Charlotte Krebs;Scribner In the Absence of Menby Philippe Besson is getting a new edition on June 3 The book follows two young men, a soldier and an aristocrat, engaged in a torrid love affair during World War I An exclusive excerpt shared with PEOPLE teases the lyrical romance between Arthur and Vincent If the first warm summer breezes have put you in the mood for romance, Philippe Besson has just the thing. In the Absence of Men,originally published in 2002, is back in a new edition from Scribner, and PEOPLE has an early excerpt to whet readers' appetites. It follows the aristocratic, impish Vincent who, at 16, was too young at the start of the Great War to go off and fight. Instead, he spends his afternoons at Parisian cafes with Marcel, an enigmatic middle-aged writer. In the evenings, Vincent embarks on a surreptitious love affair with Arthur, a soldier on leave — who's also the son of Vincent's governess. The PEOPLE Appis now available in the Apple App Store! Download it now for the most binge-worthy celeb content, exclusive video clips, astrology updates and more! The book brings us into Vincent's "first exploration of love with all its yearning, tenderness and torment," an official synopsis teases. "Is this son of great privilege amoral, or just stoic? Can he live by his moral doctrine that nothing is important (except death) and that everything is possible, or will love change him?" Get a taste ofIn the Absence of Menin an exclusive excerpt shared with PEOPLE, below. Scribner In the morning, you are huddled up among the sheets. I imagine soldiers in the trenches sleep and wake in this position, vainly trying to protect their bodies from a bullet, a bomb, from the cold. I realize I have never seen you in your blue uniform, stained with mud and with blood, huddled in your narrow strip of trench, in the terrifying silence of waiting. To me, you are a young man, his skin bare, fresh, tangled in my sheets after my first night of love. I reach out my arm simply to touch you. You shudder but do not wake. I let my palm gently stroke your hip. Day broke some hours ago. I do not dare drag you from your sleep, from your rest. Later, we talk. You say: We thought we were just heading off for the summer, to fight an enemy we thought was wholly in the wrong; we thought we would return victorious, hailed as heroes by our own. What happened to us? You say: You should have seen it, you should have seen the send-off, the cheering crowds following us to the train, everyone joyful, clapping and shouting, cheering us on, it was like a festival to the triumphant sound of the Marseillaise. And we let ourselves be carried along by this euphoria, by this ceaseless, confident uproar. We were a little afraid, of course, but no more than that. We were arrogant, sure of ourselves. We were fools. We were quickly brought down to earth. We had abandoned everything, right in the middle of the harvest, after the magnificent summer of 1914, but we were in no doubt that we would be home before Christmas. To wage a war and to win a war were one and the same. We couldn't begin to imagine the calamity that was about to rain down on us like a cloudburst. I say: I remember the euphoria, the crowds, the fanfares at the send-off. We were all allowed to go to cheer our future heroes. It is true that for me it all seemed like a joyous celebration. When you did not return as quickly as they had said, everyone fell silent. We did not speak of it, of your prolonged absence. We skirted the subject. And when at last we began to speak again, we spoke of other things. We tried to forget you. You say: I know. We all know. And we haven't forgiven you. You are right. There can be no forgiveness for this collective cowardice, for the individual cowardice of each one of us. I do not ask you to forgive. You say: I had decided to stop loving men. But you, you are different. You say: I don't remember what it was like before the war. My memories begin in the summer of 1914. Everything that came before has been lost. Tell me about it. I say: What good would it do? You say: Memories shouldn't only be of suffering. I say: Before the war was the belle epoque, a sort of golden age. In years to come that is what the history books will call it. It was the most glorious decade. Paris glittered. In my memories of childhood, the first thing I see is Paris glittering. But my memories are not those of everyone: I was born to riches, here in the west of the city, here, in the light. Others would doubtless tell a very different story. You say: I would tell a very different story. Never miss a story — sign up forPEOPLE's free daily newsletterto stay up-to-date on the best of what PEOPLE has to offer , from celebrity news to compelling human interest stories. When we fall silent, I realize that you have returned to your sadness. Your sadness is a place which you inhabit. Sadness is a geographical reality. I cannot join you in that sadness, it is impossible. Millions of you know this sadness, but not I. I do not even try to imagine this sadness; to do so would be absurd. I am elsewhere, that is all. I do not resent the fact that I am elsewhere. Nobody could resent me for it. I am in your arms; this is all I know. I have this extraordinary knowledge, this knowledge of the space between your arms. It is my happiness. Happiness, too, is a geographical reality. When you speak again, it is still of war. You say: How could the assassination of an archduke in Sarajevo, of itself, set off such barbarity? I say: I suppose it was already there, the killing was simply the spark which lit the blaze; the hatred between nations had taken shape over years and years and suddenly exploded in that summer two years ago. You say: This nationalist hysteria is inconceivable. I have become a pacifist. I ask: Were you a warmonger before? You reply: Anyone who has not been to war is a warmonger; I'm speaking of myself. And you add: I shouldn't be having this conversation with you. I say: Because I am 16? You say: No, because I am in your bed. The PEOPLE Puzzler crossword is here! How quickly can you solve it? Play now! We do not part. We cannot bring ourselves to part. It seems impossible for us to separate. We are new lovers. We are exhausted and happy. How long we stay in my room, while the fierce light of a glorious day filters through the louvred shutters, I cannot begin to reckon. How long we lie together in the sheets as they soak up our smell, our heat, I could not really say. I know that it could last a lifetime, that it could last until the end of this war, that it could last until evening. It is a madness, a fit of passion, something overwhelming. It is a revelation, a predestination, something which demands to be felt. It is a pleasure, a sweetness, something which makes one want to cry. I listen to the rhythm of your speech. I say nothing. My eyes are wide open. Sweat beads on my forehead. My attention is fixed entirely on you. There is no space for anything other. I say nothing. I do not want to say something which will not measure up to this experience. You are the first man. Excerpted from IN THE ABSENCE OF MEN by Philippe Besson. Copyright © 2002 by Éditions Robert Laffont. English language copyright © 2002 by Frank Wynne. Reprinted by permission of Scribner, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC. In the Absence of Mencomes out June 3 and is available now for preorder, wherever books are sold. Read the original article onPeople