The story of my life doesn’t exist. Does not exist. There’s never any center to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but its not true, there was no one. The story of one small part of my youth I’ve already written, more or less–I mean, enough to give a glimpse of it … What I’m doing now is both different and the same.”

Marguerite Duras. The Lover