A review by gamerboy09pc
The Malady of Death by Marguerite Duras

4.0

She smiles, says this is the first time, that until she met you she didn't know death could be lived.

A dead man's a strange thing.

Inside you there are sobs you can't explain. They linger on the brink of you as if they were outside, they can't reach you and be wept. Facing the black sea, leaning against the wall of the room where she's sleeping, you weep for yourself as a stranger might.

You can't understand how it's possible for her not to know of your tears, for her to be protected from you by herself, for her to be so completely unaware of how she fills the whole world.

You say you're lost.
But that you don't know what you're lost to. Or in.

Even so you have managed to live that love in the only way possible for you.

Losing it before it happened.