Translated by Richard Howard
Sex and death. All of Marguerite Duras's writings are suffused with the certitude that physical love is both necessary and impossible to achieve. But no book of hers embodies this idea so powerfully, so excessively, as No More (C'est Tout ), the book she composed during the last year of her life up until just days before her death. No More is literature shorn of all its niceties, a shout from the depths of Duras's being, celebrating life in defiance of the death she knew had already entered her immediate future. In part, it is also Duras's raucous salutation welcoming death. No More is a collection of words as pure as poetry and as full-throated as a fish-wife's call to market her wares, a disturbing and lasting challenge to any reader.
"Tense and often mocking observations of the still-inarticulate soul, betrayed by the still longing body. This is one of the fiercest little books in our culture … Give it the last inch on your bedside table to remind you … of the degradations of mortality: greedy, illicit, profound: Odi et amo." —Richard Howard, from the afterword
"Duras' language and writing shine like crystals." —The New Yorker
"It is at once pure artifice, a literary mind in its death throes, and also the rawest thing she's ever written. For all her French sex-kitten affectations, Duras was a micromanager-author, and here she orchestrates even her own annihilation, a bonfire of self-loathing using lovers, past and present, as kindling." —Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Marguerite Duras's voice, whenever we hear it, always goes straight for our hearts." —Le Monde
"Here is laid bare, without doubt, one of the most beautiful secrets of the song of Duras … a song of shadows, drawn from the silent hours of days, and a kind of victory over them." —La Croix
"Simple, naked affirmation of her crazy love." —Le Soir