This collection includes five short pieces, of which I was most interested in Writing. In fact, I initially thought that the whole book was about writing, so that was slightly disappointing, albeit my own fault. What was more seriously disappointing was the collection itself, which really wasn't as interesting or as good as I had expected it to be. Only Writing was worth reading, if I'm honest, and even that only had its moments, with an occasional passage that stood out. Perhaps if I had previously read Duras I would have been more interested or more lenient—as it stands, on its own, the collection left me unmoved and, too often, impatient with the generalities and annoyed at the inconsistencies. An example of one of the more stand-out moments:

"If one had any idea what one were to write, before doing it, before writing, one would never write. It wouldn't be worth it." (44)

You read it and you nod along, considering it quite profound. But then you think, wait a minute? Aren't there ideas—stories—in the minds of writers that they think need to be told, and that they therefore go on to write? Isn't this just as true, if not truer, than what Duras just wrote? Surely, an entire book doesn't come ready-made, but some of the greatest works have materialized precisely because their writers felt that an idea needed to be shared, that a story had to be told. As if Steinbeck did not have East of Eden in mind! Of course, this is Duras's personal account of writing. But while unconventionality is nice, it needs to be grounded in something substantial in order to become meaningful. That is, to become more than mere eccentricity, which doesn't last.

Pues ensayos de Marguerite que todo el mundo debería leer, para qué decir más.

3.75*

Toinen luenta 9/23 > 5*

Tror den förtjänar 4 stjärnor? Eller 3? Underligt bok. Vacker. Men emellanåt rörig. Jag kunde relatera till den eftersom jag också skriver. Vissa delar var fantastiska, den första och sista specifikt. Men ändå spretig liksom. Jag är kluven!

4 étoiles pour « écrire », les autres nouvelles étaient moins bien

Ba, hay bốn ngày + đêm, nhất định chẳng làm gì, chẳng làm gì chỉ để nhất định không làm gì cả, để trốn việc, để không nghĩ tới các deadlines, để được chìm đắm một mình một cõi, và quyết định chỉ đọc và đọc lại M.Duras, sau một cuộc nói chuyện dài thật dài về bà. Tất cả những cuốn sách mình có được lôi ra, xếp cạnh đầu giường, và cơ hồ có lúc mình không biết là mình đang đọc, đọc chỉ để đọc, để đọc lại, để đọc hết, để không phải đọc nữa: Đập ngắn Thái Bình Dương, Viết, Tình, Người tình, Người tình Hoa Bắc, Nỗi đau, Hiroshima Tình yêu của tôi, Nỗi đam mê của Lol. Stein. Hình như còn thiếu cái gì đó đã được dịch, Mắt xanh tóc đen, hay gì đó.

M.Duras từng là một sự say đắm nhẹ khi mình 19, và là nỗi chán ngán khi mình đã...già ở tuổi 21. Giờ còn già hơn nữa, nên đọc và đọc lại Duras, chỉ để kết thúc việc nghĩ về bà, đôi khi, trong các câu chuyện tình yêu nhảm nhí của đời thường. :P

Nỗi đau và Hiroshima vẫn là hai cuốn sách mình yêu thích hơn cả trong số này, đọc lại vẫn xúc động. Và Đập ngăn Thái Bình Dương nữa, nỗi mệt mỏi khủng khiếp của mùa khí nóng, của xứ nhiệt đới, nỗi khát mưa. Viết là một cuốn sách ổn, nhưng Tình, thì không sao vào nổi.

Những điều vẫn ở đó, đam mê, tình yêu, những cuộc tình, những hiện hữu không tên gọi, cái gì bên dưới, bên trên, ở giữa và đằng sau tình dục, thân xác, hơi nóng, mưa, hiroshima, nỗi đau, cơn đợi chờ, ham muốn, thiếu hụt, sự thẳng băng thản nhiên... Nhưng những điều vẫn ở đó đã không còn ở đó nữa.

Bạn nói: Phải đọc Summer Rain cơ, mới thật là weird, mới thật lạ lùng. Hay là lại đọc?

الترجمة جعلتني ألقي بالكتاب بعيداً

5 textes dont un seul dédié à l'écriture. Le texte sur l'écriture est vraiment une perle mais malheureusement j'ai moins apprécié les autres

"Écrire, c'est tenter de savoir ce qu'on écrirait si on écrivait — on ne le sait qu'après — avant, c'est la question la plus dangereuse que l'on puisse se poser. Mais c'est la plus courante aussi"

"Se trouver dans un trou, au fond d'un trou, dans une solitude quasi totale et découvrir que seule l'écriture vous sauvera."

"Etre seule avec le livre non encore écrit, c’est être encore dans le premier sommeil de l’humanité. C’est ça. C’est aussi être seule avec l’écriture encore en friche. C'est essayer de ne pas en mourir. C'est être seule dans un abri pendant la guerre. Mais sans prière, sans Dieu, sans aucune pensée sauf ce désir fou de tuer la Nation allemande jusqu'au dernier nazi"

"C'est un état pratique d'être perdu sans plus pouvoir écrire.. C'est là qu'on boit. Du moment qu'on est perdu et qu'on a donc plus rien à écrire, à perdre, on écrit. Tandis que le livre il est là et qu'il crie qu'il exige d'être terminé, on écrit."

"Ca rend sauvage l'écriture. On rejoint une sauvagerie d'avant la vie. Et on la reconnait toujours, c'est celle des forêts, celle ancienne comme le temps. Celle de la peur de tout, distincte et inséparable de la vie même. On est acharné. On ne peut pas écrire sans la force du corps. Il faut être plus fort que soi pour aborder l'écriture, il faut être plus fort que ce qu'on écrit. C'est une drôle de chose, oui. C'est pas seulement l'écriture, l'écrit, c'est les cris des bêtes la nuit, ceux de tous, ceux de vous et de moi, ceux des chiens. C'est la vulgarité massive, désespérante de la société"

"Je crois que c'est ça que je reproche aux livres, en général, c'est qu'ils ne sont pas libres. On le voit à travers l'écriture : ils sont fabriqués, ils sont organisés, réglementés, conformes on dirait. Une fonction de révision que l'écrivain a très souvent envers lui-même. L'écrivain, alors il devient son propre flic. J'entends par là la recherche de la bonne forme, c'est-à-dire de la forme la plus courante, la plus claire et la plus inoffensive. Il y a encore des générations mortes qui font des livres pudibonds. Même des jeunes : des livres "charmants", sans prolongement aucun, sans nuit. Sans silence. Autrement dit : sans véritable auteur. Des livres de jour, de passe-temps, de voyage. Mais pas des livres qui s'incrustent dans la pensée et qui disent le deuil noir de toute vie, le lieu commun de toute pensée"

"Dès que l’être humain est seul il bascule dans la déraison. Je le crois : je crois que la personne livrée à elle seule est déjà atteinte de folie parce que rien ne l’arrête dans le surgissement d’un délire personnel."

Tenía le impresión de que el libro trataba sobre el tema de la escritura. Me encontré con cinco piezas diferentes. La primera trata sobre el arte de escribir. Margarite Duras nos cuenta sus rituales y cómo se conecta con su yo más profundo. Cinco estrellas absolutas para esa primera parte. Luego vienen cuatro historias cortas. Interesantes, pero no era lo que buscaba. Más adelante les daré otra lectura. Ahora quería leer ensayo. Ensayo sobre el arte de escribir. He estado revisando los comentarios de los demás lectores, y veo que no soy la única que siente que se encontró con algo distinto a lo publicitado en la tapa de este libro.

I didn't jump on the Duras bandwagon in the wake of the astonishing success of The Lover, primarily because of her connection with the Nouveau roman, which I find tedious and pretentious. In grad school I had to read Robbe-Grillet's For A New Novel and hated its combination of the obvious and the tautological masquerading as profundity. To wit: In one of the essays he states that it is "chiefly in its presence that the world's reality resides." Gee. You don't say! Let me write that down! And where should I go to sign up for lessons in soaking up all the world's wonderful reality? Oh, wait. I only have to open my eyes.

Duras has many of Robbe-Grillet's faults, but also a few virtues he lacks. Some of her writing is beautiful, even if it's marred by the repetitious style her admirers love so much. But then in one book about her, a scholar states "Duras's audience is clearly divided into two groups: 'Durasophobes' who parody the incessant repetition that mark her texts and 'Durasophiles' who instead are caught up in the hypnotic spell that is never quite the same." While I admire the attempt to express what she so clearly believes is inexpressible, (I think the words 'impossible' and 'never' and 'not' are like bells ringing out the despair she seems to both indulge, love, and suffer from all at the same time.) All I can say, is she's really not for me. Perhaps it's better in French. And I do love her politics. Still, I'm glad I forced myself to read all of it, because the next to last section, The Pure Number, moved me the most.

I borrowed this from the library expecting it to be entirely about a single subject: writing. It isn't. There are five chapters; each chapter is a stand-alone story.

The first chapter titled "Writing" is by far my favorite. It's beautiful and calming. It discusses the process of writing and its intimate connection with solitude.

Writers crave solitude, yet "there is something suicidal in a writer's solitude."

* * *

The second chapter is about a young British pilot who tragically dies at the age of 20, on the day WWII "officially" ends.

This chapter has the worst writing in the whole book. Whereas the first chapter deserves five stars, this barely scrapes up one star.

Why? One idea (the horror of a "child of 20" killed at war) is rehashed repeatedly for about 22 (!!!) pages.

* * *

The third chapter is a conversation that occurs in a hotel lobby between a man and woman. They discuss the love story of the Queen of Samaria.

It's a bizarre chapter/story; it reads like a warped mini-play.

* * *

The fourth chapter is a quick (possibly too quick) essay on "purity." Duras claims purity is a sacred concept in every culture.

+ Purity is an obsession in Christianity.

+ The insane preoccupation with purity led to the murder of millions of Jews in WWII.

+ Clearly, purity is ridiculous and others ought to be aware of the insidiousness of this seemingly innocent notion.

* * *

The fifth and final chapter is about an artist who is setting up his painting exhibition. He is a nervous man with frenetic energy; classic lovable weirdo.

This short story is odd, but I quite liked it.

* * *

In Summation:

The first chapter took my breath away; the final chapter intrigued me. The second and third chapters I could've done without. The fourth chapter interested me, but didn't have as much depth as I would've liked.

Three stars.

كتاب في مديح الوحدة. أكثر منه في مديح الكتابة. جاءت دوراس لتقدم لنا كتاب عن الكتابة، فوجدت نفسها تقدم لنا كتاب عن الوحدة. كأنك، لتكتب، يجب أن تكون وحيدا، منعزلا. ومع ذلك، لن تكون وحيدا أبدا، هذا ما تقر به دوراس، التي عرفت الوحدة في منزلها الذي عاشت به في نوفل شاتو، لمدة عشر سنوات. تقول بأننا لن نكون وحدنا أبدا. لا نكون وحيدين فيزيقيا أبدا. في أي مكان. نسمع الأصوات في المطبخ، من التلفزيون، في الشقق المجاورة،... ثم تحكي، عن رؤيتها، لذبابة تموت. بقيت تراقبها لثمان دقائق تقريبا، كأنها تقول، ومعنا الموت أيضا، لن نتخلص منه.
أحب كتابة دوراس: موجزة، مكثفة، متشظية، كتابة فريدة. تخص دوراس وحدها. لا تشبه سوى نفسها..