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Tender Shoots
Composed before and during the first months of the First World War, Paul Morand did not publish these stories until 1921. Clarissa, Delphine and Aurora - three alluring and independent young women - are stories set largely in London, a city he loved and which continued to fascinate him long after he worked there as an attaché at the French embassy.Stylish, poetic and highly original, Morand's urbane and witty stories came as a bracing and uplifting breath of fresh air on the French literary scene of the 1920s. They made an immediate impact on writers as diverse as Proust, Cocteau and Giraudoux, and paved the way for Morand's illustrious literary career that was to follow.
99 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1921
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About the author
Paul Morand
173 books56 followersPaul Morand was a French diplomat, novelist, playwright and poet, considered an early Modernist.
He was a graduate of the Paris Institute of Political Studies (better known as Sciences Po). During the pre-war period, he wrote many short books which are noted for their elegance of style, erudition, narrative concision, and for the author's observation of the countries he visited combined with his middle-class views.
Morand's reputation has been marred by his stance during the Second World War, when he collaborated with the Vichy regime and was a vocal anti-Semite. When the Second World War ended, Morand served as an ambassador in Bern, but his position was revoked and he lived in exile in Switzerland.
Post-war, he was a patron of the Hussards literary movement, which opposed Existentialism. Morand went on to become a member of the Académie française; his candidature was initially rejected by Charles de Gaulle, the only instance of a President ever exercising his right to veto electees to the academy. Morand was finally elected ten years later, though he still had to forgo the official investiture).
Paul Morand was a friend of Marcel Proust and has left valuable observations about him.
He was a graduate of the Paris Institute of Political Studies (better known as Sciences Po). During the pre-war period, he wrote many short books which are noted for their elegance of style, erudition, narrative concision, and for the author's observation of the countries he visited combined with his middle-class views.
Morand's reputation has been marred by his stance during the Second World War, when he collaborated with the Vichy regime and was a vocal anti-Semite. When the Second World War ended, Morand served as an ambassador in Bern, but his position was revoked and he lived in exile in Switzerland.
Post-war, he was a patron of the Hussards literary movement, which opposed Existentialism. Morand went on to become a member of the Académie française; his candidature was initially rejected by Charles de Gaulle, the only instance of a President ever exercising his right to veto electees to the academy. Morand was finally elected ten years later, though he still had to forgo the official investiture).
Paul Morand was a friend of Marcel Proust and has left valuable observations about him.
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
April 12, 2020
The preface by Marcel Proust opens with beautifully fitting passage - admiring without being worshipful, spiced with wit and colored by the sobriety - that is worth quoting in full:
The Athenians are slow to deliver. So far, only three ladies or gentlewomen have been given up to our minotaur Morand, and the treaty allows for seven. But the year is not yet ended. And many undisclosed postulants seek the glorious fate of Clarissa and Aurora. I should have liked to undertake the unnecessary task of composing a fitting preface for the charming novellas that bear the names of these fair creatures. But an unforeseen occurrence has presented me from doing so. A stranger has chosen to make her home in my brain. She came and she went; before long, having observed the way she behaved, I came to know her habits. Furthermore, like an over-attentive lodger, she tried to strike up a personal relationship with me. I was surprised to discover that she was not beautiful. For I had always supposed Death so to be. Otherwise, how would she get the better of us? Be that as it may, she seems to have gone away today. Probably not for long, to judge by all she has left behind. And it would be more sensible to take advantage of the respite she allows me other than by writing a preface for an author who is already well known and has no need of one."
When I telephoned to tell you that Germany had declared war on Russia, you replied: "I was in the garden, I was cutting some roses..."
'Clarissa' is suffused with an implied longing for a carelessness only made possible by peace, and at the brink of being shattered by the Great War and its aftermath. The frolic and playfulness of the title character conveyed through the male viewer/writer in musing, almost nostalgically marvelling tones, has all the rosiness and fragility of a memory, a photograph, belonging to another age, or an age that senses its own impending demise. The prose is sumptuously descriptive ("The windows are open; we are standing on the balcony, our elbows on the parapet. You are leaning over to breathe in the smell of the newly mown grass that wafts up from Kensington and mingles with the animal perfume of the dance; the green acid of your Longhi cloak hangs down over the bright orange colour of the hump-backed Japanese bridge"), catching stray scents, a look, a swirl of colour, a gesture and freezing it forever in this half-recalled form. Its cognizance of temporality and its pressed-flower preservation of the minute and fleeting is reminiscent of some of Woolf's best passages. The narrator's depiction of Clarissa and the colourful, idiosyncratic facets of her personality - preferring fake fur to real ones, collecting bric-a-brac, "you are so badly dressed! And yet in the very best taste" - gives a whole picture of an independent and prepossessing woman (she reminds this reader of Loulou de la Falaise), surrounded by beauty, occasionally idle, full of wild ideas, very much a part of this passing world.
"Delphine" depicts the descent of an austere (and uptight?) woman into dissolution and physical decline. "I reckon that far from finding reasons to persevere, Delphine is waiting impatiently to destroy herself, which lends her a tolerable and fleeting grandeur." While "Clarissa" is generous in beautiful images, "Delphine" is its dark inversion, exploring an innate but inexplicable compulsion for self-destruction that is ultimately inescapable. The life of Delphine, the narrator's childhood playmate is presented as a continual struggle against sensuality (represented by the bleak shadow of her mother who lives with a naval officer), the enforcement of order, cleanliness and discipline against chaos, loss of control, a dark drive that she fears resides ultimately within her. In a desperate moment she flees to religion for sanctuary, which cynically proves to be her undoing, as it is the head of the convent, the story implies, that leads her into a very different life. The narrator's perspective as he surveys this decline is curiously detached though occasionally pleading to help. His memories of brief almost-intimate moments with Delphine who rejects his advances serves to suggest a certain perhaps deliberate distance in his responses toward her.
In a masterful few lines Morand shows the narrator's indifference worded in a cynicism so sharp it could be acrimonious:
I detach myself from where she is lying, get to my feet and search for reasons for her to resist, for excuses.
"Everything that happens to me," she says, "is due to pride."
I was expecting this dreadful word which all women have on their lips and by which they define their humility.
"Aurora" is perhaps the strangest of the three, it being difficult to imagine an explorer, globe-trotter, free spirit of of a young woman who has a shed and a wealth of hunting guns, co-existing in the same time and space as duchesses, taxis and buses. Her freedom certainly tantalises the narrator who is lured by the promise and surprise of the unknown, the admiration of her supple physique (the quirky way she commands herself in third person to bathe), but that too is the freedom to disappear, which perhaps to the unfulfilled, is the charm that endures most.
The Athenians are slow to deliver. So far, only three ladies or gentlewomen have been given up to our minotaur Morand, and the treaty allows for seven. But the year is not yet ended. And many undisclosed postulants seek the glorious fate of Clarissa and Aurora. I should have liked to undertake the unnecessary task of composing a fitting preface for the charming novellas that bear the names of these fair creatures. But an unforeseen occurrence has presented me from doing so. A stranger has chosen to make her home in my brain. She came and she went; before long, having observed the way she behaved, I came to know her habits. Furthermore, like an over-attentive lodger, she tried to strike up a personal relationship with me. I was surprised to discover that she was not beautiful. For I had always supposed Death so to be. Otherwise, how would she get the better of us? Be that as it may, she seems to have gone away today. Probably not for long, to judge by all she has left behind. And it would be more sensible to take advantage of the respite she allows me other than by writing a preface for an author who is already well known and has no need of one."
When I telephoned to tell you that Germany had declared war on Russia, you replied: "I was in the garden, I was cutting some roses..."
'Clarissa' is suffused with an implied longing for a carelessness only made possible by peace, and at the brink of being shattered by the Great War and its aftermath. The frolic and playfulness of the title character conveyed through the male viewer/writer in musing, almost nostalgically marvelling tones, has all the rosiness and fragility of a memory, a photograph, belonging to another age, or an age that senses its own impending demise. The prose is sumptuously descriptive ("The windows are open; we are standing on the balcony, our elbows on the parapet. You are leaning over to breathe in the smell of the newly mown grass that wafts up from Kensington and mingles with the animal perfume of the dance; the green acid of your Longhi cloak hangs down over the bright orange colour of the hump-backed Japanese bridge"), catching stray scents, a look, a swirl of colour, a gesture and freezing it forever in this half-recalled form. Its cognizance of temporality and its pressed-flower preservation of the minute and fleeting is reminiscent of some of Woolf's best passages. The narrator's depiction of Clarissa and the colourful, idiosyncratic facets of her personality - preferring fake fur to real ones, collecting bric-a-brac, "you are so badly dressed! And yet in the very best taste" - gives a whole picture of an independent and prepossessing woman (she reminds this reader of Loulou de la Falaise), surrounded by beauty, occasionally idle, full of wild ideas, very much a part of this passing world.
"Delphine" depicts the descent of an austere (and uptight?) woman into dissolution and physical decline. "I reckon that far from finding reasons to persevere, Delphine is waiting impatiently to destroy herself, which lends her a tolerable and fleeting grandeur." While "Clarissa" is generous in beautiful images, "Delphine" is its dark inversion, exploring an innate but inexplicable compulsion for self-destruction that is ultimately inescapable. The life of Delphine, the narrator's childhood playmate is presented as a continual struggle against sensuality (represented by the bleak shadow of her mother who lives with a naval officer), the enforcement of order, cleanliness and discipline against chaos, loss of control, a dark drive that she fears resides ultimately within her. In a desperate moment she flees to religion for sanctuary, which cynically proves to be her undoing, as it is the head of the convent, the story implies, that leads her into a very different life. The narrator's perspective as he surveys this decline is curiously detached though occasionally pleading to help. His memories of brief almost-intimate moments with Delphine who rejects his advances serves to suggest a certain perhaps deliberate distance in his responses toward her.
In a masterful few lines Morand shows the narrator's indifference worded in a cynicism so sharp it could be acrimonious:
I detach myself from where she is lying, get to my feet and search for reasons for her to resist, for excuses.
"Everything that happens to me," she says, "is due to pride."
I was expecting this dreadful word which all women have on their lips and by which they define their humility.
"Aurora" is perhaps the strangest of the three, it being difficult to imagine an explorer, globe-trotter, free spirit of of a young woman who has a shed and a wealth of hunting guns, co-existing in the same time and space as duchesses, taxis and buses. Her freedom certainly tantalises the narrator who is lured by the promise and surprise of the unknown, the admiration of her supple physique (the quirky way she commands herself in third person to bathe), but that too is the freedom to disappear, which perhaps to the unfulfilled, is the charm that endures most.
August 10, 2017
Can't really compare it to anything else and it makes me want to read the rest of his stuff.
October 22, 2021
Este libro está compuesto por tres novelas cortas: “Clarisse”, “Delphine” y “Aurore”. Está acompañado del posfacio que Marcel Proust –autor francés de renombre– y de una oda que Morand escribió para él. Primero me detendré en las novelas y luego en el material que las rodea.
Clarisse, Delphine y Aurore son tres mujeres que se involucran con un mismo personaje-narrador –no hay indicios de que sean más de uno– en la ciudad de Londres, en plena Primera Guerra Mundial. Ni las circunstancias ni los ánimos son los mejores y la narración de repente nos arrastra y nos sitúa en ese contexto. Las mujeres mencionadas son el alma de cada una de las novelas, a pesar de que el protagonista aporte lo suyo. Al principio a ellas las veía como acompañantes hasta que, desde mi punto de vista, él empezó a asumir ese rol. Clarisse y sus manías por los objetos, Delphine y su tristeza y Aurore y su vivacidad son lo suficientemente fuertes como para tomar las riendas de las historias.
La escritura de Morand –tanto en las novelas como en la oda– es exquisita y contundente, dos adjetivos que no suelen ir de la mano. Creo que se destaca muchísimo cuando el narrador se refiere a Londres y a la ambientación histórica. No necesita describir todo con detalles y sabe resaltar siempre las personalidades y las peculiaridades de las mujeres. Las relaciones, en los tres casos, son algo tormentosas e incluso violentas.
En cuanto al posfacio de Proust, me quedé un poco descolocada ante su lectura, a pesar de las advertencias de la nota que lo presenta. Lo de Proust es más un ensayo sobre literatura francesa que un texto sobre “Tendres Stocks”. De hecho, casi ni lo menciona. Es muy interesante de leer pero, si se está buscando una breve presentación de la obra de Morand, no cumple su función. La edición de Leteo está muy bien documentada y trata de darle una explicación a ese –¿Ninguneo? ¿Olvido? ¿Venganza? – extraño comportamiento de Proust.
En definitiva, Morand es un autor que hubiera deseado conocer antes, pero creo que llegó en el momento justo porque me alivió mucho leerlo.
Clarisse, Delphine y Aurore son tres mujeres que se involucran con un mismo personaje-narrador –no hay indicios de que sean más de uno– en la ciudad de Londres, en plena Primera Guerra Mundial. Ni las circunstancias ni los ánimos son los mejores y la narración de repente nos arrastra y nos sitúa en ese contexto. Las mujeres mencionadas son el alma de cada una de las novelas, a pesar de que el protagonista aporte lo suyo. Al principio a ellas las veía como acompañantes hasta que, desde mi punto de vista, él empezó a asumir ese rol. Clarisse y sus manías por los objetos, Delphine y su tristeza y Aurore y su vivacidad son lo suficientemente fuertes como para tomar las riendas de las historias.
La escritura de Morand –tanto en las novelas como en la oda– es exquisita y contundente, dos adjetivos que no suelen ir de la mano. Creo que se destaca muchísimo cuando el narrador se refiere a Londres y a la ambientación histórica. No necesita describir todo con detalles y sabe resaltar siempre las personalidades y las peculiaridades de las mujeres. Las relaciones, en los tres casos, son algo tormentosas e incluso violentas.
En cuanto al posfacio de Proust, me quedé un poco descolocada ante su lectura, a pesar de las advertencias de la nota que lo presenta. Lo de Proust es más un ensayo sobre literatura francesa que un texto sobre “Tendres Stocks”. De hecho, casi ni lo menciona. Es muy interesante de leer pero, si se está buscando una breve presentación de la obra de Morand, no cumple su función. La edición de Leteo está muy bien documentada y trata de darle una explicación a ese –¿Ninguneo? ¿Olvido? ¿Venganza? – extraño comportamiento de Proust.
En definitiva, Morand es un autor que hubiera deseado conocer antes, pero creo que llegó en el momento justo porque me alivió mucho leerlo.
January 9, 2014
Merveilleux! My god, Morand can do beautiful things with words. It's ballet on paper.
"That's right," she says, "I'm like you; I've the same blood that, on cold mornings, flows through my veins like warm wine, I'm on edge like you on stormy evenings. We are very like one another."
"Very alike, Clarissa. It's a duet; we are in touch. Our thoughts keep pace with one another. In the street, our gazes alight upon a funny feather on a hat at the same moment, our curiosity upon the same blouse..."
[p. 59]
"That's right," she says, "I'm like you; I've the same blood that, on cold mornings, flows through my veins like warm wine, I'm on edge like you on stormy evenings. We are very like one another."
"Very alike, Clarissa. It's a duet; we are in touch. Our thoughts keep pace with one another. In the street, our gazes alight upon a funny feather on a hat at the same moment, our curiosity upon the same blouse..."
[p. 59]
October 28, 2024
The portray of three women in three stages of life — as reminiscent of Beckett's trilogy or daresay, Beckett's trilogy was, in the seemingly unrelated thread, inspired by Morand's Tender Shoots. There's this transience from these stages that a woman experience throughout her life, written beautifully by Morand, as those written by his best friend, Proust. Morand somehow perceived the sobriety of living in this sense of a passing millieu, of a temporality that in its respite, defines humaneness.
Clarissa is embellished in hope. She pivots herself as a dreamy, relentless soul, despite the suffrage the world might forage; she stands still in the centre of the spotlight, like a delicate flower, fleeting, shimmered in light — aware of her temporal presence, transient being, she, merely err within the ebb and flow.
Through the rose tinted glasses, she is defined with,
"You are the centre of a whole little world that appears to have its raison d'être solely in you."
Delphine, in her morose, stuck within the abysses of her devotion. She relents upon the grief that surges upon her— unable to leave, stuck as an odalisque in the chamber of suffering. Beauty glances her as she disintegrates; asimilar with Malone Dies in Beckett's Trilogy where Malone struggles with death, Delphine perpetually struggles with sensuality; her inability to control the abjection of herself. With nuances where she cynically reduces herself into nothingness as how the world she perceives stand to be; she relishes in her own insatiable decay, surges through the act of destroying, and thus awaiting the inevitable death of her self that would soon follow.
Aurora, seemingly undergone the stages of Clarissa and Delphine amongst her life, as of The Unnamable in Beckett's Trilogy, acts like a main character who have seemingly given up on life. Nothing matters to her anymore—her body is a gift imposed to her; or daresay, a vessel, that she inevitably has to nurture.
"Now, I am on my own in life, sitting on crates, face to face with myself.
No one must come into my life.
My body is a storeroom that is consigned to me.
... I do not care about a salary at the end of the month, a pension in my later years, I have no further needs, I expect nothing from anyone.
All I own are the two hundred and eight pieces of my skeleton."
She is aware on the fact that her existence brings nothing to this world, and yet, she shows no remorse, rather, she owns that her decay is at a level with the earth. She is no longer bounded with the humaneness of the world, she has detached herself from this world. And this brings her the relentless enigma that the narrator enchanted to—the wisdom appeared in the presence of encompassing through it all.
"Abnegation is not easy for the wild creature I am."
However, is there such thing as detachment of it all? to be a free spirit, to detach humaneness from within, would that render oneself as inhuman? Aurora acquired the freedom to disappear from the complexities of life; love, desire, suffering, grievances, joy, pain; all that comprises of human, and perhaps, that's an endurance that compels the humanely human; a seemingly impossible task for each and every human hubris in this wretched world. That said, the part where she conforms into the banality of the world is where she, omnipresently, achieve the joie de vivre.
"...by the edge of the pavement, she climbs up to the top deck as if she were walking on a length of unrolled frieze."
In such brevity, she opens her arms upon the raging waves, as if asking it to engulf her.
Clarissa is embellished in hope. She pivots herself as a dreamy, relentless soul, despite the suffrage the world might forage; she stands still in the centre of the spotlight, like a delicate flower, fleeting, shimmered in light — aware of her temporal presence, transient being, she, merely err within the ebb and flow.
Through the rose tinted glasses, she is defined with,
"You are the centre of a whole little world that appears to have its raison d'être solely in you."
Delphine, in her morose, stuck within the abysses of her devotion. She relents upon the grief that surges upon her— unable to leave, stuck as an odalisque in the chamber of suffering. Beauty glances her as she disintegrates; asimilar with Malone Dies in Beckett's Trilogy where Malone struggles with death, Delphine perpetually struggles with sensuality; her inability to control the abjection of herself. With nuances where she cynically reduces herself into nothingness as how the world she perceives stand to be; she relishes in her own insatiable decay, surges through the act of destroying, and thus awaiting the inevitable death of her self that would soon follow.
Aurora, seemingly undergone the stages of Clarissa and Delphine amongst her life, as of The Unnamable in Beckett's Trilogy, acts like a main character who have seemingly given up on life. Nothing matters to her anymore—her body is a gift imposed to her; or daresay, a vessel, that she inevitably has to nurture.
"Now, I am on my own in life, sitting on crates, face to face with myself.
No one must come into my life.
My body is a storeroom that is consigned to me.
... I do not care about a salary at the end of the month, a pension in my later years, I have no further needs, I expect nothing from anyone.
All I own are the two hundred and eight pieces of my skeleton."
She is aware on the fact that her existence brings nothing to this world, and yet, she shows no remorse, rather, she owns that her decay is at a level with the earth. She is no longer bounded with the humaneness of the world, she has detached herself from this world. And this brings her the relentless enigma that the narrator enchanted to—the wisdom appeared in the presence of encompassing through it all.
"Abnegation is not easy for the wild creature I am."
However, is there such thing as detachment of it all? to be a free spirit, to detach humaneness from within, would that render oneself as inhuman? Aurora acquired the freedom to disappear from the complexities of life; love, desire, suffering, grievances, joy, pain; all that comprises of human, and perhaps, that's an endurance that compels the humanely human; a seemingly impossible task for each and every human hubris in this wretched world. That said, the part where she conforms into the banality of the world is where she, omnipresently, achieve the joie de vivre.
"...by the edge of the pavement, she climbs up to the top deck as if she were walking on a length of unrolled frieze."
In such brevity, she opens her arms upon the raging waves, as if asking it to engulf her.
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August 13, 2021Mochila mezclada que dicen;
la prosa es muy vívida y visual, y especialmente cuando describe lugares/espacios atrapa, como imágenes en un caleidoscopio. Se hace agradable leer esos pasajes mas descriptivos pinceladas en movimiento.
Se hace un poco cansino la premanicpixiedreamgirl energía antes de que eso fuese una cosa, que me ha parecido en cada sucesivo relato más intensita y alienante entre el objeto de deseo tm (donde cada vez más objeto es palabra clave) y las acciones-no-consecuencias del narrador.
la prosa es muy vívida y visual, y especialmente cuando describe lugares/espacios atrapa, como imágenes en un caleidoscopio. Se hace agradable leer esos pasajes mas descriptivos pinceladas en movimiento.
Se hace un poco cansino la premanicpixiedreamgirl energía antes de que eso fuese una cosa, que me ha parecido en cada sucesivo relato más intensita y alienante entre el objeto de deseo tm (donde cada vez más objeto es palabra clave) y las acciones-no-consecuencias del narrador.
September 30, 2019
Very cynical outlook. The author struck me as frustrated by not attaining the attention he desired from certain women whose independence both irritated and intrigued him. Somewhat unpleasant to read yet somehow still interesting.
July 12, 2024
Un bon vocabulaire mais le format n'est pas bon. De belles phrases :
"je ne tue pas le temps, je le blesse."
"me laisser seule et me tenir compagnie, disait-elle, sont les deux plus mauvais services qu'on puisse me rendre".
"je ne tue pas le temps, je le blesse."
"me laisser seule et me tenir compagnie, disait-elle, sont les deux plus mauvais services qu'on puisse me rendre".
December 25, 2020
Best read in the summer.
September 15, 2021
Loved the writing so so much.
January 9, 2017
A curious book. Sketches of the lives of three imagined young French women, living in London in the early 20th Century, as described by a young French man.
These seem to be not quite possible people and, while this is probably always true if all fiction, one might be struck with the impression that the stories tell us more about the author than the characters.
These are affectionate portraits affecting to be cynical. They are small flights of fancy, but with the detachment necessarily imposed by the fact that these women are always observed. We know nothing of their inner life. It is a great honesty in a way. The author does not claim to know more than he knows. He may put the words in their mouths, but he does not put the thoughts in their heads, and may even be unaware of them.
I like this book. It evokes another time, and one it is interesting to visit. A good read.
These seem to be not quite possible people and, while this is probably always true if all fiction, one might be struck with the impression that the stories tell us more about the author than the characters.
These are affectionate portraits affecting to be cynical. They are small flights of fancy, but with the detachment necessarily imposed by the fact that these women are always observed. We know nothing of their inner life. It is a great honesty in a way. The author does not claim to know more than he knows. He may put the words in their mouths, but he does not put the thoughts in their heads, and may even be unaware of them.
I like this book. It evokes another time, and one it is interesting to visit. A good read.
February 11, 2014
After the first part i wanted to give it 2 stars. After the 2nd 3. After the last I'm giving it 4. Each short story presents a woman through the narrator's eyes (a man). They are all 3 full of quirks, damaged by life, we could even say mentally insane. Aurore and her very special ways is my favourite because her story is full of magic and poetry.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews