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Posts Tagged ‘Fitzcarraldo Editions’

In ‘A Girl’s Story‘, Annie Ernaux takes us to the time when she was eighteen years old, when she had just graduated from high school and was joining a summer camp as one of the group leaders. It was the first time in her life she was staying away from her family, especially away from the constant gaze of her mother. How this sudden freedom impacts her life, how she is able to stay up late, go to movies, drink with friends, act on her feelings of desire for the first time, and how she lost her innocence and virginity – all these are told in the first part of the book. The second part of the book talks about her time after camp, when she tries to train to become a teacher and how it doesn’t work for her, and how she leaves that and goes to London with one of her friends to work as an au pair and how she comes back after that and enrolls in university to pursue the study of literature.

A Girl’s Story‘ is different from other Ernaux books in three ways. It is double the size of other slim Ernaux books. It has a new translator, Alison L. Strayer. (I miss Tanya Leslie). The most significant difference though is this. In this book Annie Ernaux has clearly amped up her prose. There are sentences like this :

“But she, no doubt, was forgotten more quickly, like an anomaly, a breach of common sense, a form of chaos or absurdity, something laughable it would be ridiculous to tax their memories with.”

And this :

“But what is the point of writing if not to unearth things, or even just one thing that cannot be reduced to any kind of psychological or sociological explanation and is not the result of a preconceived idea or demonstration but a narrative : something that emerges from the creases when a story is unfolded and can help us understand – endure – events that occur and the things that we do?”

I don’t know whether this is because Annie Ernaux changed her writing style, or whether the new translator rendered it this way. I am leaning more towards the first, though the second one could be the truth. I love the new style, the long sentences and the beautiful prose, but they feel very un-Ernaux. One part of me, the Ernaux fan in me, misses the prose of early Ernaux, the short sentences, and the deceptively simple prose which was powerful.

I enjoyed reading ‘A Girl’s Story‘. It is about a time when a girl becomes a young woman and the kind of changes she goes through as a person and how she navigates that transformation. I liked the way Ernaux looks back at her past and treats her past self as a different person and tries to look at that person from the distance of perspective that time gives. It is fascinating to read.

I’ll leave you with one of my favourite passages from the book.

“The time that lies ahead of me grows shorter. There will inevitably be a last book, as there is always a last lover, a last spring, but no sign by which to know them. I am haunted by the idea that I could die without ever having written about ‘the girl of ’58’, as I very soon began to call her. Someday there will be no one left to remember. What that girl and no other experienced will remain unexplained, will have been lived for no reason.
No other writing project seems to me as – I wouldn’t say luminous, or new, and certainly not joyful, but vital : it allows me to rise above time. The very thought of ‘just enjoying life’ is unbearable. Every moment lived without a writing project resembles the last.”

I read this for ‘Reading Independent Publishers Month‘ hosted by Kaggsy from Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings and Lizzy from Lizzy’s Literary Life, an event which celebrates indie publishers for the whole of February. The edition of ‘A Girl’s Story’ I read was published by Fitzcarraldo Editions.

Have you read ‘A Girl’s Story‘? What do you think about it?

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This is the third consecutive Annie Ernaux book I’ve read. In ‘Happening‘, Annie Ernaux takes us back to the year 1963. She is a young university student. She is 23-years old. One day she discovers that she is pregnant. She doesn’t want to have the baby. There is one small problem though. Abortion is illegal in France. Doctors don’t even mention the word while speaking to patients. Doctors can go to jail and be permanently barred from practising medicine, if it is revealed that they helped a pregnant woman in any small way to get an abortion. As Ernaux tries to come to terms with her condition and tries to deal with the situation, she finds that people around her can’t be relied upon. But she also finds help in unexpected quarters, especially from a religious classmate who thinks that abortion is evil. As every kind of method to induce a miscarriage – including medicines, injections and even inserting a knitting needle inside herself – fails, Annie Ernaux is pushed into a situation of finding an abortionist who is working outside the confines of the law. If she or the abortionist are caught, they both will go to jail. What happens after that is told in the rest of the book.

Happening‘ is a powerful, moving book. Though it talks of a time which is nearly sixty years back, and we have come a long way since, as the law has changed and abortion is not illegal anymore in many places, in practice things are still complex and freedom of choice exists only on paper. Ernaux’ book describes how things were once upon a time, and how she survived to tell the tale, and she further goes on to ask some tough questions.

I’ll leave you with some of my favourite passages from the book.

“The fact that my personal experience of abortion, i.e. clandestinity, is a thing of the past does not seem a good enough reason to dismiss it. Paradoxically, when a new law abolishing discrimination is passed, former victims tend to remain silent on the grounds that ‘now it’s all over’. So what went on is surrounded by the same veil of secrecy as before. Today abortion is no longer outlawed and this is precisely why I can afford to steer clear of the social views and inevitably stark formulas of the rebel Seventies – ‘abuse against women’, etc. – and face the reality of this unforgettable event.”

“Somehow I felt there existed a connection between my social background and my present condition. Born into a family of labourers and shopkeepers, I was the first to attend higher education and so had been spared both factory and retail work. Yet neither my baccalauréat nor my degree in literature had waived that inescapable fatality of the working-class – the legacy of poverty – embodied by both the pregnant girl and the alcoholic. Sex had caught up with me, and I saw the thing growing inside me as the stigma of social failure.”

“Girls like me were a waste of time for doctors. With no money and no connections – otherwise we wouldn’t accidentally end up on their doorstep – we were a constant reminder of the law that could send them to prison and close down their practice for good. They would never tell us the truth, that they weren’t prepared to sacrifice their career for some young doe-eyed damsel foolish enough to get knocked up. Or maybe their sense of duty was such that they would have chosen to die rather than break a law that could cost women their lives. They must have assumed that most women would go through the abortion anyway, in spite of the ban. All in all, plunging a knitting needle into a womb weighed little next to ruining one’s career.”

“The law was everywhere. In the euphemisms and understatements of my journal; the so-called forced marriages; the shame of women who aborted and the disapproval of those who did not. In the sheer impossibility of ever imagining that one day women might be able to abort freely. As was often the case, you couldn’t tell whether abortion was banned because it was wrong or wrong because it was banned. People judged according to the law, they didn’t judge the law.”

“The next morning I was back in my room, which I’d left early the previous afternoon with all my books for class. The bed was neatly made, nothing had been touched and almost a whole day had gone by. This is the sort of detail that tells us our life is beginning to fall apart.”

Happening‘ is a powerful book and is a must read. I am glad I read it.

I read this for ‘Reading Independent Publishers Month‘ hosted by Kaggsy from Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings and Lizzy from Lizzy’s Literary Life, an event which celebrates indie publishers for the whole of February. The edition of ‘Happening‘ I read was published by Fitzcarraldo Editions.

Have you read ‘Happening‘? What do you think about it?

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I remember the time, not long time back, when Annie Ernaux was virtually unknown in the English speaking world. Though she was well known in France and her works were acclaimed, outside her French readership, she was virtually unknown. For a long time, the only review of Annie Ernaux that I had seen on the internet was this one by Caroline from ‘Beauty is a Sleeping Cat’. It was a review of Ernaux’ ‘A Woman’s Story‘.

This is surprising, because Ernaux has been translated into English for a while now. The earliest translation of her work appeared in English in the early ’90s (I think it was ‘La Place‘ which was translated into English as ‘A Man’s Place‘ and came out in 1990), and the translations of her books were favourably reviewed. But still, she was virtually unknown. A small indie publisher called Seven Stories Press published Ernaux’ books in English and kept the flame burning for years. Translator Tanya Leslie did all the initial translations and kept the fire burning. Then Ernaux’ memoir ‘The Years‘ was translated into English in 2017, it was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize, and suddenly everyone was reading it, and at the grand old age of 80, after being around in the literary arena for a long, long time, Annie Ernaux suddenly became an international literary star.

These days Ernaux’ books are published by both Seven Stories Press and by Fitzcarraldo Editions in English. The two editions look very different – the Seven Stories edition has a beautiful picture on the cover, it is bigger, the pages have lots of surround spacing while the Fitzcarraldo edition has the standard white cover and look-and-feel that Fitzcarraldo editions have. I love both the editions, but I’ll always have a soft corner for the Seven Stories edition for keeping the Annie Ernaux flame burning across the years and decades. You can see both the editions in the picture below.

Annie Ernaux is odd for a writer. While most writers work in a particular area and publish a memoir or two, Ernaux writes only memoirs. After her initial foray into fiction at the beginning of her career, she moved away and opted to write only memoirs. I counted atleast eighteen of them. There is no one like her. The closest I can think of is Diana Athill, who wrote multiple volumes of memoirs.

I am happy that Annie Ernaux is famous these days and has become a literary star. Her fame is well deserved. But one part of me also feels sad because she was a closely guarded secret by some of us old fans, for a long time, but now the secret of her greatness is out in the open.

I wrote this post for ‘Reading Independent Publishers Month‘ hosted by Kaggsy from Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings and Lizzy from Lizzy’s Literary Life, an event which celebrates indie publishers for the whole of February. I also wanted to write a fan’s love letter to Annie Ernaux.

Have you read Annie Ernaux’ books? Which is your favourite book of hers?

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I have wanted to read Olga Tokarczuk’sFlights‘ ever since I heard about it. I finally got a chance to read it for Women in Translation Month.

So, what is ‘Flights‘ about? It has been described as a novel about travel, human anatomy, life, death, motion, migration. It is all that, but one thing it is not, is a novel. It is like we walk into a forest filled with stories, and we discover a writer who takes everything that she likes and she knows, sculpts that into a beautiful, wild shape and squeezes it into the pages of a book and presents it to us. It is a strange, wild literary animal and it defies classification. For want of a better word, it has been called a novel. Reading it is a fascinating experience, because there is no overall plot, there are no characters who appear through the book. There are stories which are short and which are long – some of which are half a page long and others which are thirty pages long – some of which are based on facts and which appear to be descriptions of actual happenings, while others appear to be fictional –though there are some which appear to inhabit the twilight region between fact and fiction, in which the facts are inextricably woven into the fictional imagination of the author. The best we can say about this book is that it resembles a series of diary entries, and we can open a random page, find the start of the nearest section and start reading from there, without any loss of continuity. There are some stories which have multiple parts, which sometimes immediately follow one another, and which at other times are separated by other stories for a few pages. It is possible to identify these different parts and get to the beginning of that story. There is one story in which two parts are separated by hundreds of pages, and that is the only one in which the parts are hard to connect if we are reading randomly, because these two parts can be read independently too. Outside of this, this book can be read as we please, randomly. I don’t know whether that was the intention of the author. Reading the book is like reading Pascal’sPensées‘ or Marcus Aurelius’Meditations‘ or Jules Renard’sJournals‘ or Madame de Sevigne’sCollected Letters‘ – we can start reading from anywhere and end reading anywhere. The author seems to have given over the control of the reading experience totally to the reader. It is very interesting to contemplate on.

This book was written in Polish originally and was translated into English a couple of years back. If this book had originally been written in English, it probably wouldn’t have seen the light of the day. Most mainstream publishers of fiction in English, who give importance to regular predictable elements like a good first page, a good first paragraph, a plot, character development, conflict in the story, a surprise ending and things like that, wouldn’t have touched this book with a barge pole. Creative writing teachers and students would have critiqued the book adversely during their classes and literary agents would have asked the author to rewrite the book with a plot. That is the state of literature written in English today. I am glad Olga Tokarczuk didn’t write in English. I am glad she wrote in Polish. I am glad she experimented with form and created this incredibly beautiful and endlessly fascinating literary work, which defies classification. I am glad that when the English speaking world has become predictable, European writers continue to take literary risks and produce these wild masterpieces. And I am glad that this beautiful indie publisher called Fitzcarraldo Editions brought out this book in English translation and introduced this strange, glorious, wild literary being to us. Fitzcarraldo Editions, to whom we should be eternally thankful, for publishing this and other great innovative literary works, which were unheard of before.

The book has many beautiful passages and my highlighting pen didn’t stop working. I am sharing a few below.

“Describing something is like using it – it destroys; the colours wear off, the corners lose their definition, and in the end what’s been described begins to fade, to disappear. This applies most of all to places. Enormous damage has been done by travel literature – a veritable scourge, an epidemic. Guidebooks have conclusively ruined the greater part of the planet; published in editions numbering in the millions, in many languages, they have debilitated places, pinning them down and naming them, blurring their contours. Even I, in my youthful naiveté, once took a shot at the description of places. But when I would go back to those descriptions later, when I’d try to take a deep breath and allow their intense presence to choke me up all over again, when I’d try to listen in on their murmurings, I was always in for a shock. The truth is terrible : describing is destroying.”

“Many people believe that there exists in the world’s coordinate system a perfect point where time and space reach an agreement. This may even be why these people travel, leaving their homes behind, hoping that even by moving around in a chaotic fashion they will increase their likelihood of happening upon this point. Landing at the right time in the right place – seizing the opportunity, grabbing the moment and not letting go – would mean the code to the safe has been cracked, the combination revealed, the truth exposed. No more being passed by, no more surfing coincidences, accidents and turns of fate. You don’t have to do anything – you just have to show up, sign in at that one single configuration of time and place. There you will find your great love, happiness, a winning lottery ticket or the revelation of the mystery everyone’s been killing themselves over in vain for all these years, or death. Sometimes in the morning one even has the impression that this moment is close by, that today might be the day it will arrive.”

“The internet is a fraud. It promises so much – that it will execute your every command, that it will find you what you’re looking for; execution, fulfilment, reward. But in essence that promise is a kind of bait, because you immediately fall into a trance, into hypnosis. The paths quickly diverge, double and multiple, and you go down them, still chasing an aim that will now get blurry and undergo some transformations. You lose the ground beneath your feet, the place you started from just gets forgotten, and your aim finally vanishes from sight, disappears in the passage of more and more pages, businesses that always promise more than they can give, shamelessly pretending that under the flat plane of the screen there is some cosmos. But nothing could be more deceptive…”

“It wasn’t a big river, only the Oder, but I, too, was little then. It had its place in the hierarchy of rivers, which I later checked on the maps – a minor one, but present, nonetheless, a kind of country viscountess at the court of the Amazon Queen. But it was more than enough for me. It seemed enormous. It flowed as it liked, essentially unimpeded, prone to flooding, unpredictable. Occasionally along the banks it would catch on some underwater obstacle, and eddies would develop. But the river flowed on, parading, concerned only with its hidden aims beyond the horizon, somewhere far off to the north. Your eyes couldn’t keep focused on the water, which pulled your gaze along up past the horizon, so that you’d lose your balance.
To me, of course, the river paid no attention, caring only for itself, those changing, roving waters into which – as I later learned – you can never step twice.

Standing there on the embankment, staring into the current, I realized that – in spite of all the risks involved – a thing in motion will always be better than a thing at rest; that change will always be a nobler thing than permanence; that that which is static will degenerate and decay, turn to ash, while that which is in motion is able to last for all eternity.”

Have you read Olga Tokarczuk’sFlights‘? What do you think about it?

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