L'Inceste

by Christine Angot

«Christine Angot va gagner. Parce qu'elle ne risque pas de plaire. Elle va trop vite, trop fort, trop loin, elle bouscule les formes, les cadres, les codes, elle en demande trop au lecteur. Elle vient d'avoir quarante ans, elle écrit depuis quinze ans et, en huit livres (depuis 1990, car elle a mis quatre ans à faire publier son premier roman), elle a enjambé la niaiserie fin de siècle. Elle n'est pas humaniste, elle a fait exploser le réalisme, la pseudo-littérature consensuelle, provocante ou faussement étrange, pour poser la seule question, la plus dérangeante : quel est le rapport d'un écrivain à la réalité ?»
Josyane Savigneau, Le Monde des livres.

Genres: Fiction, France, French Literature, LGBT, Contemporary, Queer, Mental Illness

192 pages, Mass Market Paperback

First published November 18, 1999

About the author

French novelist and playwright, she is perhaps best known for her 1999 novel L'Inceste (Incest) which recounts an incestuous relationship with her father. It is a subject which appears in several of her previous books, but it is unclear whether these works are autofiction and the events described true. Angot herself describes her work - a metafiction on society's fundamental prohibition of incest and her own writings on the subject - as a performative (cf Quitter la ville).

Angot is also literary director for French publishers Stock

Reviews

[Felice Laverne · Rating 2 out of 5]

JEEZ - W.T.F. did I just read???

The novel closes powerfully--I will say that. Over and over again, the narrator compares herself to an animal, because she feels so ashamed of her actions--that she may have even thought she liked her actions at the time, and even now in retrospect--that she compares herself to a dog as someone she loves leaves her:

"It wasn't his brains I was sucking, do you realize, I could have had very handsome men, I could have loved Nadine's movies, I could have spent Christmas Eve with you. Either had very handsome men or been with you. But no, you see, Marie Christine. You're leaving tonight, we canceled the tickets to Rome. You're going to be with your family, I'm weeping like the dog I am, you don't celebrate Christmas with your dog. Dogs are stupid, you can get them to suck on a plastic bone, and they're stupid, dogs believe you. They don't even notice what they're sucking on. It's horrible being a dog."

This novel was characterized not only by the graphic nature of the relationships described here (incestuous fallacio inside of a church confessional anyone??) but by the chaotic stream of consciousness Angot used to give us her story. Honestly, I both expect and respect that this stream of consciousness is probably what it REALLY sounds like in our heads when we are distressed like this--so unnerved that we feel we're really bursting out of our heads, seams popping us undone like a shoe two sizes too small. So, Christine Angot shows IMMENSE talent in being able to convey that so effectively. I will give her that. I decided to push through a bit longer and there were moments of gleaming, shining narration that took my breath away--whether for good or bad reasons you can be the judge, but I'd argue that the ability to do so at all can only be all good, no matter the road we took to get there.

"Drinking, to get control, I had to call her two hundred times in those anxious days. It's normal. And at night. You stop, that's it. It happened yesterday. I stopped it all. I don't call anymore, I don't love her anymore...But the last forty-eight hours, I spent them crying, telephoning, running around, delivering letters, running to get a taxi, the taxi wasn't going fast enough. I stopped, but not on my own: she said stop. She couldn't take it anymore either. I begged her for one last weekend. To do the thing I never do, to lick, I can say it, I hoped to be revolted by it for good."

There were moments when I thought, "Whew! Might not make it through this one! This stream of consciousness makes me want to slap her and tell her, 'Sit down and be quiet!'"

For me, it wasn't that the subject matter here bothered me--I have a strong stomach for the taboo and love reads that push all of my limits. It was the author's method a stream of consciousness that at times maddened me (fitting, perhaps) and at times impressed me. I want to experience the inner thoughts of a manic, yes--show me that!--but I do not want to live inside of those thoughts at that high a frequency of mental vibration for an entire 200 pages. Ultimately, I was too compelled to skim through the read because of this manic narrator's voice, and for that I give the 2*, though there were definitely some shining moments to be found within these pages.

I could say, "Full review to come" but I think that's probably enough for now, don't you? Not even sure how to rate this one, but I'm leaning toward 2* at the moment. Will get my bearings and then possibly reconsider... :)

The cover art, though is absolutely exquisite. So simple and yet so beautiful, so telling.

**I received an advance-read copy of this book from the publisher, Archipelago Books, via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

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[Steven Godin · Rating 1 out of 5]

DNF - 50%. I don't have an issue with controversy (seems the French and controversy have always been in bed together) or anything of a sexually graphic nature, and sitting there with book in hand feeling really uncomfortable, nor do I care whether Angot is nothing more than a provocateur fabricating a story for attention, or whether in fact this is an accurate evocation of a troubled mind, and that she was indeed driven insane through years of an incestuous relationship. But I do care that I have to be able to feel something; to be engaged in the narrative, even if only in small fragments. But no, nothing, this for me is just a terrible book, that I'm not going to waste another minute on. It's only shocking in the fact it's shockingly bad!

[M. Sarki · Rating 4 out of 5]

https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/in...

…A man’s sex penetrates radically. I like what’s radical. Other kinds of penetration are possible, borders, journeys…

Angot begins finally at the three-quarter mark to describe the incest in meeting her father, whom she never previously knew, and then subsequently being charmed by him. Eight days in which she was afforded the chance to know him firsthand as a father, and then as a lover for a time, first with that kiss on the lips and then whatever else Angot chooses to eventually deliver on her page.

…And I’m still a dog and I’m still looking for a master.

Isn’t all good writing some form of obsession, a supersaturation of some pressing demand on our heart and the meaning of our being? Lives riddled by mistakes and insufficient plans. Character studies among the worst of the worst. The insistence to finally get things right. To make of life something more interesting and palatable. Trying on names for things and different ideas. Seeing things in ways others are not susceptible to or aware of. Taking that one step out of line and suffering the consequences. No playing it safe on the sidelines. Decorum saved for our last days and attempts at amendments guaranteed to be forgotten within days of being deceased. A moving on regardless of past promises. Hollow effects falling on deaf ears. There is no cover, Lish said. Charge the fire.

…in Savoie there was a church in the village where all the houses had flagstone roofs, in this church the Stations of the Cross were particularly beautiful and the confessional witnessed my open mouth on my father’s penis, I had to finish him off in the car, he didn’t want to ejaculate in the confessional after all.

Angot claims she does not care what others think of her, or her writing. Her pen must be free of mediation that might control the outcome. She has no agenda, no vengeance on her page, just her freedom of expression. And damn those she says who want a story, or plot and romance without the pain of process it takes in getting to the end. And she claims she will, as desire is the vehicle in which to escape our despair. Angot goes on to say, Tough luck. That is her exacting sentence, and there is no doubt it is she who is speaking.

…Dogs are stupid, you can get them to suck on a plastic bone, and they’re stupid, dogs believe you.

Her needs are rarely met. Meanwhile she licks and sucks and fucks whomever needs it. And then creates entire books about the subject and her behavior. Angot is popular in France and widely read. She is controversial, at times sued, and in spite of it wins the occasional award judged for important writing. But she often feels despicable while unable to do anything about this feeling. Similar to the trap she is unable to escape from. And yet I do sympathize with her, still wanting her to indulge herself in every profane act imaginable. I want her dutifully soiled by her own making and then have the courage to write about it. It is Angot’s chosen way to redemption in her search for satisfaction on the page. It is her perpetual hunger unassuaged and a monster in the making.

[Vincent Konrad · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hectic and difficult to find a place to stop like someone just telling you everything and u are interested but u really need to pee but they just don't leave any chances for u to say so and even when u do they're like "oh yeah just one more thing"

[Jeff Bursey · Rating 4 out of 5]

Astringent tone, snaky sentences, repetition used well, confusion of dates, sex, more sex, opinions on the author's own works and worth, dropped punctuation -- first book by Angot I've read and I'll be reading more.

[Michael · Rating 2 out of 5]

"Serienmörder, das ist Teil meines Charms. Ich sage ihr, dass sie feige ist. Sie antwortet mir, dass ich wahnsinnig bin. Unausgeglichenheit macht mir keine Angst, es gibt andere, die das nicht aushalten. Darunter sie. Leute wie sie. Leute, die Grenzen haben. Ich habe keine. Sie, sie hat welche."
Obsessionen und Wahnsinn stoßen mich nicht ab, ganz im Gegenteil - zumindest, wenn sie in pseudosicherer literarischer Distanz stattfinden, und Literatur ist immer auch Teil des Lebens selbst. Wenn Christine Angot schreibt, dass sie keine Grenzen hat, übertreibt sie kaum. INZEST ist vor allem der Bericht über ihre gescheiterte homosexuelle Beziehung zu einer Ärztin, der zwischen Liebeswahn und Wahnsinn oszilliert. Wie Prousts Ich in der Recherche Marcel heißt, so heißt auch hier die Erzählerin wie die Autorin Christine Angot, CA. Dass sie bei dieser Reise in die Abgründe der Besessenheit, in diesen Monolog, der die grenzenlose Verstörung nach dem Ende der Beziehung zu Ärztin Marie-Christine Adrey dokumentiert, den Namen ihrer Tochter Léonore des öfteren einbringt, wirkt skandalös, denn das Kind kann sich ja nicht dagegen verwahren und wird in der Schule gefragt werden: "Ist deine Mutter wirklich verrückt und eine Lesbe?"
Ein Problem, dass die Autorin nicht ausblendet, und so lautet die Widmung des Buches:
"Ich sollte dir dies hier nicht widmen, meine schöne, und wie du mich gebeten hast hinzuzufügen, liebe Léonore."
Es ist eine Mischung aus Wut, Mut und Selbstbesessenheit, die Angot hier vorlegt, vor allem aber rückhalt- und rücksichtslose Offenheit:
"Wenn ich das Wort nicht ergreife, dann werde ich zur Komplizin dessen, was passiert. Das Wort ergreifen heißt die Komplizenschaft zu verweigern, in der wir gesellschaftlich baden. Ich will den Leuten nur das sagen: Ihr gebt euch mit dieser Lüge zufrieden. Mich aber macht das aggressiv. Ich wüsste nicht, wie die Wahrheit sagen, aber die Literatur gesteht diese Ohnmacht der Lüge gegenüber ein." (CA zu einer Journalistin)
"...das gesamte Manuskript rührt an das Problem der Verletzung des Persönlichkeitsrechts der erwähnten und beschriebenen Personen...Absehbare Prozessrisiken liegen auf der Hand...Der Mangel an Zurückhaltung und Besonnenheit in den Äußerungen bildet ein entscheidendes Element des Werks, in dem Maße, in dem es dem Leser erlaubt - soweit das möglich ist - sich dem leidenschaftlichen Wahnsinn der Autorin zu nähern." - so warnt ihre Rechtsanwältin, und dass CA diese Warnung in den Text integriert, muss auch als Lust an der Provokation verstanden werden.
INZEST ist bei aller Offenheit kein pornografischer Roman, auch wenn es kein verschämtes Wegschauen und Verschweigen gibt; und INZEST ist auch keine Abrechnung mit dem Vater.
Schwieriger wäre die Bewertung, ob es sich um mutige Literatur oder um einen Skandalroman handelt, aber das eine schließt das andere nicht aus. Es ist ein Erinnerungsbuch, und damit drängt sich der Terminus "psychologischer Roman" auf, der zuerst auf die Romane von Joyce, Woolf und Proust angewandt wurde. INZEST liest sich wie ein langer innerer Monolog, ein Gedankenstrom, dem nicht immer leicht zu folgen ist.
Bei sommerlicher Hitze gelesen können diese Bekenntnisse den Leser erschöpft zurücksinken lassen in den hoffentlich gemütlichen Lesesessel oder auch auf´s Sofa. Die Aggressivität und Subjektivität (um es freundlich zu formulieren) einer Jelinek findet sich hier, aber ohne Romanstruktur; ein Monolog der Molly Bloom ist INZEST nicht, dazu fehlt es an literarischer Qualität, am Gestaltungswillen.
Ich also sinke zurück und schließe das Buch, ein wenig erschöpft.
2,5 Sterne.

[Mandy · Rating 1 out of 5]

Very French, very self-indulgent, very pretentious, very tedious. A rambling stream-of-consciousness piece of autofiction that sets out to shock but doesn’t. Repetitive and all over the shop, it describes the author’s breakup with her woman lover and links her extreme distress to her incestuous relationship with her father. Fair bit of graphic detail, lots of angst, much raw emotion laid bare, all of which failed to engage me at even the most basic level.

[Hux · Rating 4 out of 5]

I keep telling people that I don't like stream of consciousness but whenever I read it, I seem to enjoy it a great deal. This is another example. The book is predominantly about a woman explaining the breakdown of a relationship with a woman, this relationship, in contrast to all her previous romantic relationships, being her first with a woman. Towards the end of the book she details the incestuous relationship she had with her father having met him for the first time at the age of sixteen (hence the title). This incestuous relationship lasts for two years then ends with a complete severing of ties. She then meets her father again at twenty-six (whilst married) and the relationship briefly begins again.

There was nothing especially salacious or shocking about the book and the only time it crossed that line was, incidentally, when it also lost a certain amount of credibility (when, still as a sixteen-year-old, she has a new thirty-year-old boyfriend and ends up going to the cinema with him and her father and giving them both a hand-job). That felt utterly unconvincing which is apt because the book itself, despite using the author's real name (and the names of other real people) is clearly fictional. This, I'm reliably informed, is called 'autofiction.' I'm not against writers making things up but when they deliberately blur the line and present things as true (especially when it's a sexual relationship with their father), it feels slightly false and performative. Dare I say it, it feels very middle-class (wanting a more interesting identity than the one you have). This is very common in the modern world but Angot's book was published in 1999 and was, by all accounts, a sensation in France.

The subject matter itself was never really all that gripping but I did find the style (that stream of consciousness rapid fire, short sentences style) very compelling. Perhaps because it made me read very quickly. I'm not sure. That's one of the reasons I'm suspicious of stream of consciousness writing, I'm always of the opinion that it's a sneaky way to make mediocre prose seem more vibrant than it actually is.

But hey ho... the bottom line is I enjoyed it.

[Anna CARTER · Rating 4 out of 5]

J’ai fait une grosse erreur de jugement, j’ai longtemps mis Angot et Houellebecq dans le même panier, les renvoyant dos à dos, l’un n’étant pour moi que la version féminine de l’autre. J’ai lu Houellebecq (les particules élémentaires et le suivant), je ne comprends pas qu’on puisse trouver un intérêt à ce qu’il écrit, ni même à son style. C’est un mystère de la littérature que ce type ait du succès. Je comprends que Guillaume Musso en ait, mais pas Houellebecq, ou c’est parce qu’il est la littérature réconfortante de l’intelligentsia qui se veut transgressive (petit frisson que Musso n’a pas).

Angot, ce n’est pas ça. Rien à voir.
Je croyais l’avoir lu. Je n’en ai pas trouvé dans ma bibliothèque. Il se peut aussi que j’ai fait du ménage, ne l’appréciant pas à l’époque. Je ne suis pas sûre de l’apprécier aujourd’hui, mais je commence à comprendre sa démarche. Son écriture est une démarche, sa vie est une démarche, ses prises de paroles sont une démarche.
Toujours la même, celle de raconter, de plusieurs façons différentes, de plusieurs points de vue, sans confusion, sans émotion, avec une précision chirurgicale son histoire. Elle parle d’autofiction, jamais elle ne mélange le personnage de son livre avec elle. Même quand elle parle d’elle.
J’ai écouté le podcast de la Poudre #105, qui lui est consacré : précis voire pointilleux, presque désagréable de tensions par moment, elle ne dégage aucune empathie (je soupçonne qu’elle ne veut surtout pas qu’on ait de l’empathie pour elle). C’est une technicienne de la littérature : quand elle parle de ses romans, elle parle de comment elle les construit : une narratrice qui dit « je », ou une héroïne à la 3ème personne, des faits (juste des faits), ou des points de vue et des ressentis… elle en parle très bien. Elle s’essaie à plusieurs techniques.

L’histoire est toujours la même : celle de l’inceste de son père de 14 à 16 ans puis quand elle était adulte (un peu avant 30 ans). Chaque livre est une pièce du puzzle de cette histoire, de ce traumatisme qu’elle analyse, explore, ausculte, dissèque à chaque fois différemment, sous un angle différent, un passage précis, avec un style précis. Un peu comme une montagne où on change à la fois le parcours, le rythme, l’équipement, les compagnons de route, la météo.
Dans le podcast, on sent sa rigidité, elle ne laisse rien passer : aucun mot mal employé ou trop imprécis, aucune interprétation de son vécu, de son ressenti encore moins de ses paroles. Elle ne cherche pas à faire alliance avec la journaliste, aucune connivence, rien à aucun moment.
Elle reprend toutes les phrases de la journaliste (Lauren Bastide), et dit « non, ce n’est pas ça » à chaque tentative de la journaliste pour expliquer un contexte ou proposer une lecture d’une situation.
Cette femme se contient en permanence. Cette femme gère son intégrité seconde après seconde, la précision est une affaire de survie. C’est en gardant pour elle son histoire aussi dans la façon de la raconter, qu’elle peut continuer à exister au delà de cette histoire).
Son histoire est ce qui la constitue, nul autre ne peut en parler ou interpréter. Toutes les interprétations possibles sont dans ces livres, écrits par elle et ainsi dans une version qu’elle maitrise. La seule chose qu’elle maîtrise dans l’histoire est bien la façon de la raconter, puisqu’elle n’a pas eu de maîtrise sur l‘histoire elle-même (son père en revanche l’a eu)
La maîtrise est ce qui la maintient en vie, ce qui fait tenir son corps ensemble, ce qui contient son psychisme en cohérence. L’imprécision pourrait la faire de désintégrer, se disperser en mille morceaux autant physiquement que psychiquement. Si elle concède ne serait-ce qu’une interprétation sur son histoire, elle se perd elle-même et se dissout.
C’est une survivante (comme dit Camille Kouchner), mais une survivante en Crystal. Le jour où ça se brise c’est fatal.
C’est l’impression que m’a donné Christine Angot à l’écoute de ce podcast. Elle ne m’a pas touché émotionnellement (elle ne permet certainement pas que les gens soient émus) mais elle m’a donné de clés de lecture. Et ça déjà c’est un cadeau.

J’ai voulu relire « l’inceste », et je me suis rendu compte que je ne l’avais jamais lu. J’ai donc lu « l’inceste », son premier livre scandale. Et c’est là que j’ai compris : c’est dans l’écriture qu’elle éponge sa folie. C’est dans l’écriture qu’elle se disloque (et dans sa vie intime aussi peut-être si on en croit ce qu’elle écrit). C’est dans l’écriture qu’il y a les brisures.

"Ça m’arrache d’en parler. Quand je lui en parle, ça m’arrache, heureusement que je suis sans ses bras, sinon je ne pourrais peut-être pas. Je ne devrais pas écrire ça. Je ne devrais pas lui en parler. Ce que ça va provoquer, à elle, à vous, ce sera la même chose, ce sera de la pitié, vous ne pourrez plus m’aimer, non elle, ni vous. Elle ne pourra plus m’aimer. On ne pourra plus faire l’amour. Vous ne voudrez plus me lire. Je crois que tant pis il faut que je prenne le risque. On n’aime pas les gens qui ont souffert, on les plaint, on n’aime pas les fous on les plaint. On ne veut pas vivre avec un asile de fous à côté de chez soi. C’est normal, je le comprends moi, ça. Je suis pareil. Je suis une pauvre fille, on ne tombe pas amoureux d’une pauvre fille. On n’a pas envie de faire l’amour à une pauvre fille, sauf si on est pervers. Quoi d’autre ?"

[Alex · Rating 2 out of 5]

I struggle between wanting to give this 2 or 3 stars. The part of me that wants to give this 2 stars is the writing style- it is almost incoherent. I wanted to put down the book multiple times but I'm glad I didn't because the author finally starts describing her writing style by basically stating that she is insane. Now that I believe because I felt insane reading it at times. The part of me that wants to give this 3 stars is the author's ability to be so open and honest about her neurosis and her terrible past with incest (IF it is true). Luckily, it doesn't go too much into detail about the incest but mostly about the demise of her current homosexual relationship and the reasons why it would never work out for them. This was definitely a hard book to read, but I suppose I am glad I got to the end it.

[Josiane Stratis · Rating 2 out of 5]

J’aurais vraiment aimé aimer ce livre mais c’était insupportable. Pourtant le sujet me touche, mais wow, j’ai absolument pas aimé.

[Alex Sarll]

According to both the blurb and a cursory Google, Angot is France's most controversial writer, which I'm sure pisses Houllebecq off no end. That annoyance being about the best which can be said for this mess. For a 1999 novel, it could easily have been written decades earlier (and indeed, the text's AIDS panic and a description of deported homosexuals as being 40 years earlier had me believing it was set in the eighties for some time, until a mention of Viagra). Angot's protagonist, who may or may not be an exercise in autofiction, is "condemned to be homosexual" for three months, and also fucks her dad. So, you know, the same story Anais Nin did decades earlier, in a book of the same name, and for real. Not that authenticity matters, of course, but the prose style does, and where Nin has a furious intelligence, flitting from idea to idea like a hummingbird with eyes of burning diamond, reading Angot is more like overhearing one end of a particularly inane drunk break-up committed via mobile telephone, endlessly circling without apparent purpose or progress, but replete with all manner of ill-expressed angst and (self-)recrimination. Certainly this as an overall problem may be the translator's fault rather than the author's, I don't know. But unless major liberties have been taken, there's surely stuff here - in particular, the frequent elision between being a lesbian and wanting to be a man - which would have felt bizarrely dated even in 1999. Maybe that's why Angot is so controversial? Either that or the tendency to use real names, which - as per one mention within the text here - has seen Angot taken to court in the past. Thing is, while I can understand that being 'controversial' when applied to public figures (cf 2023), if you're just dragging private individuals who happen to have some connection to you into a febrile affair like this, without the defence either of beauty or truth, I can't see much argument for it being anything other than bloody rude. Man, I miss the good old days of scandalous French literature.

(Edelweiss ARC)

[Jessica Gordon · Rating 1 out of 5]

I could only bare to read about forty pages. I've never encountered such awful writing: one incoherent sentence sentence after another and paragraphs that go on for twenty or thirty pages, maybe more. It gave me an immediate headache. This writing is forced and contrived, and knowing its international only makes it more annoying (if that is possible). If this is a translation problem, the author needs to find a new translator immediately and pull this version from the shelf. I don't think translation is the issue, though. I think it's intentionally bad. Ive literally never encountered any book so bad.

[Bianca · Rating 1 out of 5]

This is by far one of the worst books I ever read. I know that it was meant to be chaotic, full of intense thoughts and I also know that this style of writing was meant to transport the reader into this character's mind, but it completely failed to do so. Miserably.

The main character succeeds in being incredibly whiny, irrational and worries about everything. Chaotic and artsy doesn't always mean it's good writing. I would've rated it 0 (zero), had it been possible.

[Alain · Rating 1 out of 5]

bien sur j'étais prévenu. j'avais presque aimé 'un amour impossible" et voulu découvrir le premier livre controversé. j'ai essayé tout au long de cette version lue, de comprendre l'intérêt du ton agressif (plus de 4h de lecture par l'auteur) souvent hystérique et du hachis de style. Et si la trame peut globalement se percevoir, reste un profond déplaisir. Mais c'est peut-être l'objectif

[Frankie Ness]

This book could've been good but it needs to be redone with a better translator and a professional editor. It's hard to always having to read between the lines because the translation is literal and there's also a lot of redundancies.

[Juliana · Rating 2 out of 5]

My review: https://theblankgarden.com/2017/12/08...

[Luis Enrique Aguirre · Rating 3 out of 5]

La historia de un descalabro emocional. ¿Autoficción o no? Esta (aparente) novela de la francesa Christine Angot es de 1999, cuando aún no soñábamos por aquí con las ovejas de la autoficción, y también muchos años antes del movimiento MeToo, cuando las denuncias de abuso sexual cargaban con otro peso. “Incesto” produjo una controversia en Francia cuando apareció, justamente porque los límites entre la verdad y la ficción invitaban a todo tipo de especulaciones. Ciertamente, la protagonista se llama Christine Angot, como la autora, y todo lo que ella cuenta en primera persona parece ser parte de su biografía. Es más, en alguna parte de la novela escribe: “Me molesta tener que cambiar los nombres reales. Hace al libro menos bueno. Pero mejor eso que pagar dinero por daños y perjuicios” (traducción mía). Así las cosas, el maquillaje parece mínimo.

Pero lo clave de un libro como “Incesto” es precisamente volver ambiguo al género ficcional, que la historia parezca y no parezca verdad, que la relación entre autor y narrador estén en constante tensión. Pero, ¿qué del lector? ¿Qué es lo que nos lleva a leer un libro así, con todas esas advertencias? ¿Es el morbo por cierto tipo de exhibicionismo literario? ¿Es averiguar el porqué del escándalo? ¿O es que en literatura buscamos “verdad” mucho antes que oficio, y este tipo de autobiografismo nos lo entrega sin mayor intermediación? Hay algo de todo eso. Uno, en realidad, no espera una “forma” reconocible y del todo acabada cuando lee “autoficción”. No la juzgamos como juzgamos cualquier otra ficción.

Y no es que a Angot no le interese ser literaria. Porque en otro momento de la historia se irrita consigo misma sobre su propia escritura: “esto será visto como un pedazo de basura testimonial”, dice. Sin embargo, el arranque de la novela, dividida en tres partes, no podría ser más contraria a la claridad del testimonio. Es un furioso e intenso fluir de conciencia, donde se salta hacia atrás y hacia adelante sin aviso y sin pausas, donde no se narra tanto como se enumera, donde se suelta información misteriosa que parece no tener relación con nada y que recién, muchas líneas después, se completa. El estilo intenta replicar una psicología rota. El lector debe unir los pedazos que, ordenados, son más o menos así: Christine Angot es una escritora francesa y madre de una pequeña de cinco años que acaba de vivir su primera relación homosexual, en plena madurez, con una médica que le lleva unos diez. La relación dura pocos meses. Pero el proceso de ruptura la tiene al borde del precipicio. Los ataques de ansiedad y pánico la vuelven un personaje impredecible, uno que llama para romper y, minutos después, llama para disculparse, y nuevamente, después de un rato, llama para volver a insultar y romper.

Probablemente algunos se sientan identificados con estos procesos de desarreglo sentimental y enfermiza dependencia, pero en la novela lo que intenta decir Angot es que el extravío del presente tiene una causa profunda en el pasado, y es algo que se menciona casi de refilón, como si la verdad no pudiera ser dicha de frente sin una adecuada preparación: esta verdad es la del abuso sexual, es decir, la relación incestuosa con el padre. Angot es expresamente psicoanalítica, así que hará asociaciones que no hacen sentido de inmediato. Sus primeras líneas, por ejemplo, producen intriga: “Fui homosexual por tres meses. Más precisamente, por tres meses pensé que estaba condenada a la homosexualidad”. ¿A qué se refiere? Más adelante esto intentará ser explicado. Angot, en realidad, no siente un deseo homosexual tan abiertamente sexual. Siente fascinación por las mujeres, puede sentir incluso amor hacia su pareja, pero hay ciertas prácticas de la intimidad homosexual que simplemente le producen rechazo. Este rechazo es vinculado con el rechazo al incesto. No se tiene que estar de acuerdo o en desacuerdo. Es parte de la imaginación psicoanalítica que, en este caso, parece un cuadro de Pollock, y que, felizmente, demuestra maestría literaria y se sigue con mucho interés aunque haya que leer atentamente y con calma.

La segunda parte de la novela intenta ordenar lo expulsado en la primera: “Usaré puntuación solo para ser más clara, de modo que los lectores no se pierdan”, dice la narradora. Y, en efecto, Angot es más clara, sobre todo al describir el contexto preciso de la ruptura, reducidas a unas descoordinaciones familiares días antes de la Navidad. Desde afuera, no parecen grandes eventos, pero Angot afirma y reafirma que ella, en esos días, estaba fuera de sí. “Después de la homosexualidad, fue la demencia. La Navidad me volvió loca”, dice. La ansiedad, es de esperar, deviene rápidamente violencia física. La narradora intenta explicarse y disculparse a la vez. Todo se debe a su estructura mental de ese entonces: una estructura “incestuosa”.

La última parte describe de lleno el abuso sexual perpetrado por el padre y es la parte más dura de “Incesto”. La narradora vuelve a disculparse por la exposición de su dolor: “Lamento mucho que esto deba ser discutido. Lo lamento mucho”, dice. Sin embargo, el texto no es en sentido estricto una denuncia: “No busco acusarlo. Los monstruos solo existen en los cuentos de hadas. No busco acusarlo ni excusarlo. Solo una cosa importa, la marca. Él dejó una marca en mí”. ¿Sería Angot una persona distinta si tales eventos no hubiesen sucedido? Es una de las preguntas que se hace "Incesto". Además, una acusación que busque reconocimiento no tendría mayor sentido, pues nada de lo que escribe Angot llegará al padre, un lingüista muy culto e inteligente que ella conoció recién a los catorce años, ya que en el presente de la novela, Pierre, el padre, sufre de Alzheimer. El victimario lo ha olvidado todo, en tanto que la víctima recuerda con minuciosidad.

La autoficción entendida como proceso terapéutico no necesita mayor justificación literaria. Es más, no necesita ser literatura, probablemente porque lo estético es más un anestésico de la verdad que busca ser revelada. Es por eso que, aunque Angot logre buenos momentos, y su nivel de detalle posea enormes cuotas de verosimilitud, también se perciben limitaciones. El libro no cierra. Queda en el aire abriendo más posibilidades de interpretación de esa gran marca que hasta ese momento no habían sido señaladas, como la relación entre amo y esclava, o que el amor sea, a la larga, una relación entre amo y esclava. La ficción, lo sabemos, no tiene que ser coherente (aunque admiremos la coherencia), ni tiene que mostrarse en completo control (aunque admiremos ese control). La autoficción, si esta novela lo fuese, mucho menos. Ya depende del valor que cada uno le ponga a ciertas características de lo literario para apreciarla.

*Leí la novela en inglés (excelente traducción) y de ahí parten mis traducciones. Original en francés.

[Zeitwaise · Rating 1 out of 5]

TRIGGERWARNUNG.

Alles (Charakter, Verhalten, Denkweise) an der Ich-Erzählerin/Autorin war mir extremst zuwider.
Durch Krankheit sind für mich viele Dinge entschuldbar: Hybris, Narzißmus, "Freudglaube", Affekte, die ich als überzogen empfinde.

Aber Gewisse Sichtweisen eben nicht. Und niemand sollte Derartiges verlegen.

Homosexualtität wird von ihr als Krankheit begriffen.
Ihre eigene Situation setzt sie mit der von Shoahopfern gleich.

Das größte Problem an ihrem Buch sieht sie jedoch darin, daß es eventuell zu Klagen wegen Rufschädigung o.Ä. kommen könnte.

">Inzest< ist wahrhaftig das Buch, in dem ich mich als einen großen Haufen Scheiße präsentiere [...]."

Dem ist nichts mehr hinzuzufügen.

[Yaroslava · Rating 5 out of 5]

Роздратування, неприйняття, розгубленість, мисленнєвий Стравінський у голові, і, передусім, певна доза відрази ближче до кінця змінюються розумінням, що саме так, заплющуючи очі, відвертаючись, вдавано не помічаючи, ми реагуємо на оголену правду, яку Онго не маскує, ані не прикрашає евфемізмами, а рубає з плеча.

"Я була собакою, шукала пана. Я й досі собака й досі шукаю пана. Щоб він верещав на мене так, як вчора телефоном Марі-Крістін. Це нормально, я роблю все для цього."

"Собаки дурні, даєш їм посмоктати пластикову кістку, а вони настільки дурні, що в це вірять. Навіть не бачать, що тримають у зубах. Страшно бути собакою."

[Emily · Rating 3 out of 5]

Can’t say I enjoyed it. (Read for french essay on autofiction)

[Mars · Rating 3 out of 5]

“I was a dog and I was looking for my master. And I’m still a dog and I’m still looking for my master.”

[Jim · Rating 3 out of 5]

I expected this to be a difficult book and it was but not in ways I would’ve imagined. It wasn’t the subject matter that was difficult (because the incest is not dealt with in detail or graphically or even talked about that much until the final few pages of the book) it’s just a difficult book to read: the paragraphs are long but they don’t meander, they zig and zag from one subject to another and I lost my place (and my patience) time and again. I’ve no problems with stream of consciousness writing in general when they flow but when your narrator’s manic—I use the term loosely—it can wear you down especially when you’ve picked up the book expecting one thing and get handed something else entirely. Writers can do little when it comes to reader expectation but they can pick their titles with more care than many do; titles are more than labels.

The book hits the ground running:

I was homosexual for three months. More precisely, for three months I thought I was condemned to be homosexual. I really had caught it, I wasn’t imagining things. The test results were positive. I’d become attached. Not the first few times. It was the looks she gave. I started on a process, one of collapse. In which I couldn’t recognize myself. It wasn’t my story anymore. It wasn’t me. Still, as soon as I saw her, the test results were the same. I was homosexual the moment I saw her. Things turned back into me afterward. Whenever she was gone. Other times, even in her presence, I was myself again. I missed my daughter so much on trips, when I was away for longer stretches, three or four days. The feeling of betraying the only one I truly love. To whom I’d dedicated all my books. Writing is impossible. When you’re not yourself.

The person talking is Christine Angot which is the book’s author’s name and, of course, there have been authors before who’ve either inserted versions of themselves into their texts or given characters the same names as them; Philip Roth jumps to mind and Vonnegut both as himself and (and occasionally with) his alter ego Kilgore Trout. There are arguments for and against because, after all, everything on the page, fictional or otherwise, has come out of that author’s mouth but it can be confusing and I make no bones about it, Incest confused me. I read it thinking it was a novel but was it an autobiographical novel? And would that matter? Is fiction less relevant than fact? The reason I picked up this book in the first place was in preparation for reading a friend’s memoir where incest is a major theme and I wanted something to compare it to. My friend’s book is based on fact—places she’d been, things she’d witnessed—but it would be unfair to her to call the book a factual account because it clearly comes under the heading creative nonfiction, heavy on the nonfiction. Was Incest fact-based fiction, heavy on the fiction? Mostly Angot’s texts have been associated with the genre autofiction but this is not how the author describes her work. In that respect I see her as a similar writer to Gerald Murnane whose writing also can easily be mistaken as lightly-fictionalised autobiography. Interesting too that where Murnane resists the term “novel” to describe his works of fiction Angot describes her entire oeuvre as “performative utterance,” a term coined by the philosopher J.L. Austin to describe sentences are not only describe a given reality, but also change the social reality they are describing (see here and Lauren Friedlander’s review here).

Why do we read? To know? Or to understand? You can’t understand without knowing but it knowledge enough? I’m not a fan of misery memoirs and avoid them like the plague. Often they’re written by victims who want to be thought of as survivors but can’t escape the fact they can’t be a survivor without having first been a victim. The Christine we meet in the opening pages of Incest was hard to label but my first thought was damaged goods. The question is: What caused the damage? Just the incest? Is it that simple, a straight line between cause and effect?

The book may be a novel but it’s written as if it was a memoir and as such it has to tackle the big issue facing memoirists: privacy, defamation and libel:

[T]he entire manuscript presents a comprehensive problematic of the invasion of privacy of persons mentioned, described, etc., whether they are explicitly identified, as is often the case, or identifiable. The risk of legal action is all the more evident given the pointedness and relentlessness of the attacks and the fact that they constitute attacks on the private lives of private individuals. The damages resulting from judicial action would be significant as no precautions were taken. The lack of moderation or compromise in the author’s statements is a determining element of the work to the extent that it allows the reader access – in so far as is possible – to the author’s passionate insanity.

Because it’s a novel, however, the author’s free to have a go at anyone she fancies and yet, oddly you might think, her father doesn’t come off all that badly. Yes, he does some gross things (asking his daughter to perform fellatio on him in a confessional probably won’t win him any points) and yet she pulls her punches. She writes:

I’m not looking to accuse him. Monsters only exist in fairy tales. I’m not looking to accuse or excuse him. Only one thing counts, the mark. He left a mark on me.

Her mother also leaves her mark. Her lovers leave their marks. In time her daughter will leave her mark. Her father did what he did and she records it almost dispassionately. As she puts it, “Writing is not choosing your narrative. But taking it, into your arms, and putting it calmly down on the page, as calmly as possible, as accurately as possible.” Okay, she’s not very calm so we should probably read that last bit as “as calmly as possible under the circumstances.”

This book will be seen as testimony about the sabotage of women’s lives. The groups that are fighting incest will be all over it. Even my books are sabotaged. To take this book as a shit piece of testimony will be an act of sabotage, but you’ll do it. It screws up a woman’s life, it screws up a writer’s life, but, as they say, it doesn’t matter.

I came to this book wanting to do more than underline what everyone accepts, that incest in today’s world is inevitably damaging. Why would I read a book about an alcoholic or a drug addict? I know drink and drugs do a lot of harm. I want more than to have what I’ve learned or come to believe confirmed. I would actually rather the opposite. I read them because I haven’t been there and don’t particularly want to go there but I do like to understand things. That’s why we read stuff like this so we can expand our experience of the world without having to go through all the pain and suffering and who’s got time for all that anyway? What I found myself relating to in this book was the writer. Writers I get and even though I am one and will go to my grave being one they still fascinate the hell out of me.

Incest is the book in which I present myself as a real shit, all writers should do it at least once, after that, we’ll see. Or maybe they should do it several times, or maybe do nothing but that. Writing may only be doing that, showing one’s inner shit. Of course it isn’t. You’re ready to believe anything. Writing is not just one thing. Writing is everything. Within limits. Always. Of life, of one’s self, of the pen, of height and of weight.

That I found I could relate to even though I’m not, at least not in my prose, an autobiographical writer. But I do get the need to write about things. Mostly that writing helps me to come to an understanding even if I don’t and can’t always fully comprehend what I’m writing about. This book never gets inside the father’s head. It barely fleshes him out at all and it certainly never gets close to explaining him.

Writing is a kind of rampart against insanity, I’m already very lucky that I’m a writer, that at least I have this possibility. That’s already something. This book will be seen as a shit piece of testimony. What else could I do? What else?

Indeed.

Part of the problem with the book is when Christine chooses to tell her story. She’s in the process of breaking up with her lover and that colours everything she writes. As you would expect. She also stretches the meaning of the word incestuous, for example. She writes, “I’m at my limit, what with my mental structure, incestuous, I mix everything up, it has advantages, connections others don’t make, but too much is too much as they say, it’s the limit” and most puzzlingly, “Having sex with a woman, you’re right, it’s incest.” In that respect the book’s title has as much in common with Anaïs Nin’s House of Incest where the expression is used metaphorically as it does with her diaries from 1932-34 where the incest is most definitely literal. (For the record there’s a lot of dreaming in Incest and a lot of those dreams are about houses, e.g. “I dream: We have a house. We share it. We both love it. We choose things we love.”)

If you’re going to read this book then my advice would be this: Treat it as an experience. At one point Christine writes, “Dogs are stupid, you can get them to suck on a plastic bone, and they’re stupid, dogs believe you. They don’t even notice what they’re sucking on. It’s horrible being a dog.” How does she know? In my experience most dogs revel in what we take to be stupidity. They don’t know any better. But who of us really knows what’s going on in a dog’s head? And it’s not as if dogs write novels or come equipped to explain canine behaviour and mentality in human terms. But people do and we can get to be inside their heads up to a point, that point being their willingness to open up and their ability to do so effectively. All I can say about Christine is she really does try to let you in. You might not like what you find there but that’s the risk you take with every novel. This one might not be for you. It hasn’t been for many and I’m not really sure where I stand on the love-it-or-loathe-it scale. Matthew E. Jackson in his review of Incest calls Angot “a genius” and believes this novel to be “stylistically, … near perfection.” Conversely Jessica Gordon in her Goodreads review said, “It may be the worst published writing I've ever encountered.” I think I sit firmly on the wall. I admired the effort, I think I see what she was going for but it didn’t work for me.

[Ami Rebecca · Rating 5 out of 5]

This novel is truly one story in many parts, and is not for the faint of heart. While the subject matter is seemingly taboo, it is more than that. Throughout the pages you read about a myriad of sexual trysts, conquests, fetishes, all told as recollections; a given fact that what you're reading is purely what the writer wants you to know. I feel that power is left with Angot, when in most narratives it would be taken away. This is not your typical Beginning, Middle, End, sort of story, rather you're brought into a life and world, and only given an explanation to any of it much later than you'd anticipate. However I did find myself constantly questioning the authenticity of Angot's recollections. The writing draws you in so closely, so deliberately, that only after you finish do you ask if any of it was real. The very nature of Angot's book is controversial, and in so many parts unbelievable, the voice it gives though, the stories it tells, are so much more than what they are, and even what they aren't. This is one book I had to continually leave and come back too; trying to read more than a chapter or two, a few dozen pages at a time, often yielded so much to consume and take in that I simply had to stop. Being overwhelmed isn't something I always like in books. Written to feel like a diary, or just someone telling you all the kinky stuff they've done is unnerving. You'll feel buzzed after you read this, you'll feel your skin tingling and crawling. This is not a modern Lolita, this is entirely something else.

[Jim · Rating 5 out of 5]

A book that elicited a myriad of things from me long after finishing it. Anger, disgust, fear, surprise, confusion, respect, titillation, laughter, shame... Angot has written a text that refuses to rest easy for me. Relentless fiction. Visceral and unapologetic. Irrespective of its genre, veracity, or taboo subject matter, this was a terribly aggressive and maniacal read. I will grant the style is troublesome, or at least so erratic and repetitive to be almost physically nauseous. Still, this is an example of why I read books. It is a book that requires total immersion to reap any reward. Questioning why Angot wrote this feels quite the wrong question to ask. How she wrote this is more to the point, and less demeaning. And more honest, probably. There is beauty here, and ugliness too. And obscene talent, lots of it. Confessional or controversial, it matters little to me. It feels right, as much as I can say that about another's writing. Fever dream-esque, penned in the throes of desperation, folly, and desire, with vulgar authenticity. Or written under the threat of some form of self-torture maybe. I can't quite get a grasp of the entirety of it, but I know I loved how it screams of obsession, brutality, and eroticism, a la Georges Bataille. Complex AND complicated. Masterful.

[Sam · Rating 3 out of 5]

Well this is a weird fucking book. It's completely (intentionally) unclear how much of it is fiction and how much is the IRL ramblings of someone who seriously, seriously needs some therapy. It's apparently a "novel," which doesn't really help, and the main character's name is Christine Angot, and she's a writer, and her father's name is her father's name, and her ex husband's name is the same as IRL, but also: holy crap these are the ramblings of a crazy person. Either she is crazy and I feel kind of uncomfortable having read this, or she isn't, and it's one of the most brilliant portrayals of the circular, frantic thought patterns of a crazy person. I was really not sure what to do with this while I was reading it, and I'm still not.

Four stars for the content, but three stars for the translation. More details to come, if I ever think of it again and I'm not running out the door as I write.

[HajarRead · Rating 1 out of 5]

Désolée Christine, je n'ai pas pu. Je ne l'ai pas fini. Tu m'as crevée au bout de 50 pages, je n'ai pas eu suffisamment de souffle pour survivre au premier inceste, je ne suis pas arrivée au second.

[Clara · Rating 5 out of 5]

„,Inzest‘ ist wahrhaftig das Buch, in dem ich mich als einen großen Haufen Scheiße präsentiere (..)“

Dieses Buch ist Wahnsinn im Wortsinn, es ist Gewalt. Der Autorin an sich selbst, an ihren Mitmenschen, an Konventionen, am Leser.

„Schreiben heißt nicht, sich seine Geschichte auszusuchen“

Ihre Geschichte hat sich Christine Angot wahrlich nicht ausgesucht. Die Autorin scheint in diesem dünnen Buch ihr gesamtes Leben verarbeiten zu wollen und es doch nicht zu können. Es geht um eine gescheiterte homosexuelle Beziehung, das inzestuöse Verhältnis der Autorin zu ihrem Vater sowie ihr Verhältnis zu ihrem eignen Kind, ihren Mitmenschen und sich selbst. Aber doch geht es in diesem Werk um so viel mehr. Geht es vielleicht um den Wahnsinn? Ich kann und will mir nicht anmaßen den Inhalt dieses Werkes weiter zu verschlagworten. Am besten setze ich eine große Triggerwarnung für einfach alles hier hin.

Nicht nur der erzählerische Inhalt des Buches zeugt von Wahnsinn. Auch die textliche Gestaltung. Sie treibt den Leser bis zum Wahnsinn. Die Regeln von Sprache und Verständnis entfalten in diesem Werk keine Geltung.

Ich habe mit mir gehadert, ob ich zu diesem Werk einen Beitrag verfassen soll. Ob es zu mir zusteht etwas zu sagen. Aber man sollte auch vor den schweren Werken nicht zurückschrecken. Schweigen ist meist falsch. Ich bin ein Mensch, der gerne unkonventionelle Dinge liest, aber auch für mich definiert dieses Buch die äußerste Grenze. Es war ein besonderes Leseerlebnis. ‚Besonders‘ fungiert als Lückenhalter für etwas, dass ich nicht zu fassen vermag. Vielleicht einen Kampf.

[David · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ce livre en audio a le mérite de ressembler à une performance, on sent la puissance de christine angot lorsqu'elle prononce ces phrases. Malheureusement ça ne rattrape pas le fonds et la forme générale du roman qui est pour moi mauvaise.

Déjà, le livre se voile de mystère, mais au final, il aborde très peu en profondeur le sujet de l'inceste. Je me rends compte qu'en fait, elle a une longue carrière d'écrivaine dans laquelle elle aborde encore et encore ce sujet. J'avoue que l'idée de lire plus d'un roman dans ce style me révulse, ou même dans un autre style similaire. Je ne vois pas l'intérêt de ce roman, c'est du vide, des platitudes, c'est apparemment l'éloge de la vérité pure, mais ça ressemble à un pugilat par moment. De cette femme qu'elle a commencée a aimé, il y a tant de mots durs et de haine envers cette femme, ca va a un extrême qui n'est pas justifié , excusé , mis en compte. On parle de tout mais pas des choses qui compte.

Il y a aussi comme une notion dans ce roman de devoir savoir ce qui se passe dans la vie de cette femme. Je ne connais pas cette femme et je ne la hais pas , mais ce bouillon de tout était si confus qu'on arrive peu à apprécier l'ensemble. J'ai tenu jusqu'à la fin en me disant "il y a quand même une prouesse dans l'écrit" mais c'est avec déception que je finis le livre.

[Meghan · Rating 4 out of 5]

A twisty, repetitive, lost-in-her-own-thoughts maelstrom of a book. Basically, it can all be summed up with a quote straight from the book:

your writing is so unbelievable, intelligent, muddled, but always luminous, accessible, direct, physical. Your readers don’t understand a thing and they understand everything. It’s intimate, personal, shameless, autobiographical, and universal.

But it's harrowing subject matter -- the dissolution of a relationship takes up maybe the first three quarters of the book, then the last quarter details of Angot's (or a fictional version of Angot, it is purposefully unclear) incestuous relationship with her father, but all trapped in spiraling thoughts. I often get trapped in my own spiraling thoughts with no way out too. Yay for not feeling so alone, even if the subject matter isn't about me at all. Overthinking writers of the world -- unite!

Incest by Christine Angot went on sale November 7, 2017.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.