All I saw was her brilliance, her figure, her uniqueness. And now what I get out of it is heartache and these sentences. Of the first I know the territory well; I’ve lived through dozens of apostasies. This one will be less lengthy than all of that life’s-bunch because I know now, with thoroughness, the unsuitability of our pairing. Of the latter – the writing of this – I’ve also lived through dozens. No; that’s a bad pun. Actually what I want to say is that I might have known, eh? But it’s good; it’s great; it’s perfect: a book about a woman I tried to love but failed. It’s another starry gift to the world out of the great anonymous literature cabinet. Regardless of its publication or its prospective readership: perfect. Like all of us are. Like Celadine Caranotte.