The title of this blog post is also the first sentence in Beigbeder's autobiographical novel. It beautifully captures the dominant mood of our dear protagonist throughout the story - one of misery, anger, and ultimately, a particular kind of existential angst.
He begins by postulating that love essentially has three stages, each lasting exactly one year: passion, one year of gentleness, and the ultimate year of boredom. He uses the reader as a personal psychoanalyst, and spews his thoughts and feelings out as soon as they come to him. One can't escape realizing the common irrationality of his thoughts, but, as it often goes in these cases, through all the irrationality, we seem to glimpse something that seems true on a more fundamental level.
