Durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial , ambos participaron en la Resistencia francesa. Andesmas, de Sus obras posteriores ponen de relieve, en relatos cortos, la angustia y el deseo de los personajes que intentan escapar de la soledad. Sus grandes novelas son Le ravissement de Lol V. Con El amante obtuvo el Premio Goncourt.
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Shelves: classics-literay-fiction , read-years-ago , stars-5 , favorites-of-all-times I opened the first page of Marguerite Duras The Lover , and there she was, the girl with no name with all her ancient reminiscences. I heard her voice as if it were inside my head, Very early in my life it was too late.
It was already too late when I was eighteen. How did you get there, my friend? Or should I call you my sister, since from the beginning I discovered we shared anguishes and most certainly a great multitude of passions and dreams?
We both were introduced to this world by tortured mothers, who experienced this deep despondency about living. Sometimes it lasted, sometimes it would vanish with the dark. That image of our mothers certainly stayed with both of us for life, my friend. But what can we do, but go on living?
I glance outside, and the wind is speeding like my heart is beating, faster and faster, bum, bum, bum, as I get to know you. But suddenly my mind gets back inside. Yes, I was also there when you met the nameless man while crossing the river going back to Saigon with a storm blowing inside the water.
I have to agree with you, The crucial ambiguity of the image lies in the hat. He was elegant, not a white man but wearing European clothes.
Again I remember myself, walking hand in hand with a year-old man when I was just sixteen. But while I had two fine sisters, you had two wild brothers that would never do anything. Going back to your nameless young man, as you told me he got out of the limousine and is smoking an English cigarette.
He slowly comes over to you. I was still a boy, at And you simply got into his car. The door shuts. A barely discernible distress suddenly seized you, weariness, the light over the river dims, but only slightly. Further memories of those times we shared during one of our meetings, comes running back to me. It is as if I was there with you, peeping into your afternoons.
He says he loves you madly, says it very softly. Then is silent. You say nothing. He looked at you in horror, asked, Is that what you want? You said it is. Then you let him say it. We who are now almost old ladies, at least well into our mature years. On top of my supposed wisdom, I wonder what is it so mysterious about being a woman. As a matter of fact, I often asked myself that before meeting my first lover at sixteen.
Yes, I was some months older than you. Not that it would have made any difference if I could envision what and where that would lead me to. As you said some women just wait, they dress just for the sake of dressing.
They look at themselves, dream of romance. Some of them go mad. Some are ditched. You can hear the word hit them, hear the sound of the blow. Some kill themselves. But that was never us; please tell me so.
But why could we expect to be different? Did you ever think you might have known, but forgot to tell me? Suddenly inspiration hits me, and I know how we saved ourselves despite our mothers. Do you still remember what you said, some time ago? You told me how it all started, I want to write. No answer the first time. Then she asks, Write what? I say, Books, novels. Later she said, A childish idea. I answered that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to write, nothing else but that, nothing.
No answer, just a quick glance immediately averted, a slight shrug, unforgettable. I also write, although nobody knows, I am not famous after all. But it saved me nonetheless. But you tried to hide it from me.
So many years have passed us by, leaving their ignoble scars; but we still reminisce all that went when we were almost children. Yes, you told me I can still see his face, and I do remember the name. The name you forgot to tell me. And your mother, that went on living even after you left her. Or what you told me happened in Paris. Or my years in London and New York. Until then! All quotes are in italics; 2.
„Kochanek” Marguerite Duras