A vapid stream of half-formed and contradictory consciousness. ( )

I found The Lover through Vivian Gornick's The Situation and the Story. I've just finished it, put it down and feel as though I need time for it to wash through me. Written in a fragmentary, dream-like style with an underlay of arch intelligence, there are no people in this book, just shadowy impressions. Even the narrator is somehow missing. Submerged in nostalgia for youth perhaps? I didn't find it particularly erotic, but it did transport me to my carnal youth, first loves, and young bodies and that's quite a pleasurably nostalgic place to be. I think I'd better retrieve my copy of The Situation and the Story from a friend and re-read Vivian Gornick's thoughts. ( )

If you wanted to take a story of star-crossed youthful passion and make it as cold and unaffecting as possible, you could do a lot worse than to write it in the style of the Nouveau Roman movement. The film is a better piece of art, if art is intended to provoke feeling of some sort in the experiencer, rather than exist primarily as an intellectual object. ( )

O que mais me comoveu neste livro de Marguerite Duras foi tudo o que escreveu sobre a mãe e o seu desespero diário e brutal: "na minha infância a desgraça da minha mãe ocupou o lugar do sonho". Mas também o que escreveu sobre a família, em que as pessoas não se falavam e só se olhavam através das fotografias; o quarto a que chegou como a desgraça que lhe era anunciada desde de sempre; a tristeza à qual diz que poderia quase dar-lhe o seu nome; a morte do irmão a trazer-lhe uma dor que a fazia sentir que tudo devia morrer, incluindo ela. E comoveu-me também quando afirmou que escrever livros era a única coisa que conseguia ver para além do instante.

( )

I couldn't put this down - the writing is beautiful. ( )

so many thoughts im struggling to articulate.

duras tells the narrative with such a cold delivery. its near impossible to discern the actual intentions and emotions of herself and her self insert. its both an example of colonialist ideas and a scathing critique of it (especially with the added context of duras pro-colonialist writings). the novella both condemns and revels in the exploitation of the young girl at the center. gave me a feeling almost similar to lolita? but not quite. very uncomfortable to read, but i cant stop thinking about it. struggled trying to decide on a rating, but i think 4 stars is justified. ( )

This novel is not for everyone. The style is part of a literary movement in France in the 1950s, which invests so much on interiority. The result is expanded freedom, without being highly descriptive. Chronology in story-telling is not necessary. In this novel, the emotions feel so precise in a few words it feels mysterious at the same time. I simply love it. This is what literature is about. It’s one of my all-time favorites. ( )

I've been wanting to read this since I got very obssessed with the soundtrack of the mid 90s film but that might end up being the better choice. It was mercifully short since it was not really a novel but a string of vaguely described events that didn't come together in any meaningful way. I should have guessed, having read another of her books, that it would be that way but I hoped. I know that is both her style and very acceptable 20th century style but I get absolutely nothing from it and started grouchily wondering if she could use the obvious talent she has to create real characters and plots.

The Lover Again
Review of the Pantheon Books Kindle eBook (July 6, 2011) translated by Barbara Bray|25484] from the French language original "L'Amant" (1984)

I want to write. I’ve already told my mother: That’s what I want to do—write. No answer the first time. Then she asks, Write what? I say, Books, novels. She says grimly, When you’ve got your math degree you can write if you like, it won’t be anything to do with me then. She’s against it, it’s not worthy, it’s not real work, it’s nonsense. Later she said, A childish idea.

This was a 2023 re-read instigated by my recent reading of Thuận's Chinatown (2005 original/2022 translation), which makes regular references to the Duras book and also has some parallels to her book's plot (the protagonist's love of a Chinese man living in Vietnam).

See photograph at https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-TKUu3EyNzfY/TYap3geT9nI/AAAAAAAACvU/P40fjbRHz...
Actor Jane March as The Young Girl in the 1992 film adaptation of 'The Lover'. Image sourced from a film review at The Ace Black Movie Blog.

I did review The Lover from a paperback edition in my early GR days with a 3-star rating. This re-read left me with the same impression. My earlier read had been influenced by comparisons with Kim Thúy's Ru (original 2009) and in 2023 I still have the same rating. In the meantime I have also read similar memoir fictionalizations by Annie Ernaux which have also left a stronger impression. Of course Duras was there much earlier in 1984, so all credit to her still.

This time, I did enjoy finding the above quote which talked about Duras' first ideas of being a writer and her mother's reaction to it. I did notice that my earlier review linked to the Wikipedia posting about the book and it must have then contained an editorial-like comment questioning the veracity of Duras' claims of being the 15 & 1/2 year old lover of a man 10 years her senior. That reference has disappeared from Wikipedia in the meantime.

Trivia and Links
The Lover was adapted for film in 1992 with the same title (Note: plot spoilers if you click through and read). It was directed by Jean-Jacques Annaud and starred Jane March and Tony Leung. A trailer for the film can be viewed on YouTube here. ( )

Det är en självbiografisk roman som utspelas i Indokina, då en fransk koloni. Den kvinnliga huvudpersonen, som är fransyska, är femton år gammal då hon inleder en sexuell förbindelse med en kinesisk affärsman. Omgivningen ser inte deras affär med blida ögon.

Meh. I was not impressed. This is about a 15-year-old girl having an affair with a 27-year-old man. Nothing to write about except as a warning. ( )

A tropikus Indokína – tudom, milyen az. Tegnap egy légkondícionálás nélküli, zárt ablakos BKV buszon kezdtem el ezt a könyvet. Ez az a háttér, ami párával és fülledséggel homályosítja el ennek az amúgy igazán tárgyilagos szövegnek a kontúrjait. A kisregény elbeszélője a család konvencionális, zárt poklából szökik ki azzal, hogy a közeg létező összes tabuját felborogatja: gyermeklányként egy gazdag férfi szeretőjévé válik, aki ráadásul még kínai is. Hogy ezt nem pénzért, hanem szexuális vágyainak engedve teszi, alighanem még megbocsáthatatlanabbá teszi választását a konzervatív női szerephagyomány tükrében. (Az pedig, hogy mindezt meg is írja – hát csak hab a tortán.) De vajon mi történik, ha kilépünk a megszokott pokolból? Értelmezhető-e ez felszabadulásként a szó bármely értelmében, vagy csak exportáljuk privát poklunkat valaki más életébe? Ez a sűrű, tömény szöveg meghagyja nekem a lehetőséget, hogy megválaszoljam magamnak a kérdést. Tulajdonképpen olyan, mint azok a fotók, ahol nem az ábrázolt személy a lényeg – hanem az, ami lemaradt a képről. ( )

8489669228

Duras changes from first person to third person and place in time and space freely - yet I was never for a moment lost. I always knew what she meant. The writer looks back on herself all those years ago, in French Indochina that no longer exists. Most of her family is dead. She doesn't have any photographs of that day she crossed the river on a ferry wearing a man's hat. The day she was approached by the wealthy Chinese man who became her lover. She was only fifteen. But this is not a tale of that scandal really, the Chinese lover, a man in his thirties, is decent enough, if weak. Her older brother is more sinister, stealing from his family and gambling money away. Yet there is sympathy even for him, an insight into his loneliness. Her mother is tragic, poor, a school teacher struggling to raise three children in a land where other whites are rich. Yet the mother is no better morally than any other character, nor is the narrator.

Having lived in Asia and read many books on the 'expat' experience, this one is told from a unique point perspective: a seventy-year-old French writer remembering herself as a teenager (rather than a drunken Western male over fifty recounting his conquests ( )

Fucking great ( )

Video review: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyCq4vJVC3M

A life in Polaroids.
Colonialism and taboo.
The awakening of a young girl's sexuality.
The complexities of relationships.
Preoccupied with mortality.
Love and loss.
The sickness unto death.

The narrator's self-reflexiveness and alternating detachment (observing herself as an external object) make the whole experience of the book dreamlike. ( )

I was hesitant to read this book because I’m not much of a romance reader. But, as it turns out, this book isn’t much of a romance. What it is is an elegantly written work of art.

I found this book to be a study in contradictions. At times provoking vivid imagery, at other times sparse and simplistic, the prose reads like poetry, simultaneously emotional and detached. The style tends towards the abstract, but sharpens at times to be cuttingly exact. There are passages that are shockingly beautiful and insightful.

Strange, lonely, angry, but definitely worth the time it took to absorb this short read. A must for writers wishing to expose themselves to a broader experience. 5 stars. ( )

À la différence de son Dix Heures et demie du soir en été, L'Amant ne m'a ni parlé, ni intéressé. ( )

assured, sensual, obnoxiously confident elliptical writing. ( )

Did nothing for me. Felt like a loose sketch for a novel which was never completed.

Some questionable writing too (perhaps a translation issue?). For example "Going back to Saigon I feel I'm going on a journey, especially when I take the bus, and this morning I've taken the bus"... Yeesh. ( )

Roman autobiographique mis en image par Jean-Jacques Annaud, "L'amant" est l'un des récits d'initiation amoureuse parmi les plus troublants qui soit. Dans une langue pure comme son sourire de jeune fille, Marguerite Duras confie sa rencontre et sa relation avec un rentier chinois de Saigon.
Dans l'Indochine coloniale de l'entre deux-guerres, la relation amoureuse entre cette jeune bachelière et cet homme déjà mûr est sublimée par un environnement extraordinaire. Dès leur rencontre sur le bac qui traverse le Mékong, on ressent l'attirance physique et la relation passionnée qui s'ensuivra, à la fois rapide comme le mouvement permanent propre au sud de l'Asie et lente comme les eaux d'un fleuve de désir.
Histoire d'amour aussi improbable que magnifique, "L'amant" est une peinture des sentiments amoureux, ces pages sont remplies d'un amour pur et entier.
Ce roman vaudra un succès conséquent à Marguerite Duras. Florent Mazzoleni

Increíble cómo una novela tan breve pueda transmitir tanto. Cada página está repleta de emoción cruda. No es solamente literatura erótica, es también una exploración del sufrimiento, de lo extranjero, del racismo, del amor y del poder, de la familia. La prosa de Duras es perfectamente sintética, sientes que no se deja nada en el tintero. Esta debe ser una de las novelas breves que más me deja impresionado. ( )

My brothers gorge themselves without saying a word to him. They don't look at him either. They can't. They're incapable of it. If they could, if they could make the effort to see him, they'd be capable of studying, of observing the elementary rules of society.

There are a plethora of splendid reviews of The Lover by my GR friends. Read those. My own reactions were of a lower cut, more bruised and bottom shelf. I found the novel to be one of shame. Take the girl and her situation, colonials on the down and out. There is a great deal of local color but, the characters find themselves clinging to the short side of the stick. A great poet once said, "I pity the poor immigrant who wishes he would've stayed home." Their failure is malignant. It clings to their clothes and hazes their spoiled breath. I found the erotic to be negligible as well, a clingy despair in contrast to the angelic breasts of the protagonist's schoolmate. There's a wisdom in that, I suppose, however ephemeral. Duras succeeds in making the reader uncomfortable. The framing dynamic is between the older Chinese man and the fifteeen year old protagnist, wry in her man's hat and gold shoes. That relationship is outflanked by the Naturalisti images Duras weaves of Parisian garrets and the familial failures of dissipation.

My year of reading (mostly French) women continues in pace with a philosophy of the here and now. This was a detour of benefit.
( )

I believe we all have memories like these – distant, random, mixed with pain, mixed with joy, a purposeful vagueness that is possibly self-induced. The thoughts are disclosed like word-puke, somewhat jumbled, non-linear, occasionally repetitive as though to reinforce the thought, colored with poetic prose, incomplete but the feeling is confirmed. This is what I felt reading Duras’ ‘The Lover’, an autobiographical novel of her youth in Saigon, particularly of her Lover.

It’s 1929. The fifteen-and-a-half-year-old girl is in Saigon with her mom, a headmistress in a local school who is a manic-depressive widow, an elder brother who is violent, cruel, and a thief, and an elder brother who is referred to as ‘younger brother’ who is kind and gentle but lives in fear of the elder brother’s fist. They are broke and are known as the ‘layabouts’. On a ferry, the girl meets a 30-something wealthy Chinese-Vietnamese that evolves into a year and a half affair. Though wealthy, he is controlled by his father who owns the family’s money and forbids any consideration of their union. The affair ends when she leaves Saigon returning to France.

The emotions are complex as I am sure it was for Duras then and at the time of writing (published in 1984) and for the reader. Needless to say, there is an ickiness with the underage relationship. But it’s more than that with a certain amount of reciprocation and desire on her part – he was her temporary (hours at a time) escape from her reality. She is not seeking pity, yet her words draw you into her darkness. There is an economy of words in her lack of details, but there is also an excess of words to provide a certain dreaminess, that poetic feeling. But as the reader, we know there is nothing pleasant here and that just adds to the ickiness. The narrator speaks of “I”, but also regularly speaks of the protagonist in the third person – the girl, the white girl, the girl with a man’s hat, as though these memories are detachments and denials, not of hers, not of her fifteen to seventeen-year-old self. She also wrote of her lust for her beautiful classmate, her best friend, lusting of her body, of her breasts. She recognizes her own sexual ‘perverseness’ but ignores her sexual confusion.

Perhaps the above is what makes this an award-winning book – that a nearly seventy-year old self can converge her complex teenage years into a haunting tale. Alas, it is not for me. Lastly, I was annoyed with the stereotype description of the Chinese male, his lack of masculinity, his softness, his weeping. Even though I know it’s her truth and likely the truth of that time, it’s still rather off-putting.

Some quotes:
On Beauty – and it’s one heck of a pickup line for a mature lady:
“One day, when I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.”

On Desire:
“You didn’t have to attract desire. Either it was in the woman who aroused it or it didn’t exist. Either it was there at first glace or else it had never been. It was instant knowledge of sexual relationship or it was nothing. That too I knew before I experienced it.” ( )

There are flashes of poetic brilliance in ‘The Lover’, and it has a pretty strong ending, evoking sentimental memories of first love and time gone by. Unfortunately, the narrative style, which has Duras sifting through her memories and writing almost conversationally, is hit and miss. The story is of a fifteen year old French girl from a poor and dysfunctional family who has an affair with a Chinese man in his thirties in Saigon. At home, she has a bad relationship with her mother, her oldest brother is a profligate, and tragedy awaits her other brother. At boarding school, she fantasizes over another girl, and awaits being picked up by her lover’s limousine. Their physical relations give her pleasure, but there is a creepiness about them, beyond the fact that she’s underage. Overall, the book has a vagueness and a malaise to it, which was perhaps the intended effect, and honest to Duras’s true experience, as the book is autobiographical. It doesn’t always make for pleasant reading though.

Quotes:
On aging:
“One day, when I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.”

On death:
“It was a mistake, and the momentary error filled the universe. The outrage was on the scale of God. My younger brother was immortal and they hadn’t noticed. Immortality had been concealed in my brother’s body while he was alive, and we hadn’t noticed that it dwelt there. Now my brother’s body was dead, and immortality with it. And the world went on without that visited body, and without its visitation. It was a complete mistake. And the error, the outrage, filled the whole universe.” ( )