Uppdelad i fem, där den första och längsta delen handlar om skrivande och ensamhet, visar denna lilla bok (essäsamling?) upp Marguerite Duras diverse sätt att berätta något för läsaren. Fragment om skrivande (lugnande, men lite halvtråkigt efter ett tag), en berättelse om en död engelsk pilot som berör både henne och andra i byn (intressant, men repetitivt), en berättelse som jag personligen skulle anse vara en pjäs som utspelar sig i Rom (intressant, men stundvis förvirrande), en kort essä om renlighet och vad det innebär i olika kulturer (dess längd, eller brist på längd, bidrar till att denna var som en snabb knytnäve i magen), och sist en kort text om en målare som förbereder en måleriutställning (spännande karaktär som jag gärna skulle ha läst en längre text om).

Allt som allt kände jag att texter antingen var för långa eller för korta. Sällan var jag nöjd, tyvärr. Jag tror att det faktum att det var fem olika berättelser - något jag inte visste om när jag började läsa - också bidrog till det faktum att jag inte alltid kände att jag fastnade. Men! Duras har ett vackert språk som jag gärna läser mer av i framtiden. Första delen om skrivande var nog min favorit, kanske mest för att jag började läsa denna samling för den textens skull.

1,5 yıldız..

Truth kelimesi ingilizce hakikat, gerçek demek ve onun önüne 'post' kelimesi geldiğinde ''post-truth'' kelimesi hakikatin değerini yitirmesi, hakikatin, gerçeğin bir anlamının kalmaması anlamına geliyorsa işte her hangi bir şeyin başına eğer ''modern'' veya ''Çağdaş'' kelimeleri de geliyorsa aynen böyle oluyor. Güya bu kitap modern edebiyata giriyor Can yayınevine göre ama bana tamamen içi bomboş uzatılmış sündürülmüş cümleler silsilesi olarak geldi.

Can Yayınevinin epeydir tamamen para kazanma odaklı dolayısıyla ticari kaygılar ile kitap bastığını ve seçicilik konusunda eski kalitesinden çok uzak olduğunu düşünüyorum. Neyse ki çeviri ve baskı kalitesi bunların dışında hala.. Bu kitabı yeni basmadılar ancak allayıp pullayarak tekrar baskı yapmaları ve türlü reklamlar satışa çıkarmaları ile dediğimi haklı çıkarır nitelikte.

Kitabın ismi yazmak ancak başındaki deneme dışında aslında yazmak ile ilgili hiçbir şey yok. Bu benim için ilk hayal kırıklığı, sonraki yazıları okuyunca da tüm kitap benim için artık tam bir hüsrana dönüştü. Konular birbirinden alakasız ve anlamsız, araya dini motifler eklemesi, gereksiz bir yahudi övgüsü ve alman düşmanlığı var bunu da genelleyerek yapması ile beni ayrıca rahatsız etti.

Yazmak başlıklı denemesi de aynen sosyal medyada paylaşılan beyaz yakalının bir iş günü minavalinde. Tamamen zorlama ve mış gibi yaparak gayet boş bir yazma denemesi. Daha fazla uzatmaya gerek yok son derece gereksiz bir kitap..

marguerite duras’s writing is not so much a book as it is an experience—an intimate meditation on the craft of writing, the solitude it demands, and the strange, almost sacred relationship between the writer and the blank page. it is a text that pierces, prods, and lingers in the mind long after the final word, though i must admit, it didn’t wholly resonate with me.

this wasn’t the best entry point into duras’s oeuvre—i can see that now. perhaps i should have begun with the lover, a book that promises to immerse rather than observe from a distance. but writing is still undeniably beautiful, particularly for those of us drawn to the maddening, luminous pursuit of creating literary art.

the writing style is quintessential duras: sparse yet charged, like an electric hum vibrating just beneath the surface. every word feels chosen with an almost painful precision, every line imbued with the weight of a thought long held. and yet, there’s a starkness here, an absence that demands something from the reader—patience, introspection, surrender. it is not an easy read, not in its simplicity nor its depth.

she explores themes of isolation, memory, and the profound loneliness of the writer’s existence. she speaks of writing as both a compulsion and a form of self-erasure, a paradoxical act that requires the writer to disappear into their own work. these reflections are at once universal and deeply personal, and a few of her lines struck me with the force of revelation. one in particular has lingered with me: n  i don’t believe people who say, “i tore up my manuscript, i threw the whole thing out.” i don’t believe it. either what was written didn’t exist for them, or else it wasn’t a bookn.

and yet, for all its beauty, i wasn’t particularly moved. perhaps it is my own failing—my inability to connect with the text in the way duras intended. or perhaps it is the nature of the book itself, its quiet introspection so insular that it feels like a conversation i’ve been invited to overhear but not participate in.

there is a kind of austerity in writing that feels deliberately withholding, as if she is guarding some ineffable truth about the creative process, offering only glimpses, never the whole. it is haunting in its restraint, but it also left me yearning for something more—more narrative, more warmth, more vulnerability.

despite this, i can’t deny the book’s brilliance. for those who are themselves writers, or who aspire to be, this is a profound and necessary text. it strips away the romanticism of the craft, exposing its raw, unglamorous essence. it is a book that speaks to the lonely, obsessive nature of writing, to the way it consumes and defines those who practice it.

so, 3 stars. not because writing isn’t great—it is. but because greatness doesn’t always equate to emotional resonance. this is a book i respect more than i love, a book that has left its mark on me even if it hasn’t claimed a place in my heart. perhaps i will revisit it one day, armed with a deeper understanding of duras and her world. until then, i will cherish the moments when her words pierced through the fog of my own thoughts, offering a clarity that was both painful and profound.

for now, i think i’ll pick up the lover. if writing is the distant, contemplative hum of duras’s genius, i hope the lover is the beating heart.

Un gran libro, pero no mi favorito de Duras.

La pasión de Duras por la escritura queda plasmada en este breve ensayo lleno de profundas frases acerca del arte de escribir y lo que implicó a lo largo de su vida, lo que la definía, incluso si eso implicaba una constante soledad. También nos permite reconocer que todo lo que la rodeaba en su vida diaria estaba relacionado con la escritura misma, pues era capaz de utilizar cualquier tema, situación, persona u objeto para darle forma a sus textos y convertirlos en literatura.

Creo que definitivamente la escritura fue el sentido de su vida. Este tipo de ensayos dan luz a lo valioso y catártico que puede resultar el mundo de la literatura.

“En la vida llega un momento, y creo que es fatal, al que no se puede escapar, en que todo se pone en duda: el matrimonio, los amigos, sobre todo los amigos de la pareja. El hijo, no. El hijo nunca se pone en duda. Y esa duda crece alrededor de uno. Esa duda está sola, es la de la soledad. Ha nacido de ella, de la soledad… la duda es escribir. Por tanto, es el escritor, también”.

“La escritura: la escritura llega como el viento, está desnuda, es la tinta, es lo escrito, y pasa como nada pasa en la vida, nada, excepto eso, la vida”.

- بوسعي قول كل ما أريد، لكني لن أجد أبدا لماذا نكتب ، ولا كيف نكتب
- عندما انام أغطي وجهي، كنت أخاف مني. لا أعلم كيف ولا لمه، ولهذا السبب كنت أشرب قبل النوم. لأنساني
مارغريت دوراس

Ahhhh. Lovely writing. Lyrical, emotionally poignant observations on writing. And then she goes on to show how it's done in the heart-jerking story that follows her essay on writing, "The Death of the Young British Pilot." Small in stature, hard to get, but this book is worth each word.

Cinco textos, entre ensaios e contos.

Escrever – 5*
A morte do jovem aviador inglês – 4*
Roma – 4*
O número puro – 3*
A exposição da pintura – 2*

Gostei sobretudo do primeiro texto, que aborda a necessidade da solidão para escrever, da maneira muito crua da autora. Também são abordados outros temas, como a morte, a guerra, a paixão, a criação artística.

"A morte de uma mosca é a morte. É a morte em marcha em direção a um certo fim do mundo, que alarga o campo do último sono. Vemos morrer um cão, vemos morrer um cavalo e dizemos qualquer coisa, por exemplo, coitado do bicho... Mas se uma mosca morre... não dizemos nada, não tomamos nota, nada." (p. 42)

Not the best place to start with Duras, but if you're familiar with her writing this is a cache of jewels. The last piece (of five) was the only one that didn't leave an impression on me, but it's so short that it hardly matters.

really beautiful sentences. i love reading in a language other than my native tongue, accessing more untapped ways (linguistically speaking, for a near-monolingual) at viewing the different interactions and qualities that make up the experience of living and life itself. nonetheless, duras, elle dure. sometimes she’s a bit inaccessible (i’m really curious what the english version looks like); i found myself oscillating between total confusion and that i was on the verge of ‘getting it’. basically, most ideas of the work are laid out in the first “chapter.” somewhat meta which worked plus ou moins but, had it not been for her explanation of writing as solitude yadda yadda, it would’ve been completely lost on me. overall a brilliant reading experience, it feels like one of those books i’ll come back to for decades to come

Blod, känslor och galenskap. Hon skrev och blev ensam, skrev för att det aldrig övergivit henne och för att det ”befolkade” hennes ensamma själ.

”Det finns ett skrivandets galenskap som är inuti en själv, en skrivandets rasande galenskap, men det är inte därför man är galen. Tvärtom.”

” Skrivandet är det okända(…)Det är det okända i en själv, ens huvud, i ens kropp(…)en annan person som visar sig(…)och som ibland, genom sina egna handlingar, riskerar att förlora sitt liv.”

"El amante" es uno de mis libros preferidos, pero el resto de textos que voy leyendo de Marguerite Duras me están decepcionando. Sé que su estilo narrativo es muy particular, pues es fragmentario, atmosférico como un pensamiento o una ensoñación detrás de párpados cerrados. Sé que ella está fuera de ritmos, coherencias y linealidades tradicionales de escritura. Cuando habla, mezcla lo naif y lo profundo y lo real con lo imaginado en una visión, y esto la hace especial, tiene una voz inequívocamente propia. Pero...creo que a veces es demasiado y me dificulta seguirla con interés.

Sigo acercándome a sus obras sin descanso, pese a todo, porque su lucidez, belleza y pasajes brillantes me hacen seguir buscándola. Espero que en próximas lecturas encuentre obras más redondas que me aporten un todo.