Breillat writes with her own purpose in mind. She cares not to coddle the reader, nor to entertain the illusion of artifice that separates us all. Whether it be the illusory pages of a novel, or staged images on a screen, Breillat's freedom-inducing eye will see the guards you have installed to maintain the sovereignty of your mind. The reader must question their allegiance to their perception of reality before discovering the brutal, erotic prose of Breillat's words. Your mind is meant to be her toy much like how the man and woman in this tale. 

For why you are here, potentially reading this book, in search of some facade of compassion. Have you too meandered through life, entrenched in a prison of lies. We live such similar, broken lives. A battered woman is able to speak to a stupid man, only if he can still love her. For love is bounding. The cosmologic horror of our hatred towards being trapped in an animal's body, cursed to search for what gods enjoy. They enjoy an existence away from anthropocentric cycles of vain attempts to escape the now. The erotic tease lost in the climax of romantic memory. 

Breillat has reignited my francophilia. The french are miserable people, and misery loves company so c'est la vie. Les taquineries sont séduisantes. Merci beaucoup Madame Breillat.