As terribly weary as I am of "pink novels", this book is far beyond the "romance" - it borders the philosophical/existential. It is not so much about Paris or particular characters or Lucile's meeting her lover - they are all just symbols used to question the search for happiness, and the terror of the routine. So convicing I couldn't put it down. But I don't think it makes you cry. Rather it makes you think. Lucile is fascinating, a weak/strong free/prisoner we've all met in real life. The rise of passion, the end of hope. What to surrender to, what is a victory, what is a capitulation? It is a story of disallusionment and my (Russian) translation of it was titled "Signal for Capitulation", which is strangely appropriate. No phisolophical answers in this book, no Kierkegaard-like essays, just vague questions, and quite a bit of pleasure.