Μια μέρα δεν είναι πια εκείΞυπνάτε και δεν είναι εκείΈχει χαθεί μέσα στη νύχταμόνο τα σημάδια του κορμιού της στα κρύα σεντόνιααπουσίαΞημερώνειο ήλιος αργεί αλλά ο ορίζοντας δείχνει να χαράζειο ουρανός είναι ακόμη σκοτεινόςμια ελπίδα ημέραςστο άδειο δωμάτιοΜόνοςτο σώμα απόνη απουσία αυτή σας επιβεβαιώνει τις διαφορές σαςαπό μακριά ακούτε τις σκληρές κραυγές των πεινασμένων γλάρωνκαθώς ορμούν στα σκουλήκιακαθώς εξερευνούν την άμμοπου σχηματίστηκε μετά την άμπωτηστο σκοτάδι του δωματίουοι σκληρές φωνές των γλάρωνσας τρυπούν το μυαλόμε πρωτόγονη αγριότηταΈχει φύγει οριστικάΤο βράδυ διηγείστε την ιστορία στο μπαρΞεκινάτε με μια φυσικότητα λες κι είναι ποτέ δυνατόν να μιλήσει κανείς για μια τέτοια ιστορίαΤο αφήνετεΠροσπαθείτε να την πείτε γελώντας, σαν μια απίθανη περίπτωση η σαν ένα αποκύημα της φαντασίας σαςΤην άλλη μέρασε ανύποπτη στιγμήθα κατανοήσετε την απουσία της στο χώροτην άλλη μέρα θα θέλετε να τη ξαναποθήσετεεγκλωβισμένος στη νέα σας μοναξιάνα την ποθήσετεσα να είναι πάλι η πρώτη μέραΊσως προσπαθήσετε να την ψάξετε έξω από το σκοτεινό δωμάτιοστην ακρογιαλιάστις πλατείεςστους δρόμους που αφήνεστε να βαδίσετεΜα δεν θα τη συναντήσετε ξανάγιατί στο φως , σας είναι δύσκολο να αναγνωρίσετετα σημάδια της νύχτας, που ξέρετεΔεν θα μπορέσετε ποτέ πια να την αναγνωρίσετεΣας έχει μείνει η μνήμη του σώματος να κοιμάταιαυτότα μισόκλειστα μάτια τηςαυτόΤο σμίξιμο των κορμιών σαςδεν μπορείτε να το αναγνωρίσετεποτέ ξανάποτέ δε θα μπορέσετεποτέ δε θαποτέΌταν κλαίγατεκλαίγατε μόνο για τον εαυτό σαςκι όχι για το αδύνατοτης συνάντησης σαςμετάκαι πέρααπό το διαφορετικό σας σύμπανΑπό όλη την ιστορίακρατάτε μόνο λέξεις που είπεστον ύπνο τηςλέξεις που ορίζουν την ασθένειά σαςΑΡΡΩΣΤΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΘΑΝΑΤΟΥαφήνεστεσταματάτε την αναζήτησηδεν την ψάχνετε πια στην πόλητις νύχτεςτις μέρεςδεναφήνεστεΌμως με τούτο το τόσο ιδιωτικό σας τρόποτα καταφέρατε να ζήσετε τον ...Έρωταμε τον μόνο ικανό τρόπο που μπορείτεχάνοντας τον πριν ακόμη γεννηθεί.( transcription du français par t.f. )
I was turned onto Marguerite Duras’ work by a comment made in an interview of Camilla Monk, wherein Ms. Monk credited Ms. Duras as one of her influences in romance. I’ve spent the last couple days scrounging up books and watching the phenomenal Hiroshima Mon Amour. I’m a bit exhausted. But still going, adding The Lover and The Ravishing of Lol Stein to my TBR. [Pretty sure “Lol” isn’t really “LOL”.]Just had to add that aside; I need a bit of lightness after a few days of Ms. Duras. Not that Malady was oppressively dark, but it wasn’t easy. The plot upshot: A man hires a woman [not a prostitute, though] to have an extended fling with him over the course of several days. Over those days, it's determined that he is incapable of love, due to his "malady". I’m not entirely sure where to start in my assessment of it, or where that assessment will take me. So I will start with a line that haunts me; the line that became the crux of all my questions: She’s more mysterious than any other external thing you’ve ever known.It’s so complicated – on the surface, it’s a romantic statement about the mysteries of a woman and how they can tangle a man. But the “external” bit adds the complexity: Is the protagonist even more of a mystery to himself than this woman, a virtual stranger? That’s not good. That disturbs. Intrigues.Further complicating the statement is the use of second person. And I’ll have to digress into two problems I have with the narration. First of all, there are no quotation marks to delineate dialogue, so this monstrous little gem leapt out at me [emphasis mine]:And then you do it. I couldn't say why. I see you do it without knowing why. You could go out of the room and leave the body, the sleeping form. But no, you do it, apparently as another would, but with the complete difference that separates you from her. You do it, you go back towards the body.It’s not dialogue – I’m quite certain of it, but if anyone reading this disagrees, please provide evidence. If I’m correct, where did “I” come from? And going back to that “external”, is it the POV of the protagonist “I” or the narrator’s assessment of the protagonist “you”? And where does that leave the rest of the tale?The conundrum worsens [and strengthens my opinion about that "I"] when viewed in light of Ms. Duras’ afterword with staging notes, wherein it’s stated that the narrator is not the “you”, but literally the narrator:The man the story is about would never appear. Even when he speaks to the young woman he does so only through the man who reads his story. [. . .] The man reading the text should seem to be suffering from a fundamental and fatal weakness—the same as that of the other, the man we don't see.I know I’m not likely to solve all of my problems with this novella, but it hardly matters. It has made me think of so many new things. About writing and style and love and death and how thoughts can cling like leeches and it’s not a problem. I love works like this. So fraught with subtext that there can be no escape for me. I’m on the fence about the actual writing [granted, it’s in translation], but for how the work is in my head now, five many-pointed stars.
Do You like book The Malady Of Death (1994)?
«Usted pregunta cómo podría surgir el sentimiento de amar. Ella le responde: Quizá de un fallo repentino en la lógica del universo. Dice: Por ejemplo de un error. Dice: Nunca por quererlo. Usted pregunta: ¿El sentimiento de amar podría surgir de otras cosas aún? Usted le suplica que diga. Ella dice: De todo, de un vuelo de pájaro nocturno, de un sueño, del sueño de un sueño, de la cercanía de la muerte, de una palabra, de un crimen, de uno, de uno mismo, de pronto sin saber cómo. Dice: Mire. Abre las piernas y en el hueco de sus piernas separadas ve usted por fin la negra noche. Usted dice: Era ahí, la noche negra. Era ahí.»Bello. Pero la inefabilidad de Duras resulta cansina a veces, en tanto convierte una novela en solo instantáneas, fotogramas irresueltos llenos de preguntas.
—Aaron Gallardo
This is much too short to be a novel and is more a novella or a long poem. It reads very languidly, sort of meandering through time and emotion. It is both depressing and engaging at the same time. He wants to know love. The love is all mixed up with the death and dying. It's the kind of story you feel like you should read whilst smoking a cigarette and enjoying a bottle of wine--and I don't smoke. It's just so very atmospheric. I am not sure really how to describe it but it's an interesting read.
—Angela
Although the cover says it's a novel, I would say this book defies classification. Occupying a deceptively slight 60 pages of large text, set langorously adrift within oversized margins, the book reads like a long prose poem or a poetic short fiction, while the last 5 pages consist of instructions for staging the piece as theatre or a film, given in language as idiosyncratic as the preceding text, which is replete with poetic repetition, contradiction, and simple but penetrating imagery.There are only two characters (three if you count the narrator), who are unnamed. The story isn't complicated. A man offers to pay a woman who is not a prostitute to sleep with him every night over an extended period of time. She agrees. When they are not having sex, he walks around the room or the terrace while she sleeps or, despite his initial insistence on silence, they talk. As befits an essentially poetic form, what gets said expands considerably beyond the confines of their brief exchanges of words, the oversize margins of the book, or the simplicity of its text.I finished this book in the time it took to go 5 stops on the Copenhagen Metro, from the Airport in Kastrup to Nørreport Station. Then I had to read it again. And again.
—Zalman
