Written in the splendid bareness of her late style, these pages are Marguerite Duras's theory of literature. Comparing a dying fly to the work of style; remembering the trance and incurable disarray of writing, recreating the last moments of a British pilot shot during World War II and buried next to her house, or else letting out a magisterial "So what?" to question six decades of story telling, all operate as a deceitful yet indispensable confession. This is the final literary testament of one of the greatest French writers of the twentieth century.