Marguerite Duras

The other day, I was flipping through the latest New Yorker, and I came across a short story by Marguerite Duras, The Stolen Pigeons. My first thought was, “Hey, I thought Duras was dead?” Well, I was right about that, she died in 1996. I didn’t know that the New Yorker published fiction by dead authors…I mean, there are so many LIVE authors out there, who would LOVE to get their work published in the New Yorker, so why go with someone who doesn’t care? I guess this gives me away, and you all know now that I don’t read the New Yorker closely every time…just look for anything interesting, read the funnies, and move on.  Sad, isn’t it?  One interesting tidbit, which I learned from Wikipedia, is that Mme. Duras was not only a writer, but also a film director. Who knew? Not me, I’m afraid.

Anyway, I’m glad the New Yorker included this story, because I enjoyed reading it. I won’t say I enjoyed it, like it was a lively romp, but I enjoyed it because it was a well told, well written story, which made me really want to not be old, or when I am old, hope that I am dealt better cards than poor Mme. Bousque. Here’s an example of Mme. Duras’ beautiful language:

“People were a little afraid of her, as one is afraid of those whose vision is clear and who retain everything, as one is afraid of life, with its inspirations, its unfathomable poetry. Which is why people chose to call her a gossip, when she was really a fantasist.”

I recommend it, and you can read it in its entirity by clicking the title, above. (There’s also a cute bit on The L Magazine, pretending that Mme. Duras is alive and competing for a Literary Upstart award that you might find amusing.)

My first (and only other) Duras story is The Lover.  Has anyone else read this book? It came out in 1984, and I think I read it then or shortly thereafter. It was probably the first book I ever read that wasn’t for school that made me feel…literary. The writing style, so evocative and poetic.

So, I’m fifteen and a half.
It’s on a ferry crossing the Mekong River.
The image lasts all the way across.
I’m fifteen and a half, there are no seasons in that part of the world, we have just one season, hot, monotonous, we’re in the long hot girdle of the earth, with no spring, no renewal.

The subject, so racy and taboo. The story, compelling. The characters, distant and strange. If you’ve not read it, I’m going to spoil it for you here by telling you that it’s the autobiographical story of a young Frecnh girl (15 years old) who is going to boarding school in French Vietnam in the late 1920s. She is bored and lonely, and starts an affair with a Chinese man twice her age. She is in it for the affection, the thrills, and the power…he is in love, and wants to marry her. His millionaire father won’t allow it, nor probably would her parents, and he is eventually forced to marry a woman of his own caste and race. You could probably get most of that from the back of the book, so it’s not a huge spoiler…

I really liked The Lover. It had such a haunting quality to it, sublime and textured…really, a very good read. It’s a quick read, too, so if you haven’t read it, you might want to pick it up. Thanks, New Yorker, for the blast from the past.