| Title | : | That Mad Ache \u0026 Translator, Trader: An Essay on the Pleasantly Pervasive Paradoxes of Translation (Afterword) |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0465010989 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780465010981 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 311 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1965 |
In Translator, Trader, Douglas Hofstadter reflects on his personal act of devotion in rewriting Françoise Sagan’s novel La Chamade in English, and on the paradoxes that constantly plague any literary translator on all scales, ranging from the humblest of commas to entire chapters. Flatly rejecting the common wisdom that translators are inevitably traitors, Hofstadter proposes instead that translators are traders, and that translation, like musical performance, deserves high respect as a creative act. In his view, literary translation is the art of making subtle trades in which one sometimes loses and sometimes gains, often both losing and gaining at the same time. This view implies that there is no reason a translation cannot be as good as the original work, and that the result inevitably bears the stamp of the translator, much as a musical performance inevitably bears the stamp of its artists. Both a companion to the beloved Sagan novel and a singular meditation on translation, Translator, Trader is a witty and intimate exploration of words, ideas, communication, creation, and faithfulness.
That Mad Ache \u0026 Translator, Trader: An Essay on the Pleasantly Pervasive Paradoxes of Translation (Afterword) Reviews
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Lucile, a beautiful carefree woman of about thirty, lives happily and contentedly with a rich older man, Charles, as his mistress of two years. She's had a few affairs on the side, but she keeps the promise she made to herself and to him: she would never flaunt it in his face. Charles can't help but accept her for who she is: he's hopelessly in love with her and his only desire is that she reciprocated.
At one of the many dinners at a friend's house, Lucile meets Antoine, a poor young editor picked up by a wealthy older woman, Diane. A comfortable friendship sparks between them but its several days later that it turns into something else entirely, something hot and passionate and inescapable. But Antoine wants more from Lucile than anyone's ever demanded of her, and she'll have to make the biggest decision of her life: stay in a life of comfort with Charles, who understands her perfectly, or throw caution to the wind and move in with Antoine, who brings her alive with his passion but wants more than she can give?
I read this nearly a week ago and didn't have a chance to write the review then when it was fresh - now it seems like a daunting task. I'll just do what I usually do when I get stuck, though: start with what I can say and hope the rest comes.
That Mad Ache is a translation of the 1965 French novel La Chamade, which is, apparently, a rather untranslatable title. It won't be possible to discuss this novel without discussing the translation, for reasons that will become apparent. Never before, though, when reading a novel that's been translated into English, have I considered the translator very much - and in general, they're very much in the background, where most of them prefer to be. While reading That Mad Ache, I was swept up by Sagan's distinctive prose and style - only to feel almost cheated after reading the translator's words afterwards. I'll explain in a bit.
This is one of those lovely, breezy novels, light on plot and almost totally preoccupied with exploring human nature: human foibles, human vanity, human fears, human love. With a distinctly Parisian flair and some quite lovely prose, That Mad Ache reads like a movie where you are drawn into the characters' lives intensely for a few hours, where they come distinctly alive and pulsing in your hands, only to drift away at the end and leave you bereft and nostalgic.
Sagan has a light touch, detailing her characters and their surroundings with deft details that reveal much. Her characters live in a bubble, in isolation from the rest of the world and even their immediate surroundings. Yet it's always there, hovering at the edges. It creates a dreamlike setting, and made me think of those 20s novels and films that are so caught up in themselves and the social lives of their characters. This book definitely had an earlier, less contemporary feel - partly because aside from one quick mention of a TV, there's nothing that really pins it to the 60s. Even the blasé attitude to having affairs is more Parisian than contemporary.
The prose flits between objective, third person omniscient voice to a subjective, third person intimate one, giving us the inner thoughts of the characters as well as an omniscient perspective into their personalities and flaws, things they barely understand themselves. Yet we don't really know more than they do themselves, and they are independent and free-willed, following their own paths. They're utterly familiar, their emotions were ones that I recognised, had felt myself more than once, which only draws you in even more, eager again for the magic. It's a fascinating place to be as a reader, knowing more but less than the characters, avidly watching them dance around each other, understanding what's happening, feeling what they feel, but not knowing where it's going next.
The trouble is, how much of it is Sagan, and how much Hofstadter? I would never have worried about it before, and would have gladly laid the praise all at Sagan's feet, despite the hard work of the translator, except that in the essay that follows the novel, Hofstadter openly discusses what it's like to translate a work of fiction, the paradoxes and difficulties, and also where he inserted his own style.
In a way that makes me feel like a heathen, I think the book is better for having been translated by a modern American - he himself worried constantly about Americanising a French book, and removing it from its setting to negative effect, but he'd be pleased to hear that the end result is far more subtle than that. I don't read French, but I can tell, by the examples he gives of the original French, the earlier translation into English by her ex-husband, and Hofstadter's own translation, that the latter's is smoother, more fluid, more contemporary, less stuffy - more appealing. I feel a bit like a traitor but I can't help it: I'm a product of my times as well, and I derive a great deal of pleasure from reading smoothly flowing prose in a distinctive voice.
The essay is, in essence, a justification for all the small changes Hofstadter made to the original text, but I appreciated the insight. It also makes me concerned for those foreign-language books that have been translated poorly, or in a style that doesn't work for me: you almost have to shop around for a translation that does.
Hofstadter writes in a conversational, opinionated style, and I kept wanting to respond and give my own thoughts back. Like with the change he made to the structure of the novel. The original is divided into three parts: spring, summer and autumn. Hofstadter kept this but added winter and a final part, for the last chapter that's set two years later, because of the time differences. I would object to this change. While the names of the parts did match the seasons - until part three: autumn stretched into winter - I would argue that they are also meant metaphorically. Spring captures things new, curiosity, budding attraction; summer - as Lucile and Antoine practically spell out - is the time of vigour and health and happiness, no longer testing the water but plunging straight into the warmth. Autumn is a season of change, of things fading and dying and yet also settling into comfort and familiarity: things that echo the events of the novel. Hofstadter didn't make all that many changes, and most of them I actually preferred, but this was one that I think he shouldn't have touched.
When he talked about the title, about how titles can change from one language into English, or from English into another language, I wanted to jump in again. I wanted to say "yeah and also from English to American English!" For example, Jaclyn Moriarty's Australian YA novel Finding Cassy Crazy was published in America under the title The Year of Secret Assignments. That's quite a drastic change. Smaller changes, like Markus Zusak's book The Messenger being changed into I Am the Messenger, can be even more puzzling. If it makes him feel better, "That Mad Ache" works well, though if you're going with a different title, hell, the world is your oyster and you may as well be more imaginative.
It's a short novel, and a shorter essay, and I highly recommend both. Sagan, a famous French author whom I've never heard of before, captures with unflinching honesty "that mad ache", that flutter of feeling for a new attraction, the yearning, the hopes and desires of new couples, and then the waning, stretched love that's known too much buffeting. Hofstadter's essay is a wonderful glimpse into the art of translating, and just how much credit these people deserve - and raises the complicated question of just who's book is it anyway? -
"After all, she did deserve sympathy - sympathy for her willingness to so radically complicate her life, all for the sake of this very inflexible man. It would have been so simple to tell him, 'I've quit my job,' and thereby to free herself up from the burden of her daily charades, But since the charades made Antoine happy, might as well keep them up - and truth to tell, at times she considered herself a saint."
I was screaming when I read this paragraph. Although sometimes, I do feel seen by this book. Very existentialist. Reminds me of The Worst Person In The World.
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It’s really wonderful that Sagan (and Hofstadter) could make the totally irrational behaviours of these people become completely understandable (and sometimes almost justifiable?) with these little inner thoughts. Usually these inner thoughts are things that a lot of people can’t even begin to notice or articulate. This third-person omniscient narrative style intercutting with character interactions really works in its favor as Sagan (and Hofstatdter?) adroitly captured the maddening and intoxicating infatuation for someone, down to the adrenaline fueled trembling during an intense coupling, and the next-day anxiety and insecurity that accompanied. But passionate love isn't the only Mad Ache. Aging and falling out of fashion is also a mad ache, as evidenced by Diane's remark at herself growing older and more vulgar. The longing for youth and romance is common for everyone in this book. The scene where Diane and Antoine broke up was one of my favourite things in this book.
The only place this style sort of fell apart for me was during the exchange where Claire was sizing up Antoine and Lucille after their affair first began. It feels supernatural to me that they could read each other's minds during an almost wordless exchange like that. Is this because the high Parisian society is so homogenous that these little subtleties convey definitive meaning to everyone? I have no way of knowing.
But back to the mad ache, I didn't quite get the sense that Lucille felt very torn choosing between Charles and Antoine. There was never a vivid description of her being physical with Charles, or any kind of passionate exchange. I do see that the relationship with Charles is one marked by stability and intimacy, so if the indecision is based on the trade-off between the qualities of passion and stability, rather than the two different lovers, I can understand.
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However, I just didn't feel the mad ache that Hofstadter was describing in the essay. Is it I just can't empathize with Lucille's conundrum? Is it because he dialed the temperature too high? Is it because the ennui is just lost from French if you have to put these feelings into English? Is it because this novel really is an interpretation, and an adaptation, of the original work?
No matter the question about the translation work, the afterword essay was mad interesting. It is colourful, entertaining, direct, thoughtful, and thought provoking. Clearly written by the hands of a popular science writer (if I can accuse him of being one). And I realize, maybe that's what contributed to the novel's clarity to me; never was I confused about anything happening in the book, unlike translations of some other literary works. -
I loved the etymology of "la chamade" (that mad ache) at the end of the novel! As in "Bonjour Tristesse", Sagan exposes the inner thoughts of a young French woman as she attempts to navigate the social mores of the 1960's, high-society Paris. I like Sagan's sometimes brutally honest appraisal of human relationships, especially as they deal with love. There is a realism that resonates with me, and even when her protagonists behave badly, there is an empathy that I appreciate. I can't address the issues of the translation since I have not read the novel in French. However, to me the language flowed well, something that is sometimes problematic in translations.
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Even minor Sagan is better than most writers major work.
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this ~210 page novel is accompanied by a 100 page essay on translation. okay hofstadter, we know you are adorable.
okay so i realize i still haven't gotten anything down on this & so for now am just going to paste in an email i sent john after, pretty choppy & having followed a more in-depth conversation but hey, it's a start; also want to note (& so remember) john's snarky comment, "it's like it was written by someone who's never heard of derrida!"
...OH SNAP
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But do I, a mere translator, have the right to turn up the clarity and vividness knobs? ... Well, the fact is that I'm naturally inclined to turn these knobs up high no matter what I'm writing, because clarity and vividness are, in some sense, my religion. I would be betraying myself if I didn't allow myself to be as clear and as vivid as possible when I translate. - douglas hofstadter, "translator, trader"
which is troubling!: i mean, having the translator choose what things should be made vivid, what things are in fact there to be made vivid??? but something that he gets to later on, & which seems apparent from the excerpts in french, is that (it seems) a great part of why sagan appealed to hofstadter in the first place is the very fact of her own straightforwardness, her simplicity, how explicit & questionless her language is ("questionless" being an awkward word which hopefully will be taken the way i mean it - not that she doesn't use language to question, whether or not that's true, but that the way she uses words doesn't allow much room for ambiguity) --- to a degree that even hofstadter seems to fight against sometimes, as he often finds her language dull & awkward & so, um, changes it --- which, on the plus side, means the book probably hasn't been bastardized too much simply because dh chose to translate someone who already reminded him of himself.
also on the plus side, i've been gifted this massive, flashing, warning sign that translations by hofstadter are given from a place of (for me!) unapproachable linguistic privilege, & that they do not therefore function in the way that i think translations should.
mental notes of issues to return to later (in talks w/ you &/or goodreads for-me review, depending): music argument, ludicrous google comparison, p. 71 "the raw material..." !, p. 77 un "autre" to another - an other, a not her, "low levels" of manipulation, the careenium vs the word, p. 75 "voice" = macro-level, "voice" vs the novel as a work, etc etc etc -
I can't decide if I hate Lucile or not, she's very interesting while so very plain, I have to remind myself that this was written in a different time and she's simply playing a role for the men around her.
She's treated and accepts her role as a "pet" for these men; both men take the role of care taker very differently, while Charles sees her as a bird he can't keep in a cage but simply enjoys looking at her and see her "living" Antoni wants to own her and force her to be who he wants her to be,for her to behave a certain way to be someone she isn't. I don't see this as a book as a love story more of a story of trying to fit into the roles that are given you and struggling to do so.
It's beautiful written and the translation essay was extremely informative. I only wish my French was better so I could read it in the original form. -
I seem to be adding 3 stars to almost every book I read these days! There isn't anything earth shattering about the novel- it's a simple story, at times a beautiful one, about the passion between two lovers. The title is actually a loose translation of Sagan's original title, La Chamade, which embodies that "mad ache" one feels in the throes of love. What I liked a good deal about the book is that Sagan- and the translator- perfectly capture that emotion, which is almost inexplicable. We've all felt at some point in our lives the intense heat and passion for another human being that disappears almost as suddenly as when the attraction first appeared. I know I've felt bewildered at the end of a relationship, wondering "Where did the love go?". You feel absolutely certain, in the very beginning at least, that this person is IT. You can't get enough of a each other, and then one day it's "Poof"!, just gone.
I did not like that the characters were mere archetypes. Lucile really only exists as a plaything for both men, but I had to keep reminding myself that it was the sixties and views towards extramarital affairs and women living on their own were not what they are today. Still, I wish I got to know what ultimately attracted Charles to Lucile and Antoine to Diane. I couldn't see it, especially in Antoine's case, and so I didn't find the relationships very believable.
Do find a copy of the book that has the translator Douglas Hofstadter's essay on his translation of the novel. It's fascinating! I skimmed the text at certain times- Hofstadter does ramble- but did find it a worthy explanation of a translators role with the original writer. Anyone who likes works written originally in a different language will benefit from his insight. -
This is a lovely story, set in 60s Paris so very chic but also rather charmingly quaint. None of the characters are really that likeable, but Sagan really gets into their heads so I found myself empathising with pretty much every one at times.
What really set the book apart for me though was the attached essay by the translator, that made me think so much more about the fact that i was reading a translation, and how that translation had come about... I'd started reading the story but then curiosity about the translation overcame me and I read most of the essay before going back to the novel, and I'm glad I did as it helped me enjoy & appreciate the novel even more.
Even before I read the essay, certain parts of the translation had jolted me as seeming quite Americanised, which I found quite annoying as a British English/Proper English (ooh controversial) speaker reading an American English translation of a French text. Rather than denying this, Hosftadter happily admits that he is quite free in his translation (which he shows by comparing his trans to a 1960s translation) - and even though it still grated with me in places, reading why he chose to translate in such a way was really interesting.
Another interesting and unusual translation choice he made was to capitalise 'vous' as You in his translation, as he picked up on the unusual use of formal pronouns between lovers as important to understanding the dynamics of the story. It's something that is really interesting to notice, but I must admit I would't have even thought about tu vs vous otherwise. -
A beautiful novel set in 1960's Paris. Lucile is a carefree young woman that wants nothing more than to idle her days away reading, napping, walking around the city, and waiting for Charles, her companion of two years, to come home. At a party she meets Antoine, a handsome young editor who has been snatched up by Diane, a rich older socialite. Lucile and Antoine quickly tumble into a romance that neither of them expected nor are able to control. Lucile must decide weather to stay with Charles, her companion of two years who affords her all the leisure and material possessions she could ever desire, or move in with Antoine, who can give her no material wealth but more than enough love and physical passion. Sagan's translated prose is silky smooth, catching readers in the confused and flustered thoughts of young lovers as they dive head first into the dreamy days of that first all encompassing passion, that mad ache.
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Françoise Sagan is the French Jane Austen of the 1960s. Interested now?
Sure, there are a million books about love affairs and dull or bored people with too much money or not enough money at parties, but Sagan always lends a fresh tone, new observations, and it is apparent that she deeply loves even her smallest characters.
Sagan's usual, knowingly irresponsible, girlish protagonist is fun to read here as long as you aren't annoyed by the type, and the ending rings true without being overly melodramatic or trite.
BONUS: Flip the book over and you'll find a bonus book, a 100-page essay from the translator, Douglas Hofstadter, which provides compelling insight into the art and frustration of translating That Mad Ache. It's absolutely worth reading. -
There is a feminist in Lucile somewhere, if you can get past the whole high-maintenance right to do nothing with your life. I thought the relationship with Antoine was relatable, that the audience could certainly feel the ache. Not a bad read, though certainly not vying for a spot in the canon.
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The language is so rich, metaphorical and descriptive, I'm sorry to see this beautiful albeit tragically romantic story come to an end.
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This book is an echo of French New Wave Cinema. The novel is ostensibly about Parisian Lucile, a woman who lives outside of the expected norms of whatever life she lives. The story is enthralling even when so little takes place. It is based around Lucile's love of two men, and the sorrow and happiness this brings all three as she moves through high society and an awkward middle class.
The self-awareness of the characters is something that I often dislike in novels, but in this one it is perfectly in line with the personalities and motivations. It forms a brilliant snapshot of a romantic Paris, simultaneously joyfully heartening and touchingly sad. -
A work of art and intellect beyond expectations
The essay in the end of the novel tells a tale of intense mental and artistic labor to deliver a creation of beauty that embraces the beauty of it's language cradle. -
Didn’t read the translators essay, so this is only for the novel.
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Segan … you did it again.
Couldn’t help but feel sad for Charles, -
I'd acquired this book simply because I wanted to read Douglas Hofstadter's 100-page essay, "Translator, Trader: An Essay on the Pleasantly Pervasive Paradoxes of Translation." Hofstadter here is not as interesting or thoughtful as Edith Grossman - in fact I thought he came across as a well-intentioned dilettante (I don't read French but if the quality of his translation is comparable to his indexes, then That Mad Ache might not be so good). I enjoyed his extended metaphor of translator as dog-on-a-leash (a longer or shorter leash according to the translator's personality). He seems in agreement with Grossman that translation is an act of deep reading and connection with a literary text, and that the final product is a completely new and separate work of art (by Hofstadter-Sagan, Grossman-Cervantes, Garnett-Chekhov, Davis-Flaubert, etc.). But I don't see Grossman in line with Hofstadter's goal of "being oneself" as one translates - she's most focused on uncovering meaning in the text and honoring the work's intent, and though she's not necessarily invisible as translator (she's not suppressing herself), she's focused on the text and not the vagaries of her own readerly impulses. (page 8-9 of Why Translation Matters: "In the process of translation we endeavor to hear the first version of the work as profoundly and completely as possible, struggling to discover the linguistic charge, the structural rhythms, the subtle implications, the complexity of meaning and suggestion in vocabulary and phrasing, and the ambient, cultural references and conclusions these tonalities allow us to extrapolate.")
Hofstadter is entertainingly whimsical and unabashed in describing his love for this novel, explaining that after reading it in its original French he craved to re-experience it from the inside, by trying his hand at translation. I love that Hofstadter attempts projects like translation and indexing, and then examines his own mind doing the work. (In Le Ton Beau de Marot he describes his index as a "tiny-print behemoth" and the work as "a labor of love that too me a full month of nonstop fifteen-hour days to carry off;" and in I Am a Strange Loop he mentions the "nightmare of preparing an index [.] Only if one has slaved away for weeks on a careful index can one have an understanding of how grueling (and absurd) the task is"). That is his game, is it not? - to study cognitive neuroscience by examining his own cognition.
As for the novel: I liked it, and the translation seemed just fine (whatever that means). The story was very sad; I wanted to give these people some advice; and it had a bit of a James Salter-A Sport and a Pastime-feel. The novel left me rather depressed, even. But more interesting than the melancholy I experienced, was coming to understand - as I read - why Hofstadter loved the novel so much. It was apparent, actually: Sagan's third-person omniscient narration that dove into the characters' mentation, and their wracking examinations of their every impulse - taken to a profound depth that I miss from many novels. Whether or not Hofstadter was caught up in the romantic pursuits of Lucille, Antoine, and Charles, he must have been in rapture while following the thoughts of these characters and their author. -
"One should never smoke on an empty stomach, nor for that matter should one partake of alcohol, drive fast, make love too often, tax one's heart, spend one's money, or do anything else."
I enjoyed this novel for the same reason I have enjoyed several of Sagan's other works - its smart, spoiled and utterly hedonistic protagonist. Lucile is a kept woman of Parisian high society who becomes torn between the dependability of Charles, her ageing beau and benefactor, or her much younger, much less predictable paramour Antoine. A haibtuée of the Parisian beau monde, she must decide whether to settle for the steadiness Charles can offer or Antoine's passionate love. Sagan's prose is light and flowery, and she renders what more crude authors might vulgarise as delicate scenes of lovemaking and the evocative languor of mid-60s Paris. And while, yes, Lucile is a "pet" (as Sagan describes her), the protégée of a wealthy man, there is something about her which greatly appeals to the mondern reader - her vivacity and self-possession counteract her egotism, making her unrelenting selfishness more engrossing than repulsive. -
I'm obsessed with a French film from the 1960's called La Chamade. Catherine Denevue, Paris, an Yves St. Laurent Wardrobe... it's gorgeous, sophisticated and stylish. When I found out there was a book upon which the film was based, I ordered it right away.
This is the story of a kept woman who holds on to her carefree adolescence (and avoids taking responsibility for her life) by staying in a relationship with a wealthy, older man who is enamored by her youth and beauty. But when she becomes passionately attracted to a young working class artist, she must decide if passionate love is enough of an impetus to become a true adult, and even — Gasp! — work for a living, in order to be with her lover.
I can relate to this conflict and spent some of my twenties playing it out. I liked the book a little less than the movie, but still really enjoyed it. You should read this alone in a cafe with a glass of red wine. -
Sagan's short novel is brief in plot but immense in character and observation, and Hofstadter's translation brings a vigor to the language that's often lost when stories are moved to English. It's rare to find such well-imagined and complex characters (although Antoine could be a bore at times) in such a short space.
I've rarely trusted a translated novel enough to read it, but Hofstadter's essay at the back--as lengthy as the novel itself--addresses many of the concerns I've had about reconciling an artist's intent with the translator's obligations to the author, the reader, the language, and even the translator. He perhaps gives a few too many examples now and then, and some of his choices smack of rationalization and his metaphors self-serving. But overall it was a rare and happily-found look at one translator's concerns with a work and the choices that were made to bring a novel from one language to another. -
Lucile is a young 30 year old living with a wealthy older man for two years now. Although she isn't head over heels passionately in love with him she loves him dearly and imagines that's how it will be forever.
Antoine ruins that picture. He and Lucile hit it off at a dinner party in Paris and immeadiatly have an intense passion for each other.
In my opinon Lucile is spoiled. She doesn't work, only cares for what is happening at the exact given time and enjoys lounging and living off others. She ends up leaving Charles (her older man) for Antoine. Charles claims she'll be back because only he loves her for what she is, an irrespondsible girl child. Sure enough it fizzles with Antoine and she comes back to Charles who still loves her regardless of her crappy nature. -
It's become increasingly more important to me in a book the quality to present a world that is otherwise inaccessible, whether because its settings are in the distant past or because it describes a social world or landscape distinct and faraway. This, and more, was what I found here, a lovely introduction into Parisian high society of the 1960s, which is the backdrop to a young woman's journey through love and passion. I also thought the characters were wonderfully and richly developed. As for narrative deft, I was well pleased with the arch and the even-keeled balance kept by the author. Also the book was not too long.
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I thought this was an OK book. I didn't get fully into it until about 1/4 to 1/2 the way in. And once I did it didn't seem to go anywhere. It's not a bad story though. It seemed to be a pretty accurate portrayal of 2 young couples who find themselves infatuated with the wrong significant others. Which made it out to be a somewhat depressing story. I was up in the air about the book until I read the end and felt it redeemed it worth a little.
I would only recommend this book to someone if they needed a good in between book, or if they were looking for something "light", something they could put down and pick up at anytime. -
I hadn't read Francoise Sagan since I was in high school, when I had to do a translation of "Bonjour Tristesse" for class. What fun it was to read "That Mad Ache", which seems like a frivolous tale of the overprivleged in 1950's Paris, but is actually an insightful character study. The main character, Lucile, is so immature frustrating as a person, but compelling enough to hold your attention. The other side of the book is "Translator, Trader" which is an interesting mini-book (100 pp) about the art of translation by Douglas Hofstadter.
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Francoise Sagan writes an extrodinary character analysis of a sensitive, bright, irresponsible young woman, 30 year old Lucile. Mistress to and well kept by Charles, her 50 year old lover who needs to be needed, Lucile falls in love with Antoine, her age, and has a passionate affair with him. It is the story of a rootless woman, who desires no responsibilities and who is forced to examine two very different kinds of love and make a choice. Set in Paris in the 1960's, I simply did not care about any of the characters.
