I have a deeply personal appreciation for Annie Ernaux's work, and a general fondness for her as a human being.
I intend to write an essay on her work that is also an expression of how her work has:
- in the specific instances of Getting Lost and Passion Simple: helped me grieve the loss of someone I once loved, and on how the process directing the pain, indeed the "mind fuck," of that experience of loss, of abandonment, of rejection, into something I could move on from was a literary type of psychoanalysis and self-actualization
- in the myriad ways her testimony overlaps with the biography of my own mother (my maternal grandparents remarkably similar to the personages profiled in La place & Une femme; the shame of an abortion ( a secret I almost hate myself for divulging here ) when she was about the same age (~23); the death of my grandmother from Alzheimer's and the impact of this on her (and me, as I was Mema's "secondary primary caregiver"); and other serendipitous parallels....
But, here, this evening, I did want to tell you a little about my day:
I recently bought Mema's house and am in the process of remodeling and repairing it. There are still so many things that need to be done (I am behind schedule on moving into this house, and on listing my current one), so I took a week off from work to prioritize some of the major things I was feeling overwhelmed about and that needed some undivided attention, with this special occasion (the Nobel Prize, of course--I wanted to be able to, for a change, really indulge in my obsession). Anyways...
I have (with obvious reservations) been trying to convince my mom, who is a good reader but not an avid reader, to read Annie Ernaux's books. In particular "A Man's Place/Positions," but she really wasn't having it. After that failed, I tried to convince her to read Brood by Jackie Polzin, but I don't think that's happened either. But occasionally, she will read a recommendation from me. I think the last time this happened was (speak of the devil,
Ironweed by William Kennedy, which she liked.)
Today we actually spent a little time together. My mom and I.
And I said, while we were doing some work, as usual, "Remember that French lady that I've been trying to get you to read..? [........] Well, she won the Nobel Prize for Literature today."
Later on...like, about an hour ago, I sent her a text with the link to Alex Shephard's "Annie Ernaux Is A Perfect Nobel Laureate" and asked her to, "Please Read."
This is what she said: her uncharacteristically long reply:
“I read just now. My take away is follows. I am not well read as you are but that fact should not take away from something I have read that moves me. It may be something I am not familiar with such as GRAPES OF WRATH. But the story was told so I can understand. THE HEN WHO WISHED SHE COULD FLY. I totally understand. It was written so beautiful that it allows ME to acknowledge someone else can put into words something I know but can’t verbalize . Kurt Vonnegut satire of human conditions with humor. All these things brings me to this: thank god someone know how to do. Pleasure in reading that takes you to another place that you can relate to or makes you rethink what you thought is amazing. The power of the words is amazing. I don’t think I am qualified to make judgements in the Nobel prize world but books. Stories poems should be for everyone. Not every story for everyone but a story that reaches some. Then another story that reaches someone else. I think that you do not write for the masses but you write from the heart and let leaves fall where they will. Amazing things may grow underneath that leaf.”
I didn’t edit or modify or clarify anything she said. My mom has been a fan of Vonnegut for a long time. And she read the Steinbeck in college. “The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly" is a gorgeous little Korean book I gave her for a Christmas and she did read.
But, I think my mom rocks and I love what she said. Presumptively, I would be able to say/write something half this good.