Summer of the Elder Tree

by Marie Chaix, Harry Matthews (Translator)

A meditation on the themes of separation and silence, The Summer of the Elder Tree was Marie Chaix's first book to appear in fourteen years, and deals with the reasons for her withdrawal from writing, as well as the events in her life since the death of her mother (as detailed in Silences, or a Woman's Life). With uncompromising sincerity, and in the same beautiful prose for which she is renowned, Marie Chaix here takes stock of her life as a woman and writer, as well as the crises that caused her to give up her work. The Summer of the Elder Tree has its roots in Chaix's previous books while standing alone as a work of immense a new beginning

Genres: French Literature, Literature, France, Memoir, Nonfiction

118 pages, Paperback

First published February 1, 2005

Reviews

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 4 out of 5]

Marie Chaix, author of The Laurels of Lake Constance, and fêted author in France, hits a thirteen-year writer’s block that she works through by writing this non-chronological reflective memoir thing about her past and present. Told in diary fragments and short impressionistic chapters, she is overly precious and grandmotherly when writing about her family, but cutting and clear-eyed when looking back at her literary career, and solving her present block problem. Translated by her husband Harry Mathews, referred to as Harry throughout, who had to translate her peculiar takes on her past relationships and partners, and the occasional affectionate digs at this personality. A charming but inessential and overly personal book, probably for fans of Chaix and her work only—a good palate-whetter for anyone else.

[Cody · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hey! NYRB! I know your ear is always pressed to my always-shut door, desperate to figure out what the hip kids “dig” and get the scoop on “what’s happening,” so listen the fuck up: translate the remaining Marie Chaix novels, you sonsabitches. She’s fantastic, and many of her other books sound exceptional. Add a foreword by someone loved only by their mother, whatever. I do not care; just get it done. You can write it off as needed color hues for those goddamn spectral layouts of your book spines in carefully arranged phonotos—a portmanteau indicating a cellphone-taken photograph [WARNING: the syllogism “phonotos” is both copyrighted and the registered intellectual property of Sir Dr. J. Cody Gorman D.Sc. CH CBE Esq., a balefully litigious bastard—the management]—showing the rainbow that is your largesse and, by inference, that of your proximal reader. Chaix feels cyan to me, but hey, it is your ink. Just translate the goddamn things and I will continue to suffer the phonotos that trigger unneeded association with those house-paint swatch displays at the hardware store. Because I just love projects planned FOR my weekend unbeknownst to me. Bah, domesticity.

Why are you reading this (and why am I writing it?) when you could be listening to Godbluff? Listen to Peter, NYRB:

“There may not be time for us all to run in tandem together
The horizon calls with its parallel lines
It may not be right for you to have and hold in one way forever,
and yet you still have time

You still have time.”

[Hsu Jui-Ting · Rating 3 out of 5]

A compilation of thoughts, conveyances and idolatry that never quite matches the intimate nuances or sincerely anguished love of her earlier work, Silences, or a Woman's Life.