Paris in the month of August - that's the English translation of the title of this delightful, bittersweet romance, that owes so much to René Fallet's wonderful writing style. A very average married man, living a very average life, is left alone for August, while his family and most Parisians go away for the holidays, and meets a beautiful, young, English girl. They have a Summer romance, a romantic idyl that helps her mend a broken heart, and makes him discover, suddenly, what true love may be. But August ends, the holidays are over, she leaves, his wife and kids come back... and life continues. A very simple story indeed. Told with a great sense of humor (there are some really funny moments), with bravado and poetry, with elegance and wit, that makes you ache for this guy who lives something that will forever remain within him. Fallet was a very popular author in France, and there's something intrinsically French about the way he writes - I'm sure that a translation, as good as it could be, would lose most of the charms of the original version. There is something very touching about this story, maybe because it's so relatable. Who hasn't lived such a Summer love? But the real strength of the novel comes from Henri, the male character, and from how the reader penetrates the complicated, sweet, sad, hopeful heart of a normal, banal man. I defy anyone not to be emotionally choked by the ending.