Time commented on Moravia's The Empty Canvas that to write a whole book about boredom was to invite literary suicide. Mlle. Arnaud has written only half a book about boredom -- or her ""fatal gift"" of indifference; it is very short. It is also just as recognizable as one of Sagan's susurrant sighs. The words she whispers do become reiterative: i.e. she is ""opaque""; her lovers are ""tender"" and make love ""tenderly""; and either or both have ""luminous"" eyes. Actually Anne, who tells this small story of her two years of ""experience"", recaps it thourgh Christian, who taught her pleasure; Pierre, who is her fraternal accomplice and knows her limitations; and Francois, with whom she is briefly in love, only as long as he is more preoccupied with his work than with her. When this is no longer so, she is again the victim of her winterkilling indifference, ""so cold, so lucid, so easily on the outside."" Mlle. Arnaud has written not only a short book-- it is a small book, in intimate, rather self-indulgent, dilettante trifle which is indisputably French. D'accord?