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Ce roman commence par le récit du naufrage de la frégate La Méduse et l'extraordinaire aventure des rescapés. Ensuite tout se passe au XXè siècle : Antoine vit à Paris où il prépare un film sur Le Radeau de la Méduse, le célèbre tableau de Géricault. Autour du cinéaste gravitent Catherine, sa première femme qui rêvait d'être violoniste, Agnès, sa seconde femme, convertie au bouddhisme, et Nivea dont il est amoureux.
239 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1983
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About the author
François Weyergans
14 books9 followersFrançois Weyergans est un écrivain et réalisateur belge francophone. Il a reçu le Prix Goncourt en 2005 pour son roman Trois jours chez ma mère et le Prix Victor-Rossel en 1981 pour son roman Macaire le Copte. Il était membre de l'Académie française depuis 2009.
François Weyergans is a Belgian French-speaking writer and film director. In 2005, he received the Prix Goncourt for his novel Trois jours chez ma mère (Three days with my mother) and in 1981 he received the Prix Victor-Rossel pour le roman Macaire le Copte. He was a member of the Académie française since 2009.
François Weyergans is a Belgian French-speaking writer and film director. In 2005, he received the Prix Goncourt for his novel Trois jours chez ma mère (Three days with my mother) and in 1981 he received the Prix Victor-Rossel pour le roman Macaire le Copte. He was a member of the Académie française since 2009.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
June 30, 2021
A worthwhile novel 'of its time' that - were it to come out today - would annoy the hell out of me for its rambling and self-indulgence (I cannot bear novels about writers trying to get something written. Writers are freaks. And their creative crises are already over-documented). However, as it was written in 1983, I'm prepared to give it its due credit as innovative and often darkly, sadistically amusing.
So, here's the tale of a middling artist (of sorts) in television, deliberating about the making of a documentary about the Gericault painting. It starts terrifically - leaving us, I guess, eager to hear more and ideally seeking a historical novel. But that it ain't.
What follows is a wander through the life of the documentary maker, his troubled marriages, erratic plans to go travelling and love affair with a Brazilian travel agent, taking us through the lower beau monde, periodic alcoholism and shagging around. Along the way we get a pretty singular picture of artistic nerves, obfuscation and self-loathing - and it's often quite entertaining in a cruel, 'oh god what now?' kind of way. It's very Boomer too: the wife who embraced Buddhism, the flings with co-editors and the closeted creative life even a seemingly average writer seems to live.
As a metaphor and parallel for Antoine's existence, of course, The Raft of the Medusa is pretty apt - there's floundering and rage, but we seem to end up with the prospect of a ship coming in to rescue the staring, addled remnant. It could, I suppose, be seen as a borderline comedy piece in some respects: he's a messy semi-failure and his indecision and laziness are actually pretty amusing. Indolence of Oblomov? Self-importance of Ignatius Reilly? Seen this way, it's pretty strong. I enjoyed it, but I was glad to be rescued by the final paragraph.
So, here's the tale of a middling artist (of sorts) in television, deliberating about the making of a documentary about the Gericault painting. It starts terrifically - leaving us, I guess, eager to hear more and ideally seeking a historical novel. But that it ain't.
What follows is a wander through the life of the documentary maker, his troubled marriages, erratic plans to go travelling and love affair with a Brazilian travel agent, taking us through the lower beau monde, periodic alcoholism and shagging around. Along the way we get a pretty singular picture of artistic nerves, obfuscation and self-loathing - and it's often quite entertaining in a cruel, 'oh god what now?' kind of way. It's very Boomer too: the wife who embraced Buddhism, the flings with co-editors and the closeted creative life even a seemingly average writer seems to live.
As a metaphor and parallel for Antoine's existence, of course, The Raft of the Medusa is pretty apt - there's floundering and rage, but we seem to end up with the prospect of a ship coming in to rescue the staring, addled remnant. It could, I suppose, be seen as a borderline comedy piece in some respects: he's a messy semi-failure and his indecision and laziness are actually pretty amusing. Indolence of Oblomov? Self-importance of Ignatius Reilly? Seen this way, it's pretty strong. I enjoyed it, but I was glad to be rescued by the final paragraph.
Displaying 1 of 1 review