Annie Ernaux's diary of a yearlong affair with a Russian diplomat is repetitive and, for all its reputation for brutal honesty, at times reticent. Ernaux does put herself out there, it is true. In fact she often makes herself look pitiful pining for this man and hanging on his every phone call. The writer in her believes that nothing that is not written ever happened, but sometimes things happen that don't merit writing down. This is a case where a novelization of this affair would have been interesting, but Ernaux's colossal self-regard would not have it.
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