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A seductively silhouetted Brigitte Fontaine peeks out from behind a horizontal curtain of interwoven French and English words.
Separate out either the French original or the English translation and you have a powerful angst-ridden Frenchman's blues in which he bemoans his inability to engage with the very world she represents.
Idealised love and sexuality are lies, his inability or unwillingness to embrace the lie is wrong, it's all so beautifully, Gallically, heroically fucked up. Vie de merde.