There are books we read and forget they ever existed in no time. There are books we love for a while and think that nothing will ever top them and there are books that make us stay awake for nights even after we finished reading them. Writers have outstanding creative abilities, they make us believe things and they sell us the world even if we don’t want to buy it. I read books people tell me are worth reading. If somebody says to me: ” I just finished this book, I think you would love it”, I would buy it the next day. There is no sense of adventure there, but it usually works for me. I don’t have a “type” of books I read. I read what I like and I like what I read (most of the time). This book I finished on a very uncomfortable chair in the kitchen next to a nice glass of wine is written by Frederic Beigbeder (a french writer who’s novels are often autobiographical, even though he sustains that he is “more normal in real life than in my books”). The way he puts words together made me very angry sometimes. He says things that almost offended me because they were so true. They are true, but one should never say them out loud. The protagonist, Marc, a shallow opportunist has just been divorced and decided to write a book about it. His theory is that love lasts no more than three years. The book reads like a diary, sometimes tender and real, sometimes cruel and acerbic. A book that kept me awake for a while. Certainly worth investing time in.