Romanticism, when you loose we ...

Well, from the first pages, no doubt, is a French novel "cultivated public" contemporary, that is to say that the inevitable romantic and unhappy writer speaks of himself before convening the inevitable avatar of Nadja unfortunate and fascinating. But what is the story - probably upsetting - this female figure? How will his lonely, flamboyant and Nervalian she maintain the flame of hair Eric Reinhardt? Could it be that this meeting other might break a book of his mac inspired by the astonishing fire? Perhaps is it, Oh setting abyss of unsurpassed subtlety of indigestible pad we hold hands (fortunately, it has lent us)? Could it be that this indigestible pad be prolonged by another pad, so that the hair will cease to grow to heaven literary rapture and my (r) re should find themselves in troubled, such as groundwater of new de Villiers stressed quoted?
Next time I go to Paris, I will invite Eric Reinhardt make a foosball in a bar PMU, that the change of the Royal Palace, its romantic unconscious, and vision (which I believe quite sincere incidentally) - which is very divided in French prose is today - of literature as an absolute-that-should-we-get-to-the-silly-reality, which is to it insult (to literature), and the surest way to miss that goal (we learn-to-the-silly-reality). Who wants to write should be able to create a world otherwise it is useless (read Karl Kraus), both admiring himself in a mirror and the point bar.