Her writer’s curiosity rushes forth to know the foreigner, the alien. Author, narrator, protagonist speaks in one clear integral voice of a whole life. Duras’s heroines have the same profession as she does, writing the book and making the film as she lives her life.
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In Duras’s movie, Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the heroine is making a movie about peace. I feel all right about taking this fiction as Marguerite Duras’s autobiography. It’s in its aridity, its terrible harshness, its malignance, that I’m most deeply sure of myself, at the heart of my essential certainty, the certainty that later on I’ll be a writer.” The Lover is a story about girl and woman becoming artist. 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.” “I’m still part of the family, it’s there I live to the exclusion of everywhere else. She’s against it, it’s not worthy, it’s not real work, it’s nonsense. 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. Then she asks, Write what? I say, Books, novels. I’ve already told my mother: That’s what I want to do-write. That’s what I see beyond the present moment, in the great desert in whose form my life stretches out before me.” “I want to write. Rootless, I existentially write myself the stable world. And I also make up the world, and a place to be. I, Marguerite, create myself as an artist and as a woman as I write-levels and levels of consciousness-consciousness of consciousness. My favorite books are about the writer writing about writing. I’ll take the nameless “I” to be Marguerite. She was born in Indochina, and like the narrating lover “returns” to France at the age of seventeen. I read The Lover to be Marguerite Duras writing about herself. “Please, leave me now.” “We’ll probably die without meeting again.” “Probably, unless one day there is a war.” Another pair of lovers, the ones in Hiroshima, Mon Amour, try to part they may meet again, next war. How to enroot oneself but to make primitive, sexual connection with another? It may be that erotic love is more intense, dramatic, and romantic under imperialist colonialist circumstances than during normalization. The girl and her mother and brothers are barbarians, sans culture. Neither the girl in the fedora and gold lamé heels nor the Chinese man from Cholon belong in Vietnam she is a generation removed from France, and he, generations away from China. The couple with no names in The Lover also reach each other through history that moved populations singly and en masse to and fro across the earth and into its every corner. Kissing me, she kissed an American with roots in two countries that warred against Vietnam. Commemorating the fortieth anniversary of the Vietnam Writers Association, she talked-story about a woman who had nine children killed in war. “I love you” is all the Chinese she knows, and all the language we have in common. I said “I love you” in Chinese back to her. She wrote “I love you” in Chinese on the flyleaf of her novel, her gift to me. A Hanoi woman kissed me, and said “I love you” in Chinese. Everywhere I go, I return glad smiles I hear relieved voices. Vietnam, once a synonym for endless war, is at peace.
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Vietnam is free-free of the Japanese, free of the French, free of the Americans, free of the Chinese, free of the Cambodians. I am reading The Lover in Ho Chi Minh City during the Tet season, 1997. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Dataĭuras, Marguerite. Ltd., London, and in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1985. This translation originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co. Copyright © 1984 by Les Éditions de Minuit. Originally published in France as L’Amant by Les Editions de Minuit. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Introduction copyright © 1997 by Random House, Inc.Īll rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Translation copyright © 1985 by Random House, Inc., and William Collins Sons & Co.
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