This paper-thin récit
, first published in 1986, consists of a nameless woman's monologue addressed to the (also unnamed) lover who left her ten years earlier, for another man. That's really all there is to it (the "novel," Bronsard's first, is almost totally devoid of specific detail), and all one can say is that Colette and Marguerite Duras have done this sort of thing already, and done it better. Finally, on the last page, the narrator manages to dismiss the cad from her memory, asserting "I've passed through the hour of pain." So has the reader, who won't remember The Hermitage
nearly as long as She remembered Him.
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