Sex, and death. All of Marguerite Duras’s writings are suffused with the certitude that absolute love is both necessary (sex) … and impossible to achieve (death). But no book of hers embodies this idea so powerfully, so excessively, as No More (C’est Tout), the book she composed during the last year of her life until just days before her death. No More is literature shorn of all its niceties, a shout from the depths of Duras’s being, celebrating life in defiance of the death she knew had already entered her immediate future. In part, it is also Duras’ raucous salutation welcoming death. No More is a collection of words as pure as poetry and as full-throated as a fish-wife’s call to market her wares, a disturbing and lasting challenge to any reader.