My own grief wasn’t sexual or romantic, but the way it made noise in my life wasn’t so much different from that of the girl narrator’s slippery memory of her lost lover. Grief isn’t static, said The Lover; it is alive. Perhaps every kind of grief is like that: you mourn what is lost, and also the continuous losing, the way you will have to lose it forever. Writing in the vein of Duras isn’t just magical thinking. It’s magical happening.