We never stop loving those we once loved. But as we move from person to person, from piece to piece, we try to convince ourselves that we are slowly putting together a jigsaw that will some day show us the true face of love. And then our search will be over. But the only complete picture we have is the most recent, and that image hasn't completely erased the ones that came before. No face is forgotten, none charms us completely. Our lives, therefore, are not a succession of failures, but an unsteady edifice devoted utterly to love.
- from Mammals by Pierre Mérot
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
In the early pages of this humorous if acidic novel, Pierre Mérot (he's often compared with fellow Frenchman Michel Houellebecq) shares some striking thoughts on love: