What do you think?
Rate this book
192 pages, Paperback
First published October 7, 2020
鈥�I was resolutely determined to continue to eat, read, speak, and dream in whatever way I pleased. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 believe in God!鈥� I thought. How was it possible to believe in God and deliberately choose to disobey Him? I sat stunned for a moment by this revelation: I did not believe.鈥�
鈥�faith was not, as it was for so many others, a complaisant dependence on God, a means of being right, of self-justification or fleeing responsibilities but the painful questioning of a silent, obscure, hidden God.鈥�
For a daughter, the predetermined path led straight to marriage or a convent; she could not decide her fate according to her own desires or feelings. It was up to the family to arrange marriages: organizing 鈥渋nterviews,鈥� selecting candidates depending on ideological, religious, social, and financial interests. Marriages took place within the same social circle.
"賲賳 乇爻丕卅賱 夭丕夭丕 廿賱賶 爻賷賲賵賳 "
The book, in other words, is heavy-handed, schematic, and thin. It鈥檚 about the length and scope of de Beauvoir鈥檚 novellas but has been packaged as a complete novel, padded with a laudatory introduction, a defensive afterword asserting the project鈥檚 significance, and selected letters between de Beauvoir and Zaza. Still, it has obvious merits: most of all the prose and the psychological insights, which are wry and movingly direct in turn. 鈥淚 admired her nonchalance without being able to imitate it,鈥� Sylvie thinks of Andr茅e at one point, articulating the unscalable rift between desire and its fulfillment.
Madame Gallard had indulgently told Mama the story of Andr茅e鈥檚 martyrdom: the cracked skin, enormous blisters, paraffin-coated dressings, Andr茅e鈥檚 delirium, her courage, how one of her little friends had kicked her while they were playing a game and had reopened her wounds. She鈥檇 made such an effort not to scream that she鈥檇 fainted. When she came to my house to see my notebooks, I looked at her with respect; she took notes in beautiful handwriting, and I thought about her swollen thigh under her pleated skirt. Never had anything as interesting happened to me. I suddenly had the impression that nothing had ever happened to me at all.
All the children I knew bored me, but Andr茅e made me laugh when we walked together on the playground between classes. She was marvelous at imitating the brusque gestures of Mademoiselle Dubois, the unctuous voice of Mademoiselle Vendroux, the principal. She knew loads of secrets about the place from her older sister: these young women were affiliated with the Jesuits; they wore their hair parted on the side when they were still novices, in the middle once they鈥檇 taken their vows.
鈥淪he had appeared so glorious to me that I had assumed she had everything she wanted. I wanted to cry for her, and for myself.鈥�
鈥淪ecretly I thought to myself that Andr茅e was one of those prodigies about whom, later on, books would be written.鈥�
鈥淣o, our friendship was not as important to Andr茅e as it was to me, but I admired her too much to suffer from it.鈥�
鈥淲hat would I have daydreamed about? I loved Andr茅e above all else, and she was right next to me.鈥�
鈥淚 thought to myself, distressed, that in books there are people who make declarations of love, or hate, who dare to say whatever comes into their mind, or heart鈥攚hy is it so impossible to do the same thing in real life?鈥�
鈥淭he errors I admitted were those of the soul above all: I had lacked fervour, too long forsaken the divine presence, prayed inattentively, regarded myself too complacently.鈥�
鈥淎ndr茅e was unhappy and the idea of it was unbearable. But her unhappiness was so foreign to me; the kind of love where your kiss had no truth from me.鈥�
鈥淣ever. The word had never fallen with such weight upon my heart. I repeated it within myself, under the never-ending sky, and I wanted to cry. 鈥�
鈥淣o doubt she loved Andr茅e in her way, but what way was that? That was the question. We all loved her, only differently. 鈥�
鈥淗appiness suits her so well, I thought.鈥�
鈥溾€淒on鈥檛 be sad,鈥� she said. 鈥淚n every family there鈥檚 a bit of rubbish. I was the rubbish.鈥�
鈥淔or Andr茅e, there was a passageway between the heart and the body that remained a mystery to me. 鈥�