Prix Goncourt : 1984 . Who read novels likeأ : Les Misérables, Camille : The Lady of the Camellias, The Outsider and The Little Prince.
الأعمال السابقة وغيرها من قائمة الأعمال الفرنسية العظيمة – التي أحببتها شخصيًا – أقول له اليوم أضم هذه التحفة الصغيرة لـ"عبقريته الفنيةا" للأعمال الفرنسية التي أعجبتني في فترات سابقة من حياتي القرائية.



، هي نوفيلا في (126) وقد كتبت بضمير متكلم والكثير من المونولوج الداخلي لكن تقنية إستحضار الفلاش باك - ذكري الماضي - وتوظيفه في الحاضر ثم وبطريقة جنونية تجعلع خبرًا إستباقيًا للمستقبل كان عملًا إحترافيًا. أن تخرج دوراس كل ما جعبتها - سيرتها ٠ في قالب رواية عميقة وقوية رغم صغر حجمها. لا تعدو كونها نوفيلا - رواية في أول الأمر وأخره - تُعري ذاتها وأسرتها وتقسو على نفسها وأمها وأخيها الأكبر بكل هذا الوجع. أن تنقل كل أحداث طفولتها ومراهقتها وصولًآ لمرحلة الشباب والنضح لما بعد الكهولة وقد تجاوزت سن السبعين تنقله بتقنيه روائية عالية تشعرك أن كل خبرات الكتابة أذابتها ووضعتها في قالب روائي عميق يتطلب منك جهدًا لابأس من التركيز

بإشارات طفيفة عن (سايغون : المستعمرة الفرنسية) في فيتنام (هو تشي منه : اليوم) نقلت العمق التاريخي الفيتنامي والصيني والفرنسي حول هذه المنطقة وتلك الفترة التريخية. أقول في إشارات طفيفة لكنها قادرة على خلق فجوة زمنية تجبرك على ردمها بأقرب معلومة حتى تعي طبيغة المستوطنون الفرنسيون فـي مجتمعات المستعمرة للسكّان الأصليين.

إنها قصة عاشقة فرنسية مراهقة. عشقت بطريقتها الخاصة وكتبت سيرة عاشق صيني كان كلاهما يعلم حقيقة مشاعر الآخر وكيف أن البحث عن المتعة يتجاوز حدود المتعة حد الرغبة في الهرب من شيء ما لا تبديه الصورة
ــــــــــــــــــــــــــ
رابط لتغريدات حول رواية العاشق حيث حسابي

https://twitter.com/MeqatA/status/947...

He acabado de leer este libro con la sensación de no estar muy seguro de que he leído. No porque no sea entendible, sino que por la peculiaridad de la forma de contar la historia. Creo que nunca he leído a una autora así. Ni parecida. El único problema que puede tener es que quizás no es para todos los públicos. Y en mi caso me ha encantado. Ha sido un acierto para mí.

La trama autobiográfica nos será narrrada por la autora. En ella nos hablará de los años que pasó en Indochina proviniendo ella de una familia francesa, y del hombre del que se enamoró allí. Su amor imposibe por pertenecer a diferentes razas en una época donde no estaba bien visto será parte central de la historia, aunque no la única. También hará un retrato bastante profundo de sus dos hermanos y, sobre todo, de su madre. Y, para mí, es la madre la que se roba la parte más interesante de lo que cuenta. Nos encontramos con una mujer super compleja, arraigada por una parte a las convenciones sociales de la época y por otra tiene que sobrevivir sola con tres hijos en un mundo de hombres. Y, además, en un país con lo roles femeninos y masculinos mucho más marcados que en occidente. Me hubiera gustado conocer más de esa mujer. Conocer sus sentimientos y sus pensamientos.

Nueva autora de la que me enamoré <3.

Behind the image of the white girl, behind the black limousine and its owner, an older Chinese man, is the mentally ill mother, the not-there but always-there presence.

Behind the jumping around of the narrative voice from first- to third-person, over and over again, sometimes in the same paragraph, is the trauma.

Behind the fragmented telling, the circling around events, and the recurrence of several scenes is the attempt at reconciliation. Attempt only—some things cannot be reconciled.

Behind the writer of this brief review, one that felt compelled (and not so much written), is the unnamed girl behind the known woman who knew she’d be a writer.

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The Lover strikes me as little more than an exercise in literary masturbation. This novella is overwrought, self-indulgent, and ultimately insubstantial.
Fooled by the promise of its first pages, I soon found myself irked by the narrator's linguistic burps. With the exception of two or three characters, everyone else is nameless. Alienation is de rigueur.
The narrator revisits her past, engaging herself in a sort of mental seesaw, where she jumps from thought to thought, from image to image. Her fragmented and remote narrative failed to arouse my interest, if anything it merely struck me as disingenuous, a feeble attempt self-fashioning.
One moment she's old in France, the next line she's going on about how she looked as a fifteen-year girl, on the cusps of a sexual awakening, predictably burdened by the 'unstable' mother, the mean older brothers and the slightly-less-nasty younger brother. They are poor and unhappy. The narrator wears a man's hat (how riveting). She has sex with an older Chinese man. He loves her, or at least he thinks he does. They have some more sex, he treats her like a doll (putting makeup on her), our protagonist goes with it. Why? I don't know. He's portrayed as 'weak' and a 'coward'...great representation (not).

This cast of unnamed characters wallow in their misery. Here and there the story is swept away by a stream of consciousness. Duras tries to be sensual—“The balance between her figure and the way the body bears the breasts, outside itself, as if they were separate. Nothing could be more extraordinary than the outer roundness of these breasts proffered to the hands, this outwardness held out toward them.”—but her purple prose veers into the ridiculous.
There were also these childish attempts at introspection:
“Suddenly I see myself as another, as another would be seen, outside myself, available to all, available to all eyes, in circulation for cities, journeys, desire. I take the hat, and am never parted from it.”
Which seemed a mere echo of Arthur Rimbaud's “Je est un autre” (I is another).

The gists of my review is this: I disliked The Lover. A lot. And to compare this to Lolita is an insult to Nabokov.

Năm 2010: lần đầu tôi đọc "Người tình", có lẽ vì ngổn ngang với việc học hành thi cử, nên gần 200 trang sách trôi qua đầu, chẳng để lại điều gì, chỉ nhớ đến cuốn tiểu thuyết như những dòng tự truyện lan man, không có đầu đuôi.
Năm 2013: tôi được tặng cuốn "Người tình", người tặng (như trong lời đề tặng có ghi rõ) thừa biết tôi đã đọc cuốn sách, nhưng vẫn muốn tặng tôi, tôi đọc lời đề tặng rồi xếp sách lại, không hứa hẹn sẽ mở ra lần nữa.
Cuối năm 2015: rất tình cờ, tôi đặt chân đến Sa Đéc, không có bất cứ một kế hoạch nào, tôi bước vào nhà cổ Huỳnh Thủy Lê, nơi tôi vẫn gọi là ngôi nhà của "người tình", khi ấy mặt trời đã lặn, nơi chốn mà nhân vật trong cuốn sách đã từng sống, hóa ra là như thế này đây. Khi đi qua cầu Mỹ Thuận, tôi nhận ra, cách đây 80 năm, trên chuyến phà qua con sông dưới tôi, đã xảy ra một khoảnh khắc mà mãi mãi trở thành bất tử trong lịch sử văn chương (và cả điện ảnh nữa.)
Đầu năm 2016: tôi lục lọi giá sách và phát hiện ra mình có tận hai bản "Người tình", và lần này, tôi nhẩn nha đọc lại, gặm nhấm từng câu chữ và hoàn toàn bị cuốn sách làm xiêu lòng. Tôi yêu cái cách Marguerite Duras tả về những con sông, những cơn mưa hay những buổi chiều ở Sa Đéc và cả Chợ Lớn nữa, nó hoàn toàn sống động, chi tiết, đẹp đẽ và nhuốm một màu buồn bã cô đơn. Đây không hẳn chỉ kể về chuyện tình của bà và người đàn ông gốc Hoa, bà còn có dành rất nhiều dòng để kể về người mẹ và hai người anh trai. Có lẽ khi viết lại cuốn sách, hồi tưởng lại những năm tháng tuổi trẻ với mối tình đầy đam mê ấy, tâm trí bà có phần chấn động, bà viết như một người say sưa kể chuyện, không để ý đến độc giả. Và những dòng cuối cùng trong cuốn sách, tôi nghĩ, là một trong những đoạn ám ảnh nhất về tình yêu trong tiểu thuyết: "Và chàng không biết phải nói gì nữa. Rồi chàng nói với nàng. Nói với nàng rằng cũng giống như trước kia, chàng vẫn yêu thương nàng, chàng không thể ngừng yêu thương nàng cho được, không bao giờ chàng có thể ngừng yêu thương nàng, chàng yêu thương nàng cho đến chết."

This book seems somewhat like a dream or of the writer's memories of times long past, being pulled from her mind. During her childhood, her family lived in French Indo China, now Viet Nam, an outpost of France. The book goes back and forth in time. Her writing style si so much different, dated or not. The writer seems to be living inside herself.

Her story begins when she is quite old. An older man tells her how beautiful everyone said when she was young. He thinks her more beautiful now. Ravaged, but lived.

The book is sensual, the feeling of being in love, the beauty of the earth, hot, dry summers, an ocean voyage, life itself.

The family is poor, the mother, two older brothers, the storyteller. The father's health is poor. He had to return to France to die.

When the writer is fifteen and a half, she meets a young man from a wealthy family. She dresses the way she wants, different from others. She is French, he Chinese, they can never marry in those times and places.

He is twenty seven. He desires her, she is not quite sure, but she goes with him, tired of being poor, and doing without things young women want. He takes her to nice places, restaurants, his home. The affair lasts until she is seventeen and returns to France. A short affair that means so much and is never forgotten by either.

She writes of her mother, happy or unhappy with her life. It depends on whatever. She is a teacher and head of a girls school. She calls her oldest son, my child. The two others are the younger ones.

She writes of some of her friends, Marie-Claude, American, who has a nice apartment in Paris, whose apartment she visits many times. Betty Fernandez, who dresses differently, what she likes, not what is in fashion. A tall slim woman, an engraving. Helene Langonelle, a friend of her youth, very beautiful, not very intelligent in school. The writers tells of the pleasures of love.

There three friends are long gone from life. The writer doesn't know. The writer's family is gone.

The older brother wasn't much, never did much . Her mother expected to the the persons her brothers could not be.

This is a different type of story, as I wrote before, but it gives readers much to think about. She has bared her soul before all who read this book. It is possibly an autobiography. Who knows.. The French have a different way of writing.

The cover contains the picture of a pensive young woman. The book won the 1984 Prix Goncourt. Like a short boo, it tells so much.

حیف درخت
حیف کاغذ! انصافن هم چه کاغذ جنس خوبی بود
حیف شش هزار و پونصد تومن پول نازنینم
حیف وقت
حیف چشمام
حیف از اون جایی که این کتاب تو کتابخونه م اشغال میکنه
.
.
.
دیگه حرفی ندارم فعلن..تا بعد
:-|

پ.ن: بعد از دو کتاب اثر دوراس مطمئن شده ام که من دوراس را نه تنها دوست نمی دارم که از ایشان بدم هم می آید.تنها احساسی که لا به لای نوشته اش گرفتم سرما بود. دریغ از ذره ای حس ارتباط و نزدیکی بین خواننده و نویسنده. انگار که واسه دل خودش می نویسه فقط و دیگر هیچ! یه جور شلختگی و اهمیت ندادن به مخاطب

و تا یادم نرفته تشکر ویژه از سانسورچی های محترم که این دو عاشق هییییییچ کاری جز درازکشیدن و حرف زدن راجع به اعضای خانواده و زندگیشون انجام ندادند و اصلن اجازه ندادند ما عشقی در این بین حس کنیم که خدایی نکرده دلمون نسوزه و نخواد مثلن

تند تند خوندم که زودتر تموم شه و از دستش خلاص شم
نخرید و نخونید
هر چند من به ریویوی دوستان اهمیت ندادم هم خریدم و هم خوندم
ولی شما این جفا رو در حق خودتون روا ندارید لطفن
مرسی

Um curso de água tem, habitualmente, a sua nascente em cadeias montanhosas escarpadas, geografias inóspitas que constituem aposentos protectores para os deuses. Entre rochas e penedos, desce até às terras habitadas pelos singelos homens, seres errantes, que esperam banhar-se nas suas águas e sair delas purificados. Esquecem-se, no entanto, que, por esses caminhos trilhados, o líquido aparentemente translúcido e incólume arrasta sujidades, as quais ficarão incrustadas na pele dos que pretendiam um sacramento. A purificação requerida transforma-se então em maldição.

Na margem de um rio, é dado a conhecer uma jovem adolescente que, na sua vontade ígnea de o atravessar, se vê atravessada por algo semelhante a uma seta de um Cupido afrodisíaco, lançado por um homem mais velho, chinês, endinheirado e de boas famílias. Num laço que une estas duas personagens, adensa-se uma relação quase tóxica, que se crava numa pele imaculada, quase como um cilício.

O reverberar deste objecto faz sentido, na medida em que a jovem assume o acto pedófilo como um acto de contrição face às dimensões funestas da sua vida: uma família desestruturada, com uma parca sanidade mental, que lança punhais numa roleta russa; os pensamentos de morte que ruminam numa mente em agonia, engendrando planos de um homicídio em potência e/ou um suicídio fragmentário; um ódio que se volatiza, por um ambiente de acendelha, que imola todos os que dele se aproximarem.

Num fluxo de pensamento, surgem fotogramas de memórias como uma manta de retalhos, sem fio para uma costura firme e sã. Os fragmentos de tecido são puxados e repuxados, restando apenas peças de um puzzle sem solução possível - a imagem fica sempre intuída, nunca completa. Mas os fiapos deles são afiados e cravam-se na pele, induzindo uma ferida, sem cura possível. Dela, goteja em catadupa um fio de sangue imaculado e imaturo, sem possibilidade de abandonar esse estado servil, inocente, inseguro e inconsciente. Gota a gota, a água tornar-se-á rubra de um desejo doentio e, qual maçã pecaminosa, irá escorraçar todos os que dele beberem.

"Ensinar-lhes que a imortalidade é mortal, que ela pode morrer, que já aconteceu, que ainda acontece. Que não se anuncia enquanto tal, nunca, que é a duplicidade absoluta. Que não existe no pormenor, mas apenas no princípio. Que certas pessoas podem dela transportar a presença na condição de ignorarem que o fazem. Tal como certas outras pessoas podem detectar-lhe a presença nessas pessoas, na mesma condição, ignorarem que o podem fazer. Que é enquanto ela se vive que a vida é imortal, enquanto está em vida. Que a imortalidade não é uma questão de mais ou menos tempo, que não é uma questão de imortalidade, que é uma questão de outra coisa que permanece ignorada. Que é tão falso dizer que ela não tem começo nem fim, como dizer que começa e acaba com a vida do espírito uma vez que ela participa e da perseguição do vento. Olhai as areias mortas dos desertos, o corpo morto das crianças: a imortalidade não passa por aí, para e contorna." (pág. 162)

Marguerite Duras has written the remarkable story of her childhood love affair with a wealthy older man who happened to be Chinese. Their tumultuous love affair took place in pre-war Saigon in 1929. The book is written with exquisite language expressing perfectly the powerful emotions of an innocent girl as she experiences first love with an exotic and loving older man.

The young French girl faces disgrace on many levels. She is no longer respected because of the illicit affair; the fact that she is white and he is Chinese is unacceptable in 1929 Vietnamese society. Her lover is betrothed to a Chinese woman he’s yet to meet. He is torn between the love he feels for the young French girl and family obligation. But he has no choice. He will lose his inheritance and shame his family if he does not follow through with the arranged marriage.

Their love affair is beautifully drawn, loving, tender, and erotic. The dialogue is stunning, a memorable and heart rending novel. The sad life of the young French girl is well described, which probably explains her desire and need for love and escape from her desolate world. The ending will stay with you.

“…she wept because she thought of the man from Cholon and suddenly she wasn’t sure she hadn’t loved him with a love she hadn’t seen because it had lost itself in the affair like water in sand and she rediscovered it only now, through this moment of music flung across the sea.”

WINNER OF FRANCE'S PRIX GONCOURT

n  I can't remember the days. The light of the sun blurred and annihilated all color. But the nights, I remember them.n

This novella is disjointed, fragmented, inescapable, lewd, beautiful, lucid, dense, reflective, fascinating and all of those things you expect from a piece of literary art. For this style is truly literary, a narrative that toys with time and themes, a narrative that says what it wants when it wants, forcing the reader to reach between the words, between the many white spaces the structure utilizes, beneath the simplicity, to find the underpinnings. In some ways, it is like reading poetry.

This is my second book this week on fractured mother-daughter relationships. A woman reflects on a dismal and fragmented childhood. She remembers, with some bitterness, a mother who struggled with mental illness and who favored her disloyal sibling. A mother who was also an enabler of the relationship with the lover.

In some ways the novel is about loneliness and abandonment. A fifteen-year old feels abandoned, unloved, and jumps into the arms of a man twelve years her senior, a man infatuated by her youth and race, a man who, if one reads closely, seems to be battling something dark himself. They have an affair that lasts a year and a half. He is everything and nothing to her. Through him, she escapes a life, lives another, finds herself.

This is not a novel you read for story or to be moved in some definable way. I will say I enjoy books that play with memory, refuse to follow a linear narrative structure, wait until a reader is truly engaged before spilling the real story. So much is revealed in this tiny package and it is no surprise that Marguerite Duras admitted to this being autobiographical. The main character turns to writing as solace, believes it is the force the universe sent her way as a helpmate, "the great desert in whose form life stretches out" before her. This novella stayed on my shelf for years and I'm glad I finally read it.

Somewhere between 4 and 5 stars.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I picked this up. Sepia tinted nostalgia. Eroticism. Regrets. Sadness. I knew that it was a vaguely fictionized version of an episode of Duras’ adolescence, when she fell in love and began a sexual relation with an older Chinese businessman when she lived in French Indochina. I knew that it explored her fractured relationship with her mother and her nameless lover’s tensions with his own father. I had heard that it captured that strange limbo between childhood and adulthood, when the very act of breathing feels uncomfortable and ill-fitting, like weirdly cut clothes. I thought, sure, that sounds like a book I’d like. I picked up a copy, read over a rainy Monday and put it on my shelf feeling like I had been hit over the head.

The prose is fluid and dreamlike, probably because it’s the voice of an old woman looking back at her far away past: the details are vague, some faces are blurred and it can sometimes feel like Duras narrates her tale from a place of aloofness, but I feel like it’s simply the distance of years. When I look back at things that happened when I was fifteen, it almost feels like it happened to someone else – and I’m nowhere near seventy years old yet. The writing is also saturated with suffering, and it leaves a trace of pain like an oil slick over the whole story. Duras never complains about her circumstances, she simply wants to say “This happened. It damaged me. I kept living anyway.” And yet it is impossible not empathize with her loneliness, her resentment, her feelings of abandonment and her need to feel like someone wants and values her.

Obviously, everything about this coupling is forbidden: the lovers’ age, race and class differences mean their relationship will never be anything but doomed, but they need each other to escape their respective misery, feeling that the only peace and understanding they will ever find is with the other.

Many people have compared it to “Lolita” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...), because it’s a disturbing story about an older man and a young “girl”, beautifully written. It is unsettling, but I didn’t feel like it was the relationship between the girl and the business man that was wrong: it was the abuse they both suffered. When you are damaged, sometimes you find comfort in the strangest places, and I doesn’t feel like it’s my place to judge them. "Lolita" was horrifying because Humbert made Lo suffer; "The Lover" is moving because they are united by their pain.

Novela de corte autobiográfico publicada en 1984, “El Amante” narra la relación entre una adolescente de origen francés y familia empobrecida y disfuncional y un hombre chino y adinerado que le saca doce años. En plena Indochina francesa,el libro no solo será una narración en la que la protagonista hablara de los sentimientos que le produce la relación con este primer amante, también hará repaso a la relación con su familia y a su historia.

Esta lectura me ha dejado con sentimientos encontrados. Y me ha dejado una reflexión sobre las puntuaciones a los libros que hago en plataformas como Goodreads y Babelio. En este caso que nos ocupa, siento que la puntuación (aunque sea alta) quizás no sea del todo justa o responda a lo que realmente me ha parecido el libro. Pero al mismo tiempo tampoco puedo ponerle más.

Lo cual no evita que reconozca los múltiples e incuestionables atractivos literarios de la obra. “El Amante” gano en el mismo año de su publicación el Premio Goncourt, el más prestigio de las letras francesas. Y lo gano con toda justicia. La prosa de Marguerite Duras es muy hermosa, poética, lírica, sutil ,desgarradora y certera como una flecha, todo en uno. Su pluma logra crear figuras literarias llenas de color, lirismo y belleza, muy evocadoras, con palabras que transportan irremediablemente al lector al mundo de la Indochina colonial de principios de siglo. Hay erotismo, si, pero este no se encuentra en las escenas sexuales entre la chica (la propia autora) y su amante, sino en la propia relación que se desarrolla entre los dos, compleja y en la que el poder y el control tienen un peso enorme. El sexo visto como válvula de escape a una situación familiar irrespirable (ahora iremos a eso) y como mecanismo de placer y autoconocimiento. Y también, como la forma de controlar a alguien cuando no se tiene poder dentro de tu propia casa. De demostrar a quien se supone que debe controlarte (en el caso de nuestra protagonista, a una madre mentalmente inestable y depresiva que tiene una relación de dependencia absoluta con su hijo mayor), como se usa ese poder de verdad. Aunque he dicho poder se ejerce con alguien que realmente no lo tiene, un amante de carácter pusilamine y débil, cuya fortuna depende totalmente de los designios de su padre.

No se puede negar que en “El Amante” es una novela sensual y, a veces sórdida. Pero sinceramente, para mí el componente sexual es una de las cosas menos importantes en esta lectura. Tiene su peso, sobre todo como medio para señalar el paso de la infancia a la adultez de su protagonista, como vehículo para el autodescubrimiento y para la definición de la personalidad de una joven. Pero sobre todo, como señalé más arriba, como válvula de escape de una situación familiar asfixiante e insoportable. Sinceramente, para mí la novela es más bien la crónica de una familia disfuncional y rota. Marcada por una madre mentalmente inestable y dependiente de un hijo egoísta y malvado, cuya personalidad es una sombra que debora y acapara todo con la fiereza de un ogro, especialmente a sus hermanos menores. De ahí que a nuestra protagonista (nuestra autora) no le quede otra que romper cualquier tipo de lazo con su familia, alejarse de ellos sin ningún tipo de compasión. Huir para reafirmarse en sí misma, eso es lo que realmente obsesiona a Duras aunque no lo diga claramente, solo lo insinua. En cierto sentido, El Amante” es la explicación y autojustificación de su escritora a este comportamiento, la forma de reafirmar su independencia frente a un ambiente familiar tóxico y opresivo.

Y dentro de esa atmósfera malsana, la relación entre los dos amantes tiene algo de inocente, por la sinceridad y pureza de sus motivos. Es una historia condenada de antemano, que no va a llevar a ninguna parte, en la que no queda claro si hay auténtico amor por alguna de las dos partes. Pero precisamente, por esa sinceridad es algo puro dentro del entorno familiar de la protagonista. De ahí, que esta relación, que a primera vista tendría que ser vista como algo escandaloso y de repugnante, al final resulte más tolerable que la maldad y egoísmo del hermano mayor, la debilidad del hermano menor o el desequilibrio y parcialidad de la madre. Es una burbuja dentro de la podredumbre de la vida cotidiana. Si ha habido una palabra que ha sobrevolado toda lectura de “El Amante” ha sido la de masoquismo. Sufrir se convierte en una suerte de placer que libera y salva y por ello justifica el sufrimiento.

Otro aspecto muy interesante de la lectura es la forma en que esta representado el mundo de la Indochina francesa que Duras saca de sus propios recuerdos, para convertirlo en palabras llenas de colorismo y exotismo, de forma que se puede sentir con total viveza todas sus características. El entorno apropiado para este cuento voluptuoso. También destaca como se representa con gran fidelidad la situación social y colonial de ese lugar, con las diferencias sociales e ideológicas entre la gente de origen blanco y las personas asiáticas.

Con todo esto ¿Qué es lo que me ha fallado en esta lectura? Bueno, no considero que el erotismo sea algo que tenga que asustar o escandalizar. De hecho, si vemos esta novela como una novela erótica me parece que está escrita con muy buen gusto y elegancia, con una historia sólida y un núcleo emocional interesante y lleno de claroscuros. Pero, al mismo tiempo considero que es una novela demasiado personal . Quizás lo hubiera disfrutado mas si hubiera sabido más de la obra de Marguerite Duras o de su biografia, y este libro no hubiera sido mi primer encuentro literario con ella. La trama ,desde luego, no es nada sencilla, hay que tener valor para enfrentarse a ella y ver más allá de lo que es. Pero siento que no ha sido una historia del todo para mi. No por lo escandaloso en ella, sino porque no he logrado conectar con ella. No sé porque es, pero siento que se debe a que no estamos ante una protagonista que pueda llegar a caer bien del todo. Su novela es demasiado personal y visceral. Y eso, creo que en el momento en que estoy ahora ha impedido que pueda conectar del todo con ella. No podría explicarlo de una forma mejor o más clara. Pero está novela, por más bien escrita que este, no ha acabado de llegarme a todo. Creo que se debe al aluvión de emociones y sentimientos, muchas veces contradictorios, que te produce esta lectura. Hoy por hoy, siento que no estoy preparada para una historia tan compleja y que me ha hecho sentir tantas cosas mientras la leía. Aunque su factura literaria sea indiscutible y su lectura sea un reto. Pero, por lo que sea, se me ha hecho un tanto pesada de leer. Quizás por su ritmo narrativo, lento y centrado en la introspección. Lo cual es una pena, sobre todo si se considera que la novela está escrita en segmentos cortos, lo que, teóricamente, debería ser más ágil y fácil su lectura.