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یادداشتها� کوچه و خیابان
Taking the form of random journal entries over the course of seven years, Exteriors concentrates on the ephemeral encounters that take place just on the periphery of a person’s lived environment. Ernaux captures the feeling of contemporary living on the outskirts of Paris: poignantly lyrical, chaotic, and strangely alive. Exteriors is in many ways the most ecstatic of Ernaux’s books—the first in which she appears largely free of the haunting personal relationships she has written about so powerfully elsewhere, and the first in which she is able to leave the past behind her.
112 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1993
219 people are currently reading
11.4k people want to read
About the author
Annie Ernaux
84books8,798followersThe author of some twenty works of fiction and memoir, Annie Ernaux is considered by many to be France’s most important writer. In 2022, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. She has also won the Prix Renaudot for A Man's Place and the Marguerite Yourcenar Prize for her body of work. More recently she received the International Strega Prize, the Prix Formentor, the French-American Translation Prize, and the Warwick Prize for Women in Translation for The Years, which was also shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize in 2019. Her other works include Exteriors, A Girl's Story, A Woman's Story, The Possession, Simple Passion, Happening, I Remain in Darkness, Shame, A Frozen Woman, and A Man's Place.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 614 reviews
April 24, 2024
Deserved winner of the 2022 Nobel Prize for Literature!
Sexism, economic inequality and classism; Annie Ernaux observes a lot of broader society from overheard metro conversations, from shopping in malls, by visiting galeries and observing life in general around Paris.
I’m visited by people and their lives - like a whore.
Interesting observations from 1985 till 1992 that still capture a lot of relevant themes of the current day. The exhibitionism of people, discussing loudly their lives in public transport while being dressed in tracksuits, made me think of social media and how much easier it is nowadays to mass broadcast oneself to the world. Also the collapse of retail is clearly not effectuated in Ernaux her book, but can be seen sort of starting, with cashiers chatting, people to pick up trolleys being laid off and butcher visits as the heart of the social happening in the town slowly fading out.
Graffiti (against colonial wars for instance) and homeless people often recur, being seen and documented by in this slim book. The conversations she writes down, sometime ad verbatim, are often hilarious: It’s just not fair. Then: I want to go back into my egg, it was nice and cosy.
All the while the author is acutely aware that it is hard to move from general observations to the interior or statements on the broader time and age, shown by sentences like: I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.
Overall I really like the writing style of Ernaux and the social perspective that is apparent in her writing. This was a shorter and older work, also less personal than the auto fiction she is more known for, but it still is very much an interesting read. 3.5 stars rounded down.
Sexism, economic inequality and classism; Annie Ernaux observes a lot of broader society from overheard metro conversations, from shopping in malls, by visiting galeries and observing life in general around Paris.
I’m visited by people and their lives - like a whore.
Interesting observations from 1985 till 1992 that still capture a lot of relevant themes of the current day. The exhibitionism of people, discussing loudly their lives in public transport while being dressed in tracksuits, made me think of social media and how much easier it is nowadays to mass broadcast oneself to the world. Also the collapse of retail is clearly not effectuated in Ernaux her book, but can be seen sort of starting, with cashiers chatting, people to pick up trolleys being laid off and butcher visits as the heart of the social happening in the town slowly fading out.
Graffiti (against colonial wars for instance) and homeless people often recur, being seen and documented by in this slim book. The conversations she writes down, sometime ad verbatim, are often hilarious: It’s just not fair. Then: I want to go back into my egg, it was nice and cosy.
All the while the author is acutely aware that it is hard to move from general observations to the interior or statements on the broader time and age, shown by sentences like: I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.
Overall I really like the writing style of Ernaux and the social perspective that is apparent in her writing. This was a shorter and older work, also less personal than the auto fiction she is more known for, but it still is very much an interesting read. 3.5 stars rounded down.
March 18, 2023
37th book of 2023.
Not even sure this took an hour to read. A nothing book from Ernaux. Fragmented descriptions, no real emotion, and obviously no character, beside Ernaux herself. As per I find Ernaux sometimes illuminating, but mostly less than impressive and at times, pretentious. There's just something about her I can't get behind. I thought The Years was good, better, but this and Getting Lost were mostly just a waste of time. This didn't really need publishing, at all. Maybe I like overwriting? Who knows. But honestly, I finished this in a bookshop, put it on the shelf, and it immediately vanished from my mind. Felt like reading a load of chopped-up things on the Internet, time-passing but devoid of any guts.
Not even sure this took an hour to read. A nothing book from Ernaux. Fragmented descriptions, no real emotion, and obviously no character, beside Ernaux herself. As per I find Ernaux sometimes illuminating, but mostly less than impressive and at times, pretentious. There's just something about her I can't get behind. I thought The Years was good, better, but this and Getting Lost were mostly just a waste of time. This didn't really need publishing, at all. Maybe I like overwriting? Who knows. But honestly, I finished this in a bookshop, put it on the shelf, and it immediately vanished from my mind. Felt like reading a load of chopped-up things on the Internet, time-passing but devoid of any guts.
July 28, 2023
I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.
In this memoire Ernaux sets out to relate her observations during her daily outings on the train, in the supermarket or the mall like a series of snapshots.
February 6, 2022
So I think this is the last of the several brief memoirs or autofictions I have read and all in 2022 so far (!) from Annie Ernaux. I read ones about her mother, her father, her early sexual life, an affair with an older, married man, an abortion, all in separate books, many based on detailed diaries she kept over the years. This one, Exteriors, is Ernaux looking more “out� on the “exterior� world.
Again, she draws on diary entries she wrote while commuting on the Paris Métro, usually just observing strangers, and seeing how they help her reflect on her own life. Actually, she might say that the exterior life becomes her life, she uses it as a way to reflect on her own memories:
". . . anonymous figures glimpsed in the Métro or in waiting rooms . . . who revive our memory and reveal our true selves through the interest, the anger or the shame that they send rippling through us."
In some of the books she tries to be almost ruthlessly unemotional, focusing on cold descriptions of events and relationships. In Exteriors she is maybe more directly reflective. Here’s a kind of similar reflection to the last quotation, a little more expanded::
“My reaction confirms a well-known truth: we believe, because we stop using them, that certain words have disappeared or that poverty has ceased to exist now that we earn a living. Strangely enough, there exists another truth, the exact opposite: when we go back to a town we left a long time ago, we imagine that the people there will still be the same, unchanged. Both laws rely on the same misconception of reality, the only reference being oneself: in the first case, we imagine everyone else has lived our life, while in the second, we long to recapture our past identity through people who are frozen in time, whose features are the same as when we last saw them.�
She tells us that she decided to write this book when her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, seeing that people she knew were becoming strangers. She says she wanted to take a closer look at strangers she encountered in her own world, to see what they might offer her.
Again, she draws on diary entries she wrote while commuting on the Paris Métro, usually just observing strangers, and seeing how they help her reflect on her own life. Actually, she might say that the exterior life becomes her life, she uses it as a way to reflect on her own memories:
". . . anonymous figures glimpsed in the Métro or in waiting rooms . . . who revive our memory and reveal our true selves through the interest, the anger or the shame that they send rippling through us."
In some of the books she tries to be almost ruthlessly unemotional, focusing on cold descriptions of events and relationships. In Exteriors she is maybe more directly reflective. Here’s a kind of similar reflection to the last quotation, a little more expanded::
“My reaction confirms a well-known truth: we believe, because we stop using them, that certain words have disappeared or that poverty has ceased to exist now that we earn a living. Strangely enough, there exists another truth, the exact opposite: when we go back to a town we left a long time ago, we imagine that the people there will still be the same, unchanged. Both laws rely on the same misconception of reality, the only reference being oneself: in the first case, we imagine everyone else has lived our life, while in the second, we long to recapture our past identity through people who are frozen in time, whose features are the same as when we last saw them.�
She tells us that she decided to write this book when her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, seeing that people she knew were becoming strangers. She says she wanted to take a closer look at strangers she encountered in her own world, to see what they might offer her.
December 10, 2022
Ernaux Season. Day 6.
Ernaux capturing her surroundings in mini paragraphs makes me want to do the same.
The train crawls along, as the autumn conditions in Toronto necessitate caution when navigating the open-space areas of the subway track. The rays of sunshine make reading difficult. I look around the train, glancing the same old sea of faces staring at black mirrors (this is a tired description, and I’m leaving it there). A young couple by one of the window double-seats. Must be their second or third month of dating - it cannot be more than that. He grabs her hand tentatively, bringing it up to his lips and placing a tender kiss on its fingers. She giggles, throws her shoulders up to savour the moment, then looks out the window. A few more stops left for me. He looks relieved. He has defeated a vicious beast - nerves. I can’t help but take pleasure in having witnessed the building blocks of a budding romance. Will it last? I find myself thinking. Does it matter? The process, the process, the process. Over and above everything.
***
It might be the day after, it might be the same stretch of subway tracks. We stop at a station, I look up from my book. A girl walks in, and I have a chance to glimpse her profile. She turns her head slightly and I see her whole face. Innocence personified. She takes a seat a few feet away from me. I go back to reading. Once in a while, I gaze ahead, but from the corner of my eyes, I can see her. She is hunched over, looking at what she is holding in her hands, thumbs twiddling. Black mirror theme again, I assume. It’s the same series of actions carried out by all others around me. After a few paragraphs, I chance a look. She doesn’t have a phone in her hands. No. She is twirling one single bead on a wrist band. The motion is so tender, so loving. I fight back tears.
***
I showed my friend a watch I purchased the other day. Cheap watch, purchased off of Amazon. I just liked the look of it. I was tired of wearing the same couple over and over again, but I didn’t want to blow the bank on something extravagant. I was excited to show him the watch, because he had told me that cheap watches can be bought and worn, can be fashion statements despite their price. If it looks good, he had told me, then it looks good. He saw the watch, saw that it was Amazon-branded and purchased from them. He started to get testy, heated. I probed. He told me that he thought I was trying to goad him into a reaction by showing him the watch and its manufacturer, having previously known his political stance and general affiliation with the company. The lenses of narcissism have thickened for everyone. A simple act of joy turned vicious, having unsuspectingly intruded on a personal bubble of creed. This is my friend, I thought. Imagine what it could be like for perfect strangers.
***
The first year of my studies as a graduate student comes to me. The basement was new, most of my cohort had offices on this level. The maze was a challenge. There was a small hit of pride every time I would remember that someone’s office was B_ _ _. I was bedding myself into the atmosphere, we all were. Today I’m alone. Same office, same place, same basement. Same smells, same maze. Everything is different. I find myself turning the corner, hoping to run into someone I spoke to a few years ago, just to have the chance to strike up a conversation that will bring us back to those days. We’re all different.
***
I am thinking about attraction tonight. I’ve been open to it again, these past few months. Let it back into my life. I take a long walk with a friend. Years ago, we used to be something. She tells me about her boyfriend, how they’re going strong. I feel nothing but joy for her. I tell her about a girl. She’s excited, wants to know more. We had grabbed coffee, had a chat, gazed into each other’s eyes. That was it. Really. She seems disappointed. You didn’t do anything? Text her? Ask her out again? Make a move? No. I hadn’t felt the attraction, I lie. Why do I lie? I want her to stop bringing it down to the practical, to the physical, for one second. I hadn’t texted her again, but I might just do so. We had gazed into each other’s eyes for as long as 20, 30 seconds. I need to process that.
***
These are some things I jotted down when I was reading the book. I can’t come close to capturing what I see and how I feel like Ernaux, but I find that I need to write something down. Endlessly stimulating author.
Quotes:
“All storytelling operates along the same lines as eroticism.�
“I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.�
Ernaux capturing her surroundings in mini paragraphs makes me want to do the same.
The train crawls along, as the autumn conditions in Toronto necessitate caution when navigating the open-space areas of the subway track. The rays of sunshine make reading difficult. I look around the train, glancing the same old sea of faces staring at black mirrors (this is a tired description, and I’m leaving it there). A young couple by one of the window double-seats. Must be their second or third month of dating - it cannot be more than that. He grabs her hand tentatively, bringing it up to his lips and placing a tender kiss on its fingers. She giggles, throws her shoulders up to savour the moment, then looks out the window. A few more stops left for me. He looks relieved. He has defeated a vicious beast - nerves. I can’t help but take pleasure in having witnessed the building blocks of a budding romance. Will it last? I find myself thinking. Does it matter? The process, the process, the process. Over and above everything.
***
It might be the day after, it might be the same stretch of subway tracks. We stop at a station, I look up from my book. A girl walks in, and I have a chance to glimpse her profile. She turns her head slightly and I see her whole face. Innocence personified. She takes a seat a few feet away from me. I go back to reading. Once in a while, I gaze ahead, but from the corner of my eyes, I can see her. She is hunched over, looking at what she is holding in her hands, thumbs twiddling. Black mirror theme again, I assume. It’s the same series of actions carried out by all others around me. After a few paragraphs, I chance a look. She doesn’t have a phone in her hands. No. She is twirling one single bead on a wrist band. The motion is so tender, so loving. I fight back tears.
***
I showed my friend a watch I purchased the other day. Cheap watch, purchased off of Amazon. I just liked the look of it. I was tired of wearing the same couple over and over again, but I didn’t want to blow the bank on something extravagant. I was excited to show him the watch, because he had told me that cheap watches can be bought and worn, can be fashion statements despite their price. If it looks good, he had told me, then it looks good. He saw the watch, saw that it was Amazon-branded and purchased from them. He started to get testy, heated. I probed. He told me that he thought I was trying to goad him into a reaction by showing him the watch and its manufacturer, having previously known his political stance and general affiliation with the company. The lenses of narcissism have thickened for everyone. A simple act of joy turned vicious, having unsuspectingly intruded on a personal bubble of creed. This is my friend, I thought. Imagine what it could be like for perfect strangers.
***
The first year of my studies as a graduate student comes to me. The basement was new, most of my cohort had offices on this level. The maze was a challenge. There was a small hit of pride every time I would remember that someone’s office was B_ _ _. I was bedding myself into the atmosphere, we all were. Today I’m alone. Same office, same place, same basement. Same smells, same maze. Everything is different. I find myself turning the corner, hoping to run into someone I spoke to a few years ago, just to have the chance to strike up a conversation that will bring us back to those days. We’re all different.
***
I am thinking about attraction tonight. I’ve been open to it again, these past few months. Let it back into my life. I take a long walk with a friend. Years ago, we used to be something. She tells me about her boyfriend, how they’re going strong. I feel nothing but joy for her. I tell her about a girl. She’s excited, wants to know more. We had grabbed coffee, had a chat, gazed into each other’s eyes. That was it. Really. She seems disappointed. You didn’t do anything? Text her? Ask her out again? Make a move? No. I hadn’t felt the attraction, I lie. Why do I lie? I want her to stop bringing it down to the practical, to the physical, for one second. I hadn’t texted her again, but I might just do so. We had gazed into each other’s eyes for as long as 20, 30 seconds. I need to process that.
***
These are some things I jotted down when I was reading the book. I can’t come close to capturing what I see and how I feel like Ernaux, but I find that I need to write something down. Endlessly stimulating author.
Quotes:
“All storytelling operates along the same lines as eroticism.�
“I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.�
November 25, 2024
# nonfictionnovember 2024
3,5*
I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.
Quase duas décadas antes de receber o Prémio Nobel da Literatura, Annie Ernaux já tinha o privilégio de ter alguém interessado em publicar um conjunto de instantâneos que pouco mais são dos que observações daquilo que vê e ouve na rua, nos transportes públicos, em estabelecimentos comerciais e na comunicação social. Se são interessantes para o leitor, é como tudo, depende do que é contado, de como é contado e quais as ilações que a autora e/ou o leitor tira de cada episódio, que constituem entradas dos seus 徱ás entre 1985 e 1992.
So it is outside my own life that my past existence lies: in passengers commuting on the Métro or the RER; in shoppers glimpsed on escalators at Auchan or in the Galeries Lafayette; in complete strangers who cannot know that they possess part of my story; in faces and bodies which I shall never see again. In the same way, I myself, anonymous among the bustling crowds on streets and in department stores, must secretly play a role in the lives of others.
Um dos momentos dignos de nota é Ernaux a ser Ernaux, mais uma vez a salientar a utilização da primeira pessoa do singular nas suas obras memorialistas:
I bought a copy of Marie-Claire at the station in the New Town. This month’s horoscope: ‘You will meet a wonderful man.� Throughout the day I wondered whether each man I spoke to was the one they meant. (By choosing to write in the first person, I am laying myself open to criticism, which would not have been the case had I written ‘she wondered if each man she spoke to was the one they meant.� The third person � he/she � is always somebody else, free to do whatever they choose. ‘I� refers to oneself, the reader, and it is inconceivable, or unthinkable, for me to read my own horoscope and behave like some mushy schoolgirl. ‘I� shames the reader.)
Ou a dar uma das suas estocadas feministas:
‘Go home!� the man tells his dog; it slinks away, submissive, guilty. The same expression used throughout history for children, women and dogs.
Ou a comentar as alegrias do convívio nos transportes públicos:
He got on at Achères-Ville � twenty, maybe twenty-five years old. He settles across two seats, his legs stretched out, sideways. From his pocket he extracts a pair of nail clippers and uses them, contemplating the beauty obtained after treating each finger, extending his hand in front of him. The passengers around him pretend not to notice. It seems to be the first time he has owned a pair of nail clippers. Insolently happy. Nobody can mar his happiness, the happiness of a man with � as the expressions of those around him suggest � bad manners.
No meio de vários ocorrências mundanas, daquelas que acontecem basicamente a toda a gente em alguma altura da vida, guardo duas reflexões notáveis.
It’s only natural to throw away paper wrappings and cans in this wild setting; to reclaim one’s traces is the sign of a civilized superego.
Yet the very starkness and paucity of music allow me to recall a whole episode of my life and the girl I used to be when I listen to ‘I’m Just a Dancing Partner� thirty years later. Whereas the beauty and fullness of ‘The Beautiful Summer� and ‘In Search of Lost Time�, which I have reread two or three times, can never give me back my life.
3,5*
I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature.
Quase duas décadas antes de receber o Prémio Nobel da Literatura, Annie Ernaux já tinha o privilégio de ter alguém interessado em publicar um conjunto de instantâneos que pouco mais são dos que observações daquilo que vê e ouve na rua, nos transportes públicos, em estabelecimentos comerciais e na comunicação social. Se são interessantes para o leitor, é como tudo, depende do que é contado, de como é contado e quais as ilações que a autora e/ou o leitor tira de cada episódio, que constituem entradas dos seus 徱ás entre 1985 e 1992.
So it is outside my own life that my past existence lies: in passengers commuting on the Métro or the RER; in shoppers glimpsed on escalators at Auchan or in the Galeries Lafayette; in complete strangers who cannot know that they possess part of my story; in faces and bodies which I shall never see again. In the same way, I myself, anonymous among the bustling crowds on streets and in department stores, must secretly play a role in the lives of others.
Um dos momentos dignos de nota é Ernaux a ser Ernaux, mais uma vez a salientar a utilização da primeira pessoa do singular nas suas obras memorialistas:
I bought a copy of Marie-Claire at the station in the New Town. This month’s horoscope: ‘You will meet a wonderful man.� Throughout the day I wondered whether each man I spoke to was the one they meant. (By choosing to write in the first person, I am laying myself open to criticism, which would not have been the case had I written ‘she wondered if each man she spoke to was the one they meant.� The third person � he/she � is always somebody else, free to do whatever they choose. ‘I� refers to oneself, the reader, and it is inconceivable, or unthinkable, for me to read my own horoscope and behave like some mushy schoolgirl. ‘I� shames the reader.)
Ou a dar uma das suas estocadas feministas:
‘Go home!� the man tells his dog; it slinks away, submissive, guilty. The same expression used throughout history for children, women and dogs.
Ou a comentar as alegrias do convívio nos transportes públicos:
He got on at Achères-Ville � twenty, maybe twenty-five years old. He settles across two seats, his legs stretched out, sideways. From his pocket he extracts a pair of nail clippers and uses them, contemplating the beauty obtained after treating each finger, extending his hand in front of him. The passengers around him pretend not to notice. It seems to be the first time he has owned a pair of nail clippers. Insolently happy. Nobody can mar his happiness, the happiness of a man with � as the expressions of those around him suggest � bad manners.
No meio de vários ocorrências mundanas, daquelas que acontecem basicamente a toda a gente em alguma altura da vida, guardo duas reflexões notáveis.
It’s only natural to throw away paper wrappings and cans in this wild setting; to reclaim one’s traces is the sign of a civilized superego.
Yet the very starkness and paucity of music allow me to recall a whole episode of my life and the girl I used to be when I listen to ‘I’m Just a Dancing Partner� thirty years later. Whereas the beauty and fullness of ‘The Beautiful Summer� and ‘In Search of Lost Time�, which I have reread two or three times, can never give me back my life.
October 11, 2022
We must get you a cat. All writers have cats. (...) So writing is not enough; there need to be external signs, material evidence to define what a 'real' writer is. Yet these signs are available to all of us." Annie Ernaux
Mais um livro de Annie Ernaux que estive a ler apaixonado. Desta feita um pequeno "tratado" de geografia e sociologia urbana. A partir de textos curtos, num registo algo diarístico, Ernaux apresenta-no o quotidiano do subúrbio de Paris onde vive faz mais de trinta anos.
Nos pedaços de uma prosa simples, mas acutilante, reflecte sobre a condição urbana na contemporaneidade de uma metrópole europeia, mas também sobre a sua condição enquanto mulher e enquanto escritora.
Mais um livro de Annie Ernaux que estive a ler apaixonado. Desta feita um pequeno "tratado" de geografia e sociologia urbana. A partir de textos curtos, num registo algo diarístico, Ernaux apresenta-no o quotidiano do subúrbio de Paris onde vive faz mais de trinta anos.
Nos pedaços de uma prosa simples, mas acutilante, reflecte sobre a condição urbana na contemporaneidade de uma metrópole europeia, mas também sobre a sua condição enquanto mulher e enquanto escritora.
December 6, 2021
This is a pleasant little book (74 pages!) describing various people the French author Annie Ernaux witnessed (usually on the metro) from 1985 to 1992. Or, as the author herself puts it, "anonymous figures glimpsed in the Métro or in waiting rooms ... who revive our memory and reveal our true selves through the interest, the anger or the shame that they send rippling through us."
"Glimpses" would have been an equally worthy name, and perhaps a more truthful one as these individuals' "exteriors" often do tell us more about them, and � as the author noted above � us, than the word "exteriors" may suggest.
"Exteriors" also gives us a look into Ernaux's writing process, and the way literature so completely engages her mind —something I found both enviable and amusing.
By describing encounters that last as little as three lines, and rarely more than a dozen, this is the perfect companion to your own trip on the metro, something to take with you to the store where you might be able to snatch an encounter or two in the checkout line.
This is the second or third book I've read by Ernaux, who seems to be a favorite of the British publisher Fitzcarraldo Editions, and it's easily the most enjoyable one I've read so far. It's funny how delving into the lives of others, in only a handful of lines, can often prove to be more captivating to read than even the most labored of novels.
"Glimpses" would have been an equally worthy name, and perhaps a more truthful one as these individuals' "exteriors" often do tell us more about them, and � as the author noted above � us, than the word "exteriors" may suggest.
"Exteriors" also gives us a look into Ernaux's writing process, and the way literature so completely engages her mind —something I found both enviable and amusing.
By describing encounters that last as little as three lines, and rarely more than a dozen, this is the perfect companion to your own trip on the metro, something to take with you to the store where you might be able to snatch an encounter or two in the checkout line.
This is the second or third book I've read by Ernaux, who seems to be a favorite of the British publisher Fitzcarraldo Editions, and it's easily the most enjoyable one I've read so far. It's funny how delving into the lives of others, in only a handful of lines, can often prove to be more captivating to read than even the most labored of novels.
November 27, 2021
"I realize that I am forever combing reality for signs of literature."
March 28, 2024
Whether we are on a commute or having a coffee or even a small rest outside, I think it is inevitable that we start people watching. In my case, although I bring a novel everywhere I go, I will put the book down and observe, never judge but observe.
This makes me wonder why we do it? are we hoping that said person will indulge in a peculiar habit? maybe we want to talk to them or too shy. If one commutes, one sees the same people from inside the vehicle and outside. When there’s a shared route one does notice that tiny little details of said people start to emerge.
Annie Ernaux’s Exteriors is precisely a 70 page people watching exercise. From her train commute Ernaux notes the people she sees; their eccentricities, strange happenings. These observations range from mildly humorous to tragic.
In lesser hands this would be a boring exercise but the outcome is rather interesting, mainly it’s because Annie Ernaux usually writes about herself and this is the first time I’ve read a book by her where she is positioning herself as an observer. This time the narrative is not personal and yet Ernaux notices that all these people, be it a homeless man or little girl are still participating in her life. However, Ernaux is a bystander.
To date, all the Annie Ernaux books I have read are like a puzzle as they focus on different aspects of her life. Exteriors is a bit different for the reasons explained above. However, it’s also the first time Ernaux is on the side of a reader. Reading itself is a voyeuristic act and with Exteriors Annie Ernaux is playing the role of a ogler, just like us. This reader alliance displays another side of Annie Ernaux and, although Exteriors is brief, it is a snapshot as her versatility as a writer.
This makes me wonder why we do it? are we hoping that said person will indulge in a peculiar habit? maybe we want to talk to them or too shy. If one commutes, one sees the same people from inside the vehicle and outside. When there’s a shared route one does notice that tiny little details of said people start to emerge.
Annie Ernaux’s Exteriors is precisely a 70 page people watching exercise. From her train commute Ernaux notes the people she sees; their eccentricities, strange happenings. These observations range from mildly humorous to tragic.
In lesser hands this would be a boring exercise but the outcome is rather interesting, mainly it’s because Annie Ernaux usually writes about herself and this is the first time I’ve read a book by her where she is positioning herself as an observer. This time the narrative is not personal and yet Ernaux notices that all these people, be it a homeless man or little girl are still participating in her life. However, Ernaux is a bystander.
To date, all the Annie Ernaux books I have read are like a puzzle as they focus on different aspects of her life. Exteriors is a bit different for the reasons explained above. However, it’s also the first time Ernaux is on the side of a reader. Reading itself is a voyeuristic act and with Exteriors Annie Ernaux is playing the role of a ogler, just like us. This reader alliance displays another side of Annie Ernaux and, although Exteriors is brief, it is a snapshot as her versatility as a writer.
November 28, 2021
I love reading diaries and diary-like things, and especially if they’re Annie Ernaux’s.
“My reaction confirms a well-known truth: we believe, because we stop using them, that certain words have disappeared or that poverty has ceased to exist now that we earn a living. Strangely enough, there exists another truth, the exact opposite: when we go back to a town we left a long time ago, we imagine that the people there will still be the same, unchanged. Both laws rely on the same misconception of reality, the only reference being oneself: in the first case, we imagine everyone else has lived our life, while in the second, we long to recapture our past identity through people who are frozen in time, whose features are the same as when we last saw them.�
“My reaction confirms a well-known truth: we believe, because we stop using them, that certain words have disappeared or that poverty has ceased to exist now that we earn a living. Strangely enough, there exists another truth, the exact opposite: when we go back to a town we left a long time ago, we imagine that the people there will still be the same, unchanged. Both laws rely on the same misconception of reality, the only reference being oneself: in the first case, we imagine everyone else has lived our life, while in the second, we long to recapture our past identity through people who are frozen in time, whose features are the same as when we last saw them.�
November 20, 2022
another lovely, thought-provoking short read from ernaux! i'm diving into her more explicitly biographical works here, as she has a lot of works that are assembled entries from her journal which is a format i've always loved. it works extra well because ernaux is just so smart and writes in such a way that every time she talks about something, it's imbued with so much meaning that you care about it immediately, no matter how small it is. it builds up into this really cool portrait of paris in the late 80s, as well as giving you an idea of how ernaux views the world in an even more raw and unfiltered way than her actual prose does.
February 28, 2023
Pici könyv, tele szilánkokkal*. Ez az első - és egyetlen, azt hiszem -, ami nem Ernaux életét tárgyalja, noha tulajdonképpen ezek a benyomások is személyesek. Ha együtt utaztunk volna, álltunk volna sorba a hentesnél, biztosan mást vittünk volna haza élményként.
A naplószerűség 1985-től 1992-ig tartalmaz bejegyzéseket. Annie Párizs egyik új külvárosában lakik, onnan ingázik Párizsba. Ez a nyolc év az ingázásnak, a bevásárlásnak, a fodrásznál töltött időnek a történéseit örökíti meg nagyrészt, innen származik az élményanyag. Ernaux nem csak megfigyel és rögzít, ez a gyűjtemény, ahogy a könyvei nagy része (nem nyilatkozhatok mindről, még nem olvastam a teljes életművet), társadalomkritika is. Az olvasást feladatként említő fodrászlány (vö. mosás, takarítás stb.), az állampolgárok egy részét lekisemberező köztársasági elnök, az anyagi jólétét spektákulummá fejlesztő szűzérmevásárló házaspár a hentesnél (a szegényebb réteg szupermarketbe jár), a hajléktalanok, a koldusok, a Saint-Lazare pályaudvar, felfüggesztve az időben, mind-mind irodalommá lényegül át. Ernaux meg is jegyzi, hogy noha az ehhez hasonló írásfragmentumok frusztrálják, szükségét érzi rögzíteni ezeket a benyomásokat, ugyanekkor nem szűnik meg irodalmat keresni a valóságban.
Hiába apróka a könyv, nem könnyen fogyasztható. Izgalmas, mert úgy mesél Annie Ernauxról, hogy azt a világ apró rebbenései és a krónikás ezekről alkotott benyomásai mögé rejti, azaz egyáltalán nem személytelen. Szerettem, mert más mint az autofikciói, és egy olyan életbe enged betekintést, amiről én a nyolcvanas években nem is álmodhattam.
*Nem rossz megállapítás - állapítom meg, így utólag, hiszen a rögzített jelenetek jó része szúr, fájdalmat okoz, éles: fragmentált.
A naplószerűség 1985-től 1992-ig tartalmaz bejegyzéseket. Annie Párizs egyik új külvárosában lakik, onnan ingázik Párizsba. Ez a nyolc év az ingázásnak, a bevásárlásnak, a fodrásznál töltött időnek a történéseit örökíti meg nagyrészt, innen származik az élményanyag. Ernaux nem csak megfigyel és rögzít, ez a gyűjtemény, ahogy a könyvei nagy része (nem nyilatkozhatok mindről, még nem olvastam a teljes életművet), társadalomkritika is. Az olvasást feladatként említő fodrászlány (vö. mosás, takarítás stb.), az állampolgárok egy részét lekisemberező köztársasági elnök, az anyagi jólétét spektákulummá fejlesztő szűzérmevásárló házaspár a hentesnél (a szegényebb réteg szupermarketbe jár), a hajléktalanok, a koldusok, a Saint-Lazare pályaudvar, felfüggesztve az időben, mind-mind irodalommá lényegül át. Ernaux meg is jegyzi, hogy noha az ehhez hasonló írásfragmentumok frusztrálják, szükségét érzi rögzíteni ezeket a benyomásokat, ugyanekkor nem szűnik meg irodalmat keresni a valóságban.
Hiába apróka a könyv, nem könnyen fogyasztható. Izgalmas, mert úgy mesél Annie Ernauxról, hogy azt a világ apró rebbenései és a krónikás ezekről alkotott benyomásai mögé rejti, azaz egyáltalán nem személytelen. Szerettem, mert más mint az autofikciói, és egy olyan életbe enged betekintést, amiről én a nyolcvanas években nem is álmodhattam.
*Nem rossz megállapítás - állapítom meg, így utólag, hiszen a rögzített jelenetek jó része szúr, fájdalmat okoz, éles: fragmentált.
January 11, 2023
Kiek kitokia Annie Ernaux. Nebe autofikcija, bet aplinkos stebėjimas. Pavadinimas labai taiklus. Esė sunku pavadinti, labiau 1985-1992 metų kasdienybės pastebėjimai.
February 13, 2015
She is obviously not indifferent or oblivious to people she sees on her daily commute, in the train, on the platform, in the supermarket, or browsing the lingerie store. And she recognizes these souls as participants in her life just as she is present in theirs. I do like the smart and courageous writing of Annie Ernaux, but I could have taken a pass from reading these snippets taken from her journal and never felt anything missing from my life. It was just one, of many, pleasant walks taken in something resembling an Olmstead designed park.
November 30, 2007
after picking this up in france to read in on my own, i realized what a great resource for teaching culture and writing to french students it is. i've read it over and over since.
May 8, 2023
To jak czytanie jej małego notesu, który zawsze nosi ze sobą. Krótkie zapiski, notatki z obserwacji ludzi. Po co je pisze? Ponieważ to daje jej iluzję bliskości z innymi i pozwala się zastanowić nad tym jakie emocje w niej wywołują.
February 18, 2024
Exteriors - Annie Ernaux
شذرات عن أيام عادية واستغراق في تأمل الفضاء العام؛ الشوراع والمحلات التجارية والاستماع لأحاديث الغرباء في المواصلات العامة، ومواقف يومية عاديّة للغاية ونظرة على نشرات الأخبار والصحف وأحيانًا التجول بين اللوحات في المتاحف والمعارض.
كتبت آني إرنو هذه الشذرات بين 1986م و1992م، وهذه شذرات خفيفة ومنعشة عكس كثير من كتاباتها في تلك الفترة .
~
فجر يوم الإثنين التاسع من شعبان - 1445 هـ.
شذرات عن أيام عادية واستغراق في تأمل الفضاء العام؛ الشوراع والمحلات التجارية والاستماع لأحاديث الغرباء في المواصلات العامة، ومواقف يومية عاديّة للغاية ونظرة على نشرات الأخبار والصحف وأحيانًا التجول بين اللوحات في المتاحف والمعارض.
كتبت آني إرنو هذه الشذرات بين 1986م و1992م، وهذه شذرات خفيفة ومنعشة عكس كثير من كتاباتها في تلك الفترة .
~
فجر يوم الإثنين التاسع من شعبان - 1445 هـ.
November 9, 2021
My Ernaux odyssey continues with the latest republication by the UK publisher Fitzcarraldo Editions. Exteriors was first published in French in 1993 and in English in 1996. It takes the form of random journal entries between 1985 and 1992. I don’t think those years have any especial significance once you know when this was first published.
The observations by the author don’t form a narrative; they are unlinked, other than that they reveal something about the character, personality and obsessions of the writer. They are the briefest of vignettes, often observations on the train or at one or other of the various supermarkets she visits.
One of the key observations, which Ernaux makes in the introduction, is that for twenty years she has lived in Cergy-Pontoise, a new town forty kilometres outside Paris. It is a “place bereft of memories�, widely spread and with undefined boundaries. A no-man’s land. This made her listen closely to the conversations on the trains and in the supermarkets. Her attempt to convey the reality of an epoch. The most interesting moments are the contempt a customer shows for a cashier, or the interactions with a man begging for money.
It was only after recording all these observations and evesdroppings that she became aware of how much of herself was included in the conversations of others. Revealing her own interest, anger or shame.
It is the shortest of books, beginning on page 11 and ending on page 74. Here are my highlight passages, which stood out from the rest and made me stop and think deeper.
From 1988
And finally, this highly prophetic observation from 1987:
Not my favourite Ernaux, I must admit, but as always fascinating. In the way the others have constructed “Found� novels from items on the Internet or social media, Ernaux was doing the same decades earlier, from real life.
The observations by the author don’t form a narrative; they are unlinked, other than that they reveal something about the character, personality and obsessions of the writer. They are the briefest of vignettes, often observations on the train or at one or other of the various supermarkets she visits.
One of the key observations, which Ernaux makes in the introduction, is that for twenty years she has lived in Cergy-Pontoise, a new town forty kilometres outside Paris. It is a “place bereft of memories�, widely spread and with undefined boundaries. A no-man’s land. This made her listen closely to the conversations on the trains and in the supermarkets. Her attempt to convey the reality of an epoch. The most interesting moments are the contempt a customer shows for a cashier, or the interactions with a man begging for money.
It was only after recording all these observations and evesdroppings that she became aware of how much of herself was included in the conversations of others. Revealing her own interest, anger or shame.
It is the shortest of books, beginning on page 11 and ending on page 74. Here are my highlight passages, which stood out from the rest and made me stop and think deeper.
From 1988
I realise that there are two ways of dealing with real facts. One can either relate them in detail, exposing their stark, immediate nature, outside of any narrative form, or else save them for future reference, ‘making use� of them by incorporating them into an ensemble (a novel, for instance). Fragments of writing, like the ones in this book, arouse in me a feeling of frustration. I need to become involved in a lengthy, structured process (unaffected by chance events and meetings). Yet at the same time I have this need to record scenes glimpsed on the RER, and people’s words and gestures simply for their own sake, without any ulterior motive.
Go home! The man tells his dog; it slinks away, submissive, guilty. The same expressions used throughout history for children, women and dogs.
Saint-Lazare station, on a Saturday: a couple are waiting in line for a taxi. She looks lost and leans on him for support. He keeps repeating: “You’ll see when I’m dead.� Then “I want to be burned, you know, I want to be burned from head to toe. I don’t want to go into that thing. It’s horrible, that thing.� He clutches her to his chest; she is panicked.
I am visited by people and their lives � like a whore.
From 1987
On a sunny day like today, the seams of buildings lacerate the sky, the glass surfaces radiate light. I have lived in the New Town for twelve years, yet I still don’t know what it looks like. I am unable to describe it, not knowing where it begins or ends; I always drive through it. I can only write down, “I went to the Leclerc hypermarket (or to the Trois-Fontaines shopping centre, to the Franprix in Les Linandes, etc), I turned back on to the motorway, the sky was purple beyond the Marcouville high-rise (or on the 3M Minnesota façade).� No description, no story either. Just moments in time, chance meetings. Ethnowriting.
And finally, this highly prophetic observation from 1987:
A woman’s voice, through the loudspeaker, explains the history of April Fools� Day. Then it announces that today there’s a special on aperitifs and hi-fi equipment. The hypermarket may want to enlighten customers and show that it can play an educational role, or else it’s a commercial ploy to lessen the onslaught of advertising. I n a few years from now, in the middle of hypermarkets, we shall probably see cinema screens, promotional lectures on painting or literature, maybe even lessons on computers. A sort of peep-show corner.
Not my favourite Ernaux, I must admit, but as always fascinating. In the way the others have constructed “Found� novels from items on the Internet or social media, Ernaux was doing the same decades earlier, from real life.
Read
April 26, 2023In which she records fragments of other voices, other bodies, appearances. Rather than “novelize�, she’s doing phenomenological field recordings—which is interesting when you consider this immediacy as the life of direct experience in between major events. This is a completely different mode of writing than anything else I’ve read by her and is additive to her autofictive depiction across her oeuvre, perhaps essential. It adds a characterization of Ernaux as filter, as this particular filter. Another time I might take this to lack depth…but I think it works.
My Ernaux reading year so far�(I’m ordering by whim)
1) Simple Passion ✔️
2) Shame ✔️
3) Exteriors ✔️
4) I remain in Darkness
5) The possession
6) A frozen Woman ✔️
7) A girl’s story ✔️
8) A Man’s Place ✔️
9) A Woman’s story ✔️
10) Happening ✔️
11) The Years
12) Getting Lost
My Ernaux reading year so far�(I’m ordering by whim)
1) Simple Passion ✔️
2) Shame ✔️
3) Exteriors ✔️
4) I remain in Darkness
5) The possession
6) A frozen Woman ✔️
7) A girl’s story ✔️
8) A Man’s Place ✔️
9) A Woman’s story ✔️
10) Happening ✔️
11) The Years
12) Getting Lost
November 27, 2022
I am not French enough for this. I love Annie Ernaux, and the writing is, as always, sublime, but this collection of observations about the suburb of Paris in which she lives, bored me to tears.
June 10, 2023
What a beautiful book :)
February 20, 2023
i absolutely loved these journal entries (which may or may not be related to the fact that i myself have been making a note of such snapshots for as long as i can remember). i also love how ernaux admits that she has put much more of herself into this book than planned, since "memories and obsessions subconsciously dictating my choice of words and the scenes i wished to freeze". more, please!
November 26, 2022
Beautifully written and really liked certain observations but sadly found a lot of it quite boring
October 5, 2023
Of all of Annie Ernaux’s books that I have read (I am about halfway through Annie Ernaux: The Unboxed Set comprising 12 books), I venture to say Exteriors might be her most self-indulgent. I say that because it seems as if she wrote this book primarily to sustain the edge of her wonderful restrained, understated style of writing. It’s sort of doing some practices, or drills.
At one point in her life, Ernaux moved to a “new town� on the outskirts of Paris, and since it was a place with no history so far, she began keeping a journal to record history in the making. She includes selected entries from 1985 to 1992, some only a few sentences, some page length. Ernaux wanted to capture images with the eye of a photographer, and then translate those captured images into her more familiar medium, the written word.
The move to the new town made Ernaux a commuter, so a rich and readymade source for her sharp observations was the Réseau Express Régional, the transit system that served Paris and its suburbs. Ernaux’s journal entries were not all from the train; many different Paris destinations afforded her opportunities to talk about shops and stores and other commercial outlets, not to mention academic institutions, cathedrals, and places of entertainment.
Thus, for me, the enjoyment of Exteriors was to have in my hands an example of a writer honing her craft. Ernaux’s observations are nothing if not exact, accurate, and faithful; they are as detailed as they are non-judgmental. But ultimately, they are moments in time, movements captured and made static by words. What would be of passing interest is if Ernaux waited a decade or two for the new town to “grow old,� and then repeated the exercise.
It's easy for daily commuting and its related experiences to become boringly repetitive and uninteresting. But after reading Exteriors, I’m determined to borrow Ernaux’s lens and find variety and diversity in seeming sameness
At one point in her life, Ernaux moved to a “new town� on the outskirts of Paris, and since it was a place with no history so far, she began keeping a journal to record history in the making. She includes selected entries from 1985 to 1992, some only a few sentences, some page length. Ernaux wanted to capture images with the eye of a photographer, and then translate those captured images into her more familiar medium, the written word.
The move to the new town made Ernaux a commuter, so a rich and readymade source for her sharp observations was the Réseau Express Régional, the transit system that served Paris and its suburbs. Ernaux’s journal entries were not all from the train; many different Paris destinations afforded her opportunities to talk about shops and stores and other commercial outlets, not to mention academic institutions, cathedrals, and places of entertainment.
Thus, for me, the enjoyment of Exteriors was to have in my hands an example of a writer honing her craft. Ernaux’s observations are nothing if not exact, accurate, and faithful; they are as detailed as they are non-judgmental. But ultimately, they are moments in time, movements captured and made static by words. What would be of passing interest is if Ernaux waited a decade or two for the new town to “grow old,� and then repeated the exercise.
It's easy for daily commuting and its related experiences to become boringly repetitive and uninteresting. But after reading Exteriors, I’m determined to borrow Ernaux’s lens and find variety and diversity in seeming sameness
December 2, 2021
Thanks to @fitzcarraldoeditions
for sending this.
Annie Ernaux reminds me of Joan Didion. Writing that is confessional, possesses the hunt for clarity, quirky observations, and wit that stays with the reader till the end.
My liking for Fitzcarraldo books started with Minor Detail. From being fascinated by the prose to touching the pages delicately, admiring the typeset with my fingers, and looking for more minimalism, I ventured into another work—short yet impactful, insightful, and a perfect addition to my library.
I ate EXTERIORS in a day. Sometimes a book is so delicious, one cannot help devour it.
Ernaux, in this collection of journal entries, writes with sheer vulnerability.
For writers to write with vulnerability is scarier than anything I can think of right now. That is why I read poetry, as the dilemma of what it conceals or shows never ends.
Reading Ernaux, I was reminded of how the pathway to owning the surrounding around us by putting the observations in a tabloid is a very indirect way of knowing ourselves.
"What is it I am desperately seeking in reality? Is it meaning? This may sometimes, though not always be true since I have acquired the mental habit not only of experiencing emotions but of 'getting them into perspective'."
Meditating on myth and morality. First-person and second-person in writing (the former shames the reader- she adds). Pressing on the importance of the connection between a painting and its description, Ernaux—to me it seems—wrote without fear, which is one of the most critical qualities of a writer.
And she sure as hell was one.
for sending this.
Annie Ernaux reminds me of Joan Didion. Writing that is confessional, possesses the hunt for clarity, quirky observations, and wit that stays with the reader till the end.
My liking for Fitzcarraldo books started with Minor Detail. From being fascinated by the prose to touching the pages delicately, admiring the typeset with my fingers, and looking for more minimalism, I ventured into another work—short yet impactful, insightful, and a perfect addition to my library.
I ate EXTERIORS in a day. Sometimes a book is so delicious, one cannot help devour it.
Ernaux, in this collection of journal entries, writes with sheer vulnerability.
For writers to write with vulnerability is scarier than anything I can think of right now. That is why I read poetry, as the dilemma of what it conceals or shows never ends.
Reading Ernaux, I was reminded of how the pathway to owning the surrounding around us by putting the observations in a tabloid is a very indirect way of knowing ourselves.
"What is it I am desperately seeking in reality? Is it meaning? This may sometimes, though not always be true since I have acquired the mental habit not only of experiencing emotions but of 'getting them into perspective'."
Meditating on myth and morality. First-person and second-person in writing (the former shames the reader- she adds). Pressing on the importance of the connection between a painting and its description, Ernaux—to me it seems—wrote without fear, which is one of the most critical qualities of a writer.
And she sure as hell was one.
February 12, 2023
The book every urban commuter wishes she would have written. Glimpses, scenes, and pieces of overheard dialogues from Ernaux's life as she commutes from her home on the outskirts of Paris to the capital itself, walks the city, and goes to the supermarket(s). As a keen observer of people on public transportation, I found it fantastic. Somehow something is made out of nothing. And tied together with the beautiful idea of our own life being projected on strangers, of seeking and getting a deeper understanding of the self by being observant about others.
August 7, 2022
'The lights and clammy atmosphere of the Charles-de-Gaulle-Étoile station. Women were buying jewellery at the foot of the twin escalators. In one corridor, on the ground, in an area marked out by chalk, someone had scribbled: 'To buy food. I have no family.' But the man or woman who had written that had gone, the chalk circle was empty. People avoided walking across it.'
(p20)
(p20)
July 6, 2018
j'aurais voulu en lire davantage, je reste sur ma faim, moi qui était très impatiente de lire ce livre, j'avais déjà été déçue en voyant sa maigre épaisseur au moment de l'avoir dans les mains. L'idée et le style me séduisent mais pour cette fois ce n'est pas assez pour me rassasier !!
December 25, 2020
As much as I appreciated certain observations and the matter of fact writing, I felt like the book was perhaps too short. It felt like an experiment, not quite like a finished work. Not sure why this was written or published.
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