books on the BookShout App, download it on: iPhone/iPad.
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 you know by heart, as you try not to look at the beautiful young women that light up the street?
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: this gives you an excuse not to fuck. 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: life does indeed prevail in the end. The third year, theres good news and bad news. The good news: disgusted, your wife leaves you. The bad news: youve started to write a new book. 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: five clubs in one night Castel-Buddha-Bus-Cabaret-Queen is arduous as is, so imagine the Double 5 which, as its name suggests, is carried out twice in one night.
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 buying 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!
Love Lasts Three Years
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: he pretends to be despicable beneath his slick velvet suit simply because hes too ashamed to be sweet. Hes just turned the bastard age when youre too old to be young, and too young to be old.
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 exhausting to prove hes nice or profound, so he takes to behaving like this superficial idiot, erratic and disgraceful.
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: 10 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. 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.
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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.
Holiday in a coma ; and, Love lasts three years : two novels
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. 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: born into a well-off family, I went to the lyce Montaigne then to the lyce Louis-leGrand, I went to college and met all kinds of intelligent people, I invited them to dinner and some even gave me a job, I married the most beautiful girl I knew.
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 13 as they smack their chops? So whenever I drink, its on an empty stomach.
Upside: rapid inebriation. Downside: stomach ulcers. 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.
Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years
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.
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: to try to make some. 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 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 15 end of three years. I read it in a womens magazine: love consists of a rush of dopamine, norepinephrine, prolactin, luliberin, and oxytocin.
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. As for intimacy, its endorphins the opium of lovers. Society has deceived you: youve been sold true love, and yet its been scientifically proven that these hormones cease to function after three years.
Whats more, the statistics speak for themselves: a relationship lasts on average 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. Statistics, biochemistry, my own personal experience: loves shelf-life is always the same. 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: passionintimacy-boredom, a cycle in which each stage lasts one year a triad as sacred as the Holy Trinity. The first year, you buy 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. Love fades with time, a well-known French song published in 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. 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.
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. 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. Its a great idea for a compilation albumIve already figured out a great slogan: Mixtape for the depressed: 20 Heartbreak and tape decks. 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: the latter having the advantage of paying more for fewer words.
I made myself known throwing parties when no one threw parties in Paris anymore. 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. 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: lets just say, to keep it brief, that we moved into an apartment too small for so great a love. 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. We were unfaithful, one right after the other. We broke up like we got married: without knowing why. 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: next, youll see, everything is arranged to ensure they detest one another.
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 25 everyone was looking at me. 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. 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: my flowers must have been ugly, or the gods absent.
In any case, my wish was never granted. 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: a kind of poetic justice, given that Im the one who asked for her hand in marriage. 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 28 around: shouldnt you get married alone, and divorce with the support of all your friends?
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: it would bring people to church, and plus, reselling the wedding bands would bring in more money than the quest for the holy grail, wouldnt it?
Its definitely worth looking into, I think to myself as the judge attempts to reconcile us. Sign in. Please wait Don't have an account? Forgotten password? Whichbook Sign Up. Enter your email address to get started: First name:. Email alerts are only available for registered users. Search for an item in libraries near you: Enter title, subject or author.
Product details Paperback: English ISBN Don't have a Kindle? Try the Kindle edition and experience these great reading features: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Showing of 6 reviews. Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. Clever writing smothered by ego and self-centered shallowness. Not the best by this author but enjoyable,. Paperback Verified Purchase. Kindle Edition. I also saw a play based on it, which was electric! I wanted to review Love Lasts Three years because it's a great book, electric, honest, fast face, heartbreaking, and insightful.
A must read for anybody who is interested in today's French literature. One person found this helpful. Holiday in a Coma is one of bests modern novels like most of Frederic's books.
Psycoanalize of the generation and the age of ad, marketing and fake. I have rarely come across a mess such as this book. I barely managed to read it, only to regret the money and time spent on it!She was a young woman of 27, beautiful yet organic. There will surelyits inevi-. We primarily use our various product blogs to communicate this type of information, so we expect to keep this type of email to a minimum.
When it takes three days for you to get over a hangover. Enter your email address to get started: You know well the sacrifice youve made; the moment you decided to give up everything.
I resent her for making me write this paragraph. In any case, I think Id have had a hard time convincing Anne of that.
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