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البنت الأخرى، لم أخرج من ليلي
Written in journal form, Annie Ernaux's account of her mother's steady decline spans a period of nearly three years. When her mother first becomes ill, Ernaux takes her in. Soon, it becomes painfully obvious that professional help is needed. Diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, her mother enters a nursing home, never to leave. As it explores the complexities of death and parent-child role reversal, Ernaux's latest work takes its place on the shelf beside John Bayley's Elegy for Iris and Roger Kamenetz's Terra Infirma. "As revealed by Ernaux, the details of a loved one's deterioration have such emblematic force and terror that the particular becomes universal." - The New York Times Book Review
140 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1996
195 people are currently reading
8137 people want to read
About the author
Annie Ernaux
77 books10.1k followersThe author of some twenty works of fiction and memoir, Annie Ernaux is considered by many to be France’s most important writer. In 2022, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. She has also won the Prix Renaudot for A Man's Place and the Marguerite Yourcenar Prize for her body of work. More recently she received the International Strega Prize, the Prix Formentor, the French-American Translation Prize, and the Warwick Prize for Women in Translation for The Years, which was also shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize in 2019. Her other works include Exteriors, A Girl's Story, A Woman's Story, The Possession, Simple Passion, Happening, I Remain in Darkness, Shame, A Frozen Woman, and A Man's Place.
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October 6, 2022
Deserved winner of the 2022 Nobel Prize for Literature!
A heartfelt reflection on losing a parent to dementia, and all the pain the slow decline and the reversion of the roles of parent and child brings with it
Right now, I would like her to be dead and free of such degradation
To grow old is to fade, to become transparant. Annie Ernaux writes about the dementia of her mother, in short burst of prose, like a diary. Good days can't weigh up against the gradual but inexorable decline of a loved one.
Clipping once mothers nails, heaps of shit (literally), feelings of seeing what one will become once older (All that I have standing between me and death is my demented mother); this all make I Remain in Darkness a poignant and touching read.
Especially the lucid moments when her mother realises the changes, being heartbreaking.
Reversion of the child-parent relationship (An agonizing reversal of roles between mother/child) are also impactful.
The slow decline, with things becoming impossible, make this a hard but important book, if short.
A heartfelt reflection on losing a parent to dementia, and all the pain the slow decline and the reversion of the roles of parent and child brings with it
Right now, I would like her to be dead and free of such degradation
To grow old is to fade, to become transparant. Annie Ernaux writes about the dementia of her mother, in short burst of prose, like a diary. Good days can't weigh up against the gradual but inexorable decline of a loved one.
Clipping once mothers nails, heaps of shit (literally), feelings of seeing what one will become once older (All that I have standing between me and death is my demented mother); this all make I Remain in Darkness a poignant and touching read.
Especially the lucid moments when her mother realises the changes, being heartbreaking.
Reversion of the child-parent relationship (An agonizing reversal of roles between mother/child) are also impactful.
The slow decline, with things becoming impossible, make this a hard but important book, if short.
August 6, 2023
“I remain in darkness” was the last sentence my mother wrote.
Ruthlessly stark and brutally honest, written in the form of a diary, Ernaux recounts her experiences coping with her mother’s Alzheimer’s disease, witnessing her gradual decline and deterioration from 1983 to 1986.
No woman will ever be this close to me, it’s like she’s inside me.
As we read the entries of the diary, we sense Ernaux’s love towards her mother, but also her frustration, her anger and her fear of getting old like her, being helpless and infantile.
The situation is reversed, now she is my little girl. I CANNOT be her mother.
She loves her mother, deeply, tenderly, but also remembers her strictness, severity and violence.
She remembers the good and the bad.
She remembers her mother slapping her or preferring her dead sister to her.
But then…
As I bend forward to check the safety catch of my mother’s wheelchair, she leans over and kisses my hair. How can I survive that kiss, such love, my mother, my mother.
This is a story about an agonizing reversal of roles between mother and child.
To grow old is to fade, to become transparent.
Ruthlessly stark and brutally honest, written in the form of a diary, Ernaux recounts her experiences coping with her mother’s Alzheimer’s disease, witnessing her gradual decline and deterioration from 1983 to 1986.
No woman will ever be this close to me, it’s like she’s inside me.
As we read the entries of the diary, we sense Ernaux’s love towards her mother, but also her frustration, her anger and her fear of getting old like her, being helpless and infantile.
The situation is reversed, now she is my little girl. I CANNOT be her mother.
She loves her mother, deeply, tenderly, but also remembers her strictness, severity and violence.
She remembers the good and the bad.
She remembers her mother slapping her or preferring her dead sister to her.
But then…
As I bend forward to check the safety catch of my mother’s wheelchair, she leans over and kisses my hair. How can I survive that kiss, such love, my mother, my mother.
This is a story about an agonizing reversal of roles between mother and child.
To grow old is to fade, to become transparent.
July 30, 2020
يوميات للكاتبة الفرنسية آني إرنو تكتب فيها عن مرض والدتها وفترة تواجدها في قسم المسنين في المستشفي
تدهور حالتها الذهنية والجسدية وتفاصيل زياراتها وملامح من ذكرياتها عنها
رغم ان الأسلوب تقريري لكن تظل القراءة عن تجارب المرض ومعاناة المريض والمحيطين به من أكثر القراءات تأثيرا
تدهور حالتها الذهنية والجسدية وتفاصيل زياراتها وملامح من ذكرياتها عنها
رغم ان الأسلوب تقريري لكن تظل القراءة عن تجارب المرض ومعاناة المريض والمحيطين به من أكثر القراءات تأثيرا
April 2, 2023
لم أخرج من ليلي ..اليوميات الرابعة التي أقرأها لأني أرنو بعد فوزها بجائزة نوبل للأدب...
والصراحة أنا ولا قادرة أطلق علي كتبها إسم رواية ولا حتي نوفيلا..هي فعلاً مجرد يوميات...
هذا الكتاب بتتكلم فيه الكاتبة عن مرض والدتها و إصابتها بالزهايمر وكيف كانت تحاول أن تعتني بها إلي أن تدهورت حالتها و توفت في دار للمسنين..
إسلوب السرد جاف جداً علي الرغم إن الموضوع مؤلم... الجمل كلها مبتورة..الكاتبة بتكتب بطريقة غريبة ..مش بتذوق حتي الكلام وكأن اللي بيجي في بالها بتكتبه أياً كان شكله ايه..ملخبط ماشي..ملوش معني ممكن...
الصراحة أول مرة أقرأ كتب مكتوبة بعشوائية كدة!
أنا بقرأ كتب كتير و لكتاب من كل العالم ومش قادرة أشوف ايه المميز في كتب آني أرنو يخليها تفوز بجائزة نوبل !
والصراحة أنا ولا قادرة أطلق علي كتبها إسم رواية ولا حتي نوفيلا..هي فعلاً مجرد يوميات...
هذا الكتاب بتتكلم فيه الكاتبة عن مرض والدتها و إصابتها بالزهايمر وكيف كانت تحاول أن تعتني بها إلي أن تدهورت حالتها و توفت في دار للمسنين..
إسلوب السرد جاف جداً علي الرغم إن الموضوع مؤلم... الجمل كلها مبتورة..الكاتبة بتكتب بطريقة غريبة ..مش بتذوق حتي الكلام وكأن اللي بيجي في بالها بتكتبه أياً كان شكله ايه..ملخبط ماشي..ملوش معني ممكن...
الصراحة أول مرة أقرأ كتب مكتوبة بعشوائية كدة!
أنا بقرأ كتب كتير و لكتاب من كل العالم ومش قادرة أشوف ايه المميز في كتب آني أرنو يخليها تفوز بجائزة نوبل !
December 16, 2025
Ovo je prva recenzija koju ostavljam nakon više od pola godine. I zapravo uopšte nije recenzija, već verovatno najličnija stvar koju ću ikada napisati ovde.
Od početka godine do juna, pročitala sam tačno 5 knjiga gde je jednom od glavnih likova umrla majka. Da li sam nešto naslućivala ili nisam - pomisao na oba ta slučaja me ježi. Jedna od tih knjiga je Nisam izašla iz svoje tame, koju sam morala da pročitam ponovo, juče.
Moja majka je umrla 24. juna 2025. u 58. godini svog života.
Pokušavala sam da pronađem "savršenu knjigu" koju ću pročitati prvu od početka tugovanja za njom. Kao da bi pravi izbor nekako mogao da me poveže sa mamom, da mi je vrati.
Jer ona je ta koja je zaslužna za to što sam ikada uopšte zavolela čitanje. Ona je ta koju nije mrzelo da mi čita 265 strana prvog dela Harija Potera naglas, kada sam imala 5 godina i nisam to mogla sama. Ona je ta koja je uvek umela da mi zagolica radoznalost, raširi oči za nove priče i svetove, pokaže alternativni smer, otvori nove poglede na svet. I sada je nema, a ja sam prisvojila stotine knjiga iz njene lične biblioteke i tražim je u svakoj.
Da li je trebalo da čitam knjigu koju je započela neposredno pred svoju smrt - Dorćolski rekvijem? Pretposlednjeg dana njenog boravka u bolnici, medicinsko osoblje nam je reklo da polako vraćamo kući stvari koje joj tamo ne trebaju.
Ili je trebalo da čitam poslednju knjigu koju je mama u celosti pročitala pre nego što je sve pošlo po zlu? Osvit dana žetve? Ja sam je navukla na Igre gladi, kao što je i ona mene navukla na milion drugih knjiga i filmova. Knjigu koju sam joj ja kupila da je obradujem čim je izašla, a sada je ostala meni. Knjigu koja ju je izvukla iz čitalačke blokade, jer su je smarala Pisma Mileni i rekla mi je da ih sklonim za kasnije, možda će ih čitati ponovo za par godina. (Sve čega se setim je tužno).
Da je do nje, preživela bi. Želela je da leti balonom u Kapadokiji i da ofarba kosu u zeleno. Da kupi nove stolice za trpezariju i da otvori svoju parfimeriju.
Na dan odlaska u bolnicu, nije dala da joj obučem trenerku i patike. Ona je spremila cvetne pantalone, veliku drvenu ogrlicu i zlatnu torbicu, i prihvatala je to i samo to. Nije bila u stanju da hoda. Nije mogao da joj pomogne ni njen cvetni štap, morali smo da je vodimo tata i ja. Pomislila sam - pa nema šanse da joj je stvarno toliko loše i da opet traži da se doteruje. Duga i teška bolest ju je iscrpela. Sad je proradila psiha.
Ali lagala sam sebe. Doterala se jer to je u njoj bila njena snaga, njena volja za životom. Govorila je: ja hoću da živim, duša hoće, duša ima snage - ali telo...
Uspeli smo da je dovedemo kući dan pred smrt. Osmehnula se kada smo je spustili na njen krevet. Uvek je uspevala u svemu što je naumila.
Oči su joj bile potpuno žute, kako to biva kada jetra otkaže. Jedva je govorila i opet se setila da čestita rođendan sestri koja joj je došla u posetu. Više nije mogla samostalno da se pomera. Tražila je da je podignemo i namestimo joj ruke u zagrljaj.
Pročitala sam ovu knjigu u aprilu, gde Ani Erno govori o bolesti i smrti njene majke. Ispodvlačila sam gomilu rečenica koje su me presekle, od kojih je samo delić citiran u ovom postu. Da li je uopšte prigodno pisati o svemu ovome ovde, ne znam. Ali uz ovu knjigu mi se nekako činilo najsmislenije.
Ništa što napišem nikad neće biti dovoljno da odam počast svoj dobroti i ljubavi koju je moja mama pružala. Samo pokušavam da svuda sačuvam neki trag, da njen život ne prođe nezapaženo. Pa i ovde.
Volim te najviše, kevice. Zauvek ❤️
Bez sumnje bih mogla da sačekam pre nego što počnem da pišem o majci. Da sačekam da pobegnem iz ovih dana. Ali oni su istina, iako ne znam koja.
Od početka godine do juna, pročitala sam tačno 5 knjiga gde je jednom od glavnih likova umrla majka. Da li sam nešto naslućivala ili nisam - pomisao na oba ta slučaja me ježi. Jedna od tih knjiga je Nisam izašla iz svoje tame, koju sam morala da pročitam ponovo, juče.
Moja majka je umrla 24. juna 2025. u 58. godini svog života.
Čim se nađem za svojim radnim stolom, sama, ponovo sam utučena. Mogu samo da govorim o njoj, nemoguće mi je da pišem išta drugo. Kada sam prvi put napisala "mama je umrla". Užas. Nikada neću moći da napišem te reči u nekoj fikciji.
Pokušavala sam da pronađem "savršenu knjigu" koju ću pročitati prvu od početka tugovanja za njom. Kao da bi pravi izbor nekako mogao da me poveže sa mamom, da mi je vrati.
Jer ona je ta koja je zaslužna za to što sam ikada uopšte zavolela čitanje. Ona je ta koju nije mrzelo da mi čita 265 strana prvog dela Harija Potera naglas, kada sam imala 5 godina i nisam to mogla sama. Ona je ta koja je uvek umela da mi zagolica radoznalost, raširi oči za nove priče i svetove, pokaže alternativni smer, otvori nove poglede na svet. I sada je nema, a ja sam prisvojila stotine knjiga iz njene lične biblioteke i tražim je u svakoj.
Ne postoji knjiga koju bih mogla da podnesem. Neke bi bile nepodnošljive zato što bi govorile o onome što sam upravo doživela. A druge savršeno beskorisne, izmišljotine.
Da li je trebalo da čitam knjigu koju je započela neposredno pred svoju smrt - Dorćolski rekvijem? Pretposlednjeg dana njenog boravka u bolnici, medicinsko osoblje nam je reklo da polako vraćamo kući stvari koje joj tamo ne trebaju.
- Zar ćete mi knjigu odneti?, pogledala me je u panici.
- Možeš li da čitaš knjigu?, pitala sam.
- Ne, gledala je u pod i rekla.
Ili je trebalo da čitam poslednju knjigu koju je mama u celosti pročitala pre nego što je sve pošlo po zlu? Osvit dana žetve? Ja sam je navukla na Igre gladi, kao što je i ona mene navukla na milion drugih knjiga i filmova. Knjigu koju sam joj ja kupila da je obradujem čim je izašla, a sada je ostala meni. Knjigu koja ju je izvukla iz čitalačke blokade, jer su je smarala Pisma Mileni i rekla mi je da ih sklonim za kasnije, možda će ih čitati ponovo za par godina. (Sve čega se setim je tužno).
Živa je, još ima planove, želje. Želi samo da živi. I meni je potrebno da bude živa.
Da je do nje, preživela bi. Želela je da leti balonom u Kapadokiji i da ofarba kosu u zeleno. Da kupi nove stolice za trpezariju i da otvori svoju parfimeriju.
Na dan odlaska u bolnicu, nije dala da joj obučem trenerku i patike. Ona je spremila cvetne pantalone, veliku drvenu ogrlicu i zlatnu torbicu, i prihvatala je to i samo to. Nije bila u stanju da hoda. Nije mogao da joj pomogne ni njen cvetni štap, morali smo da je vodimo tata i ja. Pomislila sam - pa nema šanse da joj je stvarno toliko loše i da opet traži da se doteruje. Duga i teška bolest ju je iscrpela. Sad je proradila psiha.
Bojim se da će umreti. Više volim da je luda.
Ali lagala sam sebe. Doterala se jer to je u njoj bila njena snaga, njena volja za životom. Govorila je: ja hoću da živim, duša hoće, duša ima snage - ali telo...
Uspeli smo da je dovedemo kući dan pred smrt. Osmehnula se kada smo je spustili na njen krevet. Uvek je uspevala u svemu što je naumila.
Oči su joj bile potpuno žute, kako to biva kada jetra otkaže. Jedva je govorila i opet se setila da čestita rođendan sestri koja joj je došla u posetu. Više nije mogla samostalno da se pomera. Tražila je da je podignemo i namestimo joj ruke u zagrljaj.
Ne mogu to da podnesem. Ni ovo: [...] Preživeti taj gest, tu ljubav, moja majka, moja majka.
Pročitala sam ovu knjigu u aprilu, gde Ani Erno govori o bolesti i smrti njene majke. Ispodvlačila sam gomilu rečenica koje su me presekle, od kojih je samo delić citiran u ovom postu. Da li je uopšte prigodno pisati o svemu ovome ovde, ne znam. Ali uz ovu knjigu mi se nekako činilo najsmislenije.
Ništa što napišem nikad neće biti dovoljno da odam počast svoj dobroti i ljubavi koju je moja mama pružala. Samo pokušavam da svuda sačuvam neki trag, da njen život ne prođe nezapaženo. Pa i ovde.
Volim te najviše, kevice. Zauvek ❤️
September 24, 2023
Ernaux será sempre uma das minhas escritoras. Texto limpo. Duro. Tocante. Transformador.
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February 18, 2023
La mère d’Annie Ernaux est morte en 1986 de la maladie d’Alzheimer. Elle a commencé à présenter des troubles quelques années auparavant. Ce court récit évoque, sous la forme du journal intime, la longue et douloureuse descente de cette femme vers la mort.
Ce qui frappe le plus ici, ou plutôt ce qui glace le sang, c’est la manière qu’a l’auteure de décrire l’évolution de la maladie. Sa prose n’épargne rien, met le doigt là ou cela fait le plus mal. C’est le registre fidèle et atroce de tous les ébranlements affectifs d’une fille qui voit sa mère partir progressivement, délabrée, détruite par la maladie : d’abord les pertes de mémoire, d’équilibre, d’appétit, la confusion mentale, les délires et l’anxiété, puis l’incapacité progressive de prendre soin de soi, de se retenir, de marcher, de parler, de se nourrir. L’univers semi-concentrationnaire de la maison de retraite est également décrit sans aucun ménagement. Bref, ce livre est franchement déprimant.
En même temps, la forme du récit est fascinante. Annie Ernaux écrit à la première personne, directement, apparemment sans artifice, sans aucun détour et sans le truchement d’un narrateur ou d’un personnage, prenant des notes sur le vif : « C’est dans la période où elle était encore chez moi que je me suis mise à noter sur des bouts de papier, sans date, des propos, des comportements de ma mère qui me remplissaient de terreur. […] J’écrivais très vite, dans la violence des sensations, sans réfléchir ni chercher d’ordre » (p. 11). Et plus tard : « Quand j’écris toutes ces choses, j’écris le plus vite possible (comme si c’était mal), et sans penser aux mots que j’emploie » (p. 92).
Cependant malgré ce côté spontané, descriptif et plat, Annie Ernaux procède aussi à un travail de superposition narrative assez complexe : chaque description de l’état se sa mère est l’occasion d’une sorte de dédoublement où la fille est horrifiée de voir son avenir dans le présent de la mère. Mais c’est encore l’occasion presque systématique d’un souvenir, d’un retour sur le passé, sur l’enfance de l’auteure. En somme, la déchéance progressive de la mère est comme une petite madeleine de Proust pour la fille.
En outre, Je ne suis pas sortie doit sans doute se lire dans le contexte de l’ensemble de l’œuvre d’Annie Ernaux, car il renvoie à d’autres textes, notamment Une femme, qui est également centré sur la vie de sa mère, mais aussi à Passion simple et Se perdre, dans la mesure ou cet événement est contemporain de l’aventure amoureuse décrite dans ces deux autres récits. Et plus largement, il convient sans doute de le replacer dans le contexte littéraire de l’autofiction, de la biographie ou de la confession, dont les racines remontent au moins à saint Augustin, Montaigne, Rousseau ou Casanova.
Ce récit de soi, donc, (j’hésite à l’appeler roman) se présente comme des pages arrachées à un journal intime, témoignage subjectif et pris sur le vif, avec dates en tête, etc. Mais ce qui ajoute peut-être encore à la sensation de malaise de cette lecture, c’est qu’il ne s’agit pas vraiment d’un journal intime, mais d’un texte publié et marketé. Cette ambigüité donne au lecteur à la fois l’impression d’une expérience humaine traumatique saisie de manière non-factice et presque non-littéraire, anti-littéraire, le contraire d’une « fabrication », un geste d’expression pur et courageux. Mais dans le même temps, je n’ai pu me défaire du sentiment d’être le voyeur complice d’un acte passablement obscène où la narratrice objectifie le corps de sa mère mourante et exhibe ses propres réactions bouleversées. En somme, quelque chose comme un reality show sidérant et mortifère. Comme dit l’écrivaine, « écrire sur sa mère pose forcément le problème de l’écriture » (p. 49).
Ce qui frappe le plus ici, ou plutôt ce qui glace le sang, c’est la manière qu’a l’auteure de décrire l’évolution de la maladie. Sa prose n’épargne rien, met le doigt là ou cela fait le plus mal. C’est le registre fidèle et atroce de tous les ébranlements affectifs d’une fille qui voit sa mère partir progressivement, délabrée, détruite par la maladie : d’abord les pertes de mémoire, d’équilibre, d’appétit, la confusion mentale, les délires et l’anxiété, puis l’incapacité progressive de prendre soin de soi, de se retenir, de marcher, de parler, de se nourrir. L’univers semi-concentrationnaire de la maison de retraite est également décrit sans aucun ménagement. Bref, ce livre est franchement déprimant.
En même temps, la forme du récit est fascinante. Annie Ernaux écrit à la première personne, directement, apparemment sans artifice, sans aucun détour et sans le truchement d’un narrateur ou d’un personnage, prenant des notes sur le vif : « C’est dans la période où elle était encore chez moi que je me suis mise à noter sur des bouts de papier, sans date, des propos, des comportements de ma mère qui me remplissaient de terreur. […] J’écrivais très vite, dans la violence des sensations, sans réfléchir ni chercher d’ordre » (p. 11). Et plus tard : « Quand j’écris toutes ces choses, j’écris le plus vite possible (comme si c’était mal), et sans penser aux mots que j’emploie » (p. 92).
Cependant malgré ce côté spontané, descriptif et plat, Annie Ernaux procède aussi à un travail de superposition narrative assez complexe : chaque description de l’état se sa mère est l’occasion d’une sorte de dédoublement où la fille est horrifiée de voir son avenir dans le présent de la mère. Mais c’est encore l’occasion presque systématique d’un souvenir, d’un retour sur le passé, sur l’enfance de l’auteure. En somme, la déchéance progressive de la mère est comme une petite madeleine de Proust pour la fille.
En outre, Je ne suis pas sortie doit sans doute se lire dans le contexte de l’ensemble de l’œuvre d’Annie Ernaux, car il renvoie à d’autres textes, notamment Une femme, qui est également centré sur la vie de sa mère, mais aussi à Passion simple et Se perdre, dans la mesure ou cet événement est contemporain de l’aventure amoureuse décrite dans ces deux autres récits. Et plus largement, il convient sans doute de le replacer dans le contexte littéraire de l’autofiction, de la biographie ou de la confession, dont les racines remontent au moins à saint Augustin, Montaigne, Rousseau ou Casanova.
Ce récit de soi, donc, (j’hésite à l’appeler roman) se présente comme des pages arrachées à un journal intime, témoignage subjectif et pris sur le vif, avec dates en tête, etc. Mais ce qui ajoute peut-être encore à la sensation de malaise de cette lecture, c’est qu’il ne s’agit pas vraiment d’un journal intime, mais d’un texte publié et marketé. Cette ambigüité donne au lecteur à la fois l’impression d’une expérience humaine traumatique saisie de manière non-factice et presque non-littéraire, anti-littéraire, le contraire d’une « fabrication », un geste d’expression pur et courageux. Mais dans le même temps, je n’ai pu me défaire du sentiment d’être le voyeur complice d’un acte passablement obscène où la narratrice objectifie le corps de sa mère mourante et exhibe ses propres réactions bouleversées. En somme, quelque chose comme un reality show sidérant et mortifère. Comme dit l’écrivaine, « écrire sur sa mère pose forcément le problème de l’écriture » (p. 49).
January 4, 2025
এর্নোর মায়ের নিজ হাতে লেখা শেষ বাক্য হচ্ছে, "I remain in darkness." কেন এটা লিখেছিলেন তিনি? জানা যাবে না কোনোদিন। আবার হয়তো যাবেও; লেখিকার নিজের লেখনীর মাধ্যমে। "I Remain In Darkness" মূলত মায়ের আলঝেইমার্স রোগ হওয়ার পর তার মৃত্যু পর্যন্ত এর্নোর লেখা দিনলিপি।আর কি দুঃসহ আর ভয়াবহ সেই দিনলিপি! তার মা ছিলেন আত্মপ্রত্যয়ী এক নারী যিনি কখনোই অন্যের সাহায্য না নিয়ে স্বাবলম্বী এক জীবন কাটিয়েছেন। যিনি নিতে নয়, দিতেই ভালোবাসতেন। কিন্তু আলঝেইমার্স হওয়ার পর মা হয়ে পড়েন অসহায় ও পুরোপুরি পরনির্ভরশীল। তার স্মৃতি হারিয়ে যেতে থাকে, জামাকাপড়ে নিয়মিত মলমূত্র ত্যাগ করা শুরু করেন, দাঁত খসে যেতে থাকে একে একে। এর্নোর ভাষায় তিনি পরিণত হতে থাকেন এমন এক শিশুতে যে আর কখনোই বেড়ে উঠবে না। লেখিকার ভাষা বরাবরের মতো নিস্পৃহ। কিন্তু নিজের মায়ের অবস্থা তার মনে যে সুতীব্র অভিঘাত সৃষ্টি করেছিলো তা তার লেখায়ও প্রভাব ফেলেছে। চারদিকে মলমূত্র এর কটু গন্ধ,তার মাঝে বসে আছেন মা, জামাকাপড় বিস্রস্ত অথবা নেই। এ দৃশ্য এর্নো সহ্য করতে পারতেন না, চাইতেন শীঘ্রই যাতে মায়ের যন্ত্রণার অবসান ঘটে। তার আরেক সত্তা চাইতো মাকে প্রাণপণে আকড়ে ধরে রাখতে। নিজের দ্বন্দ্ব, মায়ের অসুখের ক্রমাবনতি আর অসহায়ত্বের এ বিবরণ স্নায়ুর ওপর অসম্ভব চাপ ফ্যালে। মনে পড়ে সুধীন্দ্রনাথের পঙক্তি,
"কিছুরই কি নেই অব্যাহতি
হে কাল, মহা কাল?"
এমন মৃত্যু কারো প্রাপ্য নয়, এমন পরিণতি কারো প্রাপ্য নয়। কিন্তু জীবন এমনই নিষ্ঠুর। জীবন কেন যে এতো নিষ্ঠুর!
"কিছুরই কি নেই অব্যাহতি
হে কাল, মহা কাল?"
এমন মৃত্যু কারো প্রাপ্য নয়, এমন পরিণতি কারো প্রাপ্য নয়। কিন্তু জীবন এমনই নিষ্ঠুর। জীবন কেন যে এতো নিষ্ঠুর!
October 24, 2022
"Escribir sobre la propia madre plantea, a la fuerza, el problema de la escritura".
Ernaux #7 del año.
Este es libro más duro de la autora que he leído hasta ahora. Un diario sin modificaciones, un texto crudo y desgarrador en el que se intenta hacer sentido de uno de los eventos más traumáticos a los que una persona puede enfrentarse: el deterioro y la muerte de la madre.
Siempre valiente, siempre franca, siempre con una honestidad brutal.
Ernaux #7 del año.
Este es libro más duro de la autora que he leído hasta ahora. Un diario sin modificaciones, un texto crudo y desgarrador en el que se intenta hacer sentido de uno de los eventos más traumáticos a los que una persona puede enfrentarse: el deterioro y la muerte de la madre.
Siempre valiente, siempre franca, siempre con una honestidad brutal.
December 6, 2022
Ernaux Season. Day 2.
A sad bomb of a book that explodes in your heart, sending bits and pieces of emotional debris into your mind, nestling there, waiting to be replayed in your quietest and most peaceful moments. This book is fucked beyond belief, for those of us that share a fascination with its morbid theme (and a quick look at my favourites shelf will show that I am right there with you all): death.
What an empty fucking thing to say - a book has the theme of death. Cool. So what? What does it actually mean? I can’t tell you. I just see death in every single sentence. Humiliation. Shame repeats itself. Growing so old that you feel (and most likely are) a burden on everyone, almost daily. You piss your pants, maybe let go of a fart and shit yourself. Unadulterated, uncensored pain. This book pained me so much, and that’s why it’s a good work of art. Honestly - it’s one of the shortest books you can read. Under 100 pages. That didn’t stop me from putting it down every 2-3 pages and coming back hours later. At its core, I see Ernaux dealing with her mother’s dementia and decline as a potential road that I could walk down in the future, taking care of my own parents, being taken care of. My heart wrenches and my throat bulges, feeling like I’m about to vomit tears. The first competent people (if you’re lucky) in your life start to go down the drain. Now they are the kids that hang on to you, so dependent on your every move. You have to kill your idols, forcefully. Maybe you killed them a long time ago. All that remains is the husk of a person that you projected all your insecurities and demons on to. You blame them for everything (jokingly or seriously), crediting them with precious little. Now they are taking a shit and shoving it in a drawer at a nursing home. Everything they own is gone, and the shitty (!) tarp-like gown they wear is embarrassing and exposing.
Perhaps the single most poignant image that will remain for me from this literary grenade is this: Ernaux leaving her mother after a visit, rushing to the elevator. Her mother follows. She stands outside, looking betrayed, pained, confused, scared. The double doors start to slam shut, this face searing itself into Ernaux’s memory. She feels guilt. Too much exposure to her mother will spell the end of her own life. She remembers the last sentence that her mother wrote: “I remain in darkness.”
A couple of quotes from this one:
“I must not give in to emotion as I write about her.”
“Literature is so powerless.”
A sad bomb of a book that explodes in your heart, sending bits and pieces of emotional debris into your mind, nestling there, waiting to be replayed in your quietest and most peaceful moments. This book is fucked beyond belief, for those of us that share a fascination with its morbid theme (and a quick look at my favourites shelf will show that I am right there with you all): death.
What an empty fucking thing to say - a book has the theme of death. Cool. So what? What does it actually mean? I can’t tell you. I just see death in every single sentence. Humiliation. Shame repeats itself. Growing so old that you feel (and most likely are) a burden on everyone, almost daily. You piss your pants, maybe let go of a fart and shit yourself. Unadulterated, uncensored pain. This book pained me so much, and that’s why it’s a good work of art. Honestly - it’s one of the shortest books you can read. Under 100 pages. That didn’t stop me from putting it down every 2-3 pages and coming back hours later. At its core, I see Ernaux dealing with her mother’s dementia and decline as a potential road that I could walk down in the future, taking care of my own parents, being taken care of. My heart wrenches and my throat bulges, feeling like I’m about to vomit tears. The first competent people (if you’re lucky) in your life start to go down the drain. Now they are the kids that hang on to you, so dependent on your every move. You have to kill your idols, forcefully. Maybe you killed them a long time ago. All that remains is the husk of a person that you projected all your insecurities and demons on to. You blame them for everything (jokingly or seriously), crediting them with precious little. Now they are taking a shit and shoving it in a drawer at a nursing home. Everything they own is gone, and the shitty (!) tarp-like gown they wear is embarrassing and exposing.
Perhaps the single most poignant image that will remain for me from this literary grenade is this: Ernaux leaving her mother after a visit, rushing to the elevator. Her mother follows. She stands outside, looking betrayed, pained, confused, scared. The double doors start to slam shut, this face searing itself into Ernaux’s memory. She feels guilt. Too much exposure to her mother will spell the end of her own life. She remembers the last sentence that her mother wrote: “I remain in darkness.”
A couple of quotes from this one:
“I must not give in to emotion as I write about her.”
“Literature is so powerless.”
March 9, 2022
First published in French in 1997 and republished in English by Fitzcarraldo Editions, I Remain in Darkness is a harrowing, excruciating account of a loved one’s decline from Alzheimers. A companion to another short work by Ennaux titled ‘A Man’s Place’, which centres around her Father, I Remain in Darkness is a rumination of her Mother’s descent from the disease; documenting the onset, development and climax over a period of three years.
Given its short form, this book was extremely onerous to read. Not due to any lack of quality or insipidity, but as a result of its sheer sorrow and anguish. Consequently, it makes it considerably difficult to scrutinize; and even harder to convey its utter brilliance in capturing the nature of such a devastating illness; particularly if you have had experience of it directly in your own life.
An epistolary, in which Ennaux documented visits in hospitals and homes from 1983-1986, you feel every ounce of pain in every word forcefully. It is unswerving and terse; evocative and overbearingly nostalgic, much like the disease in itself.
A meditation on familial love and heartache; Ennaux effortlessly portrays the grief and torment Alzheimer's dishes out to the sufferer and the suffering. How time disappears, how vivid memories engulf the relative and ‘the agonising reversal of roles between mother/child’. The questions it imposes inexorably: ‘What does she remember now of her life?’ ‘What does life mean to her now?’. How it begins to consume those watching their relative disappear, pushing them too closer to death: ‘My mother’s colour is fading. To grow old is to fade, to become transparent’.
Having experienced a close relative go through this disease, I was often perplexed at the uncanny situations while visiting her mother. The petrifying and disturbing hallucinations from her mother of people she has apparently seen or people she has apparently spoken to, yet so vivid in how they are told that your own sense begins to blur. The grim descriptions of the home in which death lingers: ‘odour of piss and shit’, the deranged screams of other residents; and the agonizing sights of their souls painstakingly slipping beyond reach: ‘an emaciated woman, a phantom from Buchenwald’.
The complexities faced by those ‘sane’ of mind are also deftly summated. The devastating emotional abyss you are cast into. Feelings of sadness, hope, grief, guilt and anger. Those subtleties of the former self breaking through to reveal previous character flaws - her previous bad temper, her ‘brutal and inflexible’ nature, so that you still resent them, but know you shouldn't given their current state.
An absolutely stunning book, both unnerving and beautiful. It will leave a mark on you.
Given its short form, this book was extremely onerous to read. Not due to any lack of quality or insipidity, but as a result of its sheer sorrow and anguish. Consequently, it makes it considerably difficult to scrutinize; and even harder to convey its utter brilliance in capturing the nature of such a devastating illness; particularly if you have had experience of it directly in your own life.
An epistolary, in which Ennaux documented visits in hospitals and homes from 1983-1986, you feel every ounce of pain in every word forcefully. It is unswerving and terse; evocative and overbearingly nostalgic, much like the disease in itself.
A meditation on familial love and heartache; Ennaux effortlessly portrays the grief and torment Alzheimer's dishes out to the sufferer and the suffering. How time disappears, how vivid memories engulf the relative and ‘the agonising reversal of roles between mother/child’. The questions it imposes inexorably: ‘What does she remember now of her life?’ ‘What does life mean to her now?’. How it begins to consume those watching their relative disappear, pushing them too closer to death: ‘My mother’s colour is fading. To grow old is to fade, to become transparent’.
Having experienced a close relative go through this disease, I was often perplexed at the uncanny situations while visiting her mother. The petrifying and disturbing hallucinations from her mother of people she has apparently seen or people she has apparently spoken to, yet so vivid in how they are told that your own sense begins to blur. The grim descriptions of the home in which death lingers: ‘odour of piss and shit’, the deranged screams of other residents; and the agonizing sights of their souls painstakingly slipping beyond reach: ‘an emaciated woman, a phantom from Buchenwald’.
The complexities faced by those ‘sane’ of mind are also deftly summated. The devastating emotional abyss you are cast into. Feelings of sadness, hope, grief, guilt and anger. Those subtleties of the former self breaking through to reveal previous character flaws - her previous bad temper, her ‘brutal and inflexible’ nature, so that you still resent them, but know you shouldn't given their current state.
An absolutely stunning book, both unnerving and beautiful. It will leave a mark on you.
January 16, 2022
“I remain in darkness” was the last sentence my mother wrote.
I seem to be quietly haunted by the voice of Annie Eernaux. I like big books, and have recently read a few of them; I just yesterday finished a big violent tome, LA Confidential, took me weeks to read, and today I listened to this in a couple hours, in a quietly controlled voice full of barely contained anguish and grief. This is the third book from Ernaux I have read in the last week. The first, A Man’s Place, was written after the death of her father, and then I read the even more intense tale of her mother’s life and death, A Woman’s Story. Her loving connection to her mother was intense, but quietly--I keep saying this word, but it is a deliberate stylistic choice for her--was anguished.
Ernaux writes about the process of writing about her most personal experiences in what seems to be a series of very short novels. She sometimes will write things such as: “I can’t allow my emotions to carry me away,” and she almost angrily rejects fiction, or anything remotely “literary” in her depiction of her simple, working-class parents. At one point she cries out against the failure of literature to heal anyone or anything. She needs to simply tell what she experiences in as straightforward an approach as possible.
“I am incapable of producing books that are not precisely that – an attempt to salvage part of our lives, to understand, but first to salvage. . . I’ll have to tell her story in order to ‘distance myself from it’.”
Ernaux’s mother died after a two or three stretch of years of decline from Alzheimer’s, where the mother and daughter in a sense trade places the daughter becoming the caregiving “mother” to her mother. And she does not look away as the mother she loved more than anyone else falls apart. The grief is overwhelming when death finally comes and it is more moving because she has been as cool and distanced as possible as she documents the journey.
I keep saying this: There is nothing all that surprising in these books, but there is an elegant anguish and regret and sorrow that weaves its way through these few pages. I knew from A Woman's Journey how Ernaux’s mother died, but I felt compelled to read the closer look at the decline and death in part from that title. And in part because I have a good friend, a neighbor, who I am watching in rapid decline from Alzheimer’s, and I have two older siblings in nursing facilities who no longer know who I am, also victims of this cruel disorder.
I already have other Ernaux books lined up that constitute a kind of episodic patchwork of an autobiography and meditation on the power and limitations of writing.
I seem to be quietly haunted by the voice of Annie Eernaux. I like big books, and have recently read a few of them; I just yesterday finished a big violent tome, LA Confidential, took me weeks to read, and today I listened to this in a couple hours, in a quietly controlled voice full of barely contained anguish and grief. This is the third book from Ernaux I have read in the last week. The first, A Man’s Place, was written after the death of her father, and then I read the even more intense tale of her mother’s life and death, A Woman’s Story. Her loving connection to her mother was intense, but quietly--I keep saying this word, but it is a deliberate stylistic choice for her--was anguished.
Ernaux writes about the process of writing about her most personal experiences in what seems to be a series of very short novels. She sometimes will write things such as: “I can’t allow my emotions to carry me away,” and she almost angrily rejects fiction, or anything remotely “literary” in her depiction of her simple, working-class parents. At one point she cries out against the failure of literature to heal anyone or anything. She needs to simply tell what she experiences in as straightforward an approach as possible.
“I am incapable of producing books that are not precisely that – an attempt to salvage part of our lives, to understand, but first to salvage. . . I’ll have to tell her story in order to ‘distance myself from it’.”
Ernaux’s mother died after a two or three stretch of years of decline from Alzheimer’s, where the mother and daughter in a sense trade places the daughter becoming the caregiving “mother” to her mother. And she does not look away as the mother she loved more than anyone else falls apart. The grief is overwhelming when death finally comes and it is more moving because she has been as cool and distanced as possible as she documents the journey.
I keep saying this: There is nothing all that surprising in these books, but there is an elegant anguish and regret and sorrow that weaves its way through these few pages. I knew from A Woman's Journey how Ernaux’s mother died, but I felt compelled to read the closer look at the decline and death in part from that title. And in part because I have a good friend, a neighbor, who I am watching in rapid decline from Alzheimer’s, and I have two older siblings in nursing facilities who no longer know who I am, also victims of this cruel disorder.
I already have other Ernaux books lined up that constitute a kind of episodic patchwork of an autobiography and meditation on the power and limitations of writing.
February 25, 2024
Qué cosa más demencial.
November 15, 2019
'I Remain in Darkness' is the transcription of Annie Ernaux’s diaries entries from the time her mother is diagnosed with Alzheimer's, until her death. It is a heart wrenching depiction of the illness, in general, but mainly an exploration of grief and coping as Ernaux tries to reconcile the image of a violent, angry, vivacious woman with the weathering body of her aging, dying mother; the conflicting feelings between love and hate that emerge from a complicated relationship; and the similarities between herself and her mother, the fear that she’s watching her own future unfold through her mother.
As usual, Ernaux doesn’t shy away from the realness and bleakness of a topic such as this, however, I felt the text was a bit clunky and (perhaps purposely) cold, lacking the feeling that the subject matter seemed to dictate.
As usual, Ernaux doesn’t shy away from the realness and bleakness of a topic such as this, however, I felt the text was a bit clunky and (perhaps purposely) cold, lacking the feeling that the subject matter seemed to dictate.
December 20, 2022
Alzheimer’s is terrible and cruel. Here Ernaux recounts the two and half years of her mother’s illness, her gradual decline and Ernaux’s own experience in dealing with this.
I really wish I could read Ernaux in French, but sadly not at this point in my life. Maybe in the future? So we trust in Tanya Leslie’s translations, who I’m sure has done a wonderful job.
Ernaux has such a profoundly simple, yet beautiful, and then at moments devastating style of prose. I very much appreciate her work.
I really wish I could read Ernaux in French, but sadly not at this point in my life. Maybe in the future? So we trust in Tanya Leslie’s translations, who I’m sure has done a wonderful job.
Ernaux has such a profoundly simple, yet beautiful, and then at moments devastating style of prose. I very much appreciate her work.
September 30, 2020
Cuốn tự truyện mỏng chưa đến 100 trang này kể về hành trình của Annie Ernaux trong 2 năm cuối đời cùng mẹ khi bà mắc Alzheimer's và sau vài tháng ở cùng Annie Ernaux nhưng bệnh tình của bà càng lúc càng nặng đã được đưa vào trung tâm chăm sóc đặc biệt. Cuốn sách bao gồm những đoạn rất ngắn kể về ngày tháng Annie Ernaux gặp mẹ của mình vào những ngày chủ nhật khi cô đến thăm bà và nhìn bà từ từ rơi vào trạng thái vô thức, cô cảm giác đau đớn lẫn cay đắng khi nhìn người mẹ đã từng rất sắc sảo ấy đã đầu hàng trước sự tàn phá của tuổi già.
Ở Việt Nam, Annie Ernaux đã từng được biết tới với cuốn tiểu thuyết bán tự truyện "Một chỗ trong đời" - cuốn sách kể về người cha của cô, còn với quốc tế thì cô được biết đến với The Years - cuốn tiểu thuyết lọt vào Shortlist International Booker năm 2018. Với "I Remain in Darkness", cô đã viết lên một câu chuyện cảm động, chân thành mà khiến tôi nửa muốn đọc thật nhanh nửa muốn đọc chậm thật chậm, vì tôi những muốn cái cảm giác bất lực của một người con mà Annie Ernaux đang trải qua và viết lại kia hãy qua thật nhanh bởi tôi chẳng thể nào không tưởng tượng đến người mẹ của tôi lúc về già, và tôi phải chuẩn bị cho việc phải rời xa bà như thế nào, đó là một cảm giác thật quá sức chịu đựng, nhưng tôi cũng muốn những dòng chữ đầy rung cảm ấy thấm mãi vào trái tim tôi, để một lần nữa tôi cảm nhận mãnh liệt tình yêu của người con dành cho người mẹ của mình, dù đó là một tình cảm muộn màng và có thật nhiều nỗi tiếc nuối.
Đọc cuốn sách, một lần nữa trong tôi lại dấy lên một cảm giác sợ hãi mà điều đó chắc chắn sẽ xảy ra và tôi không chắc phải đối mặt với nó như thế nào nữa: đó là cảm giác rằng cha mẹ của tôi đang già đi từng ngày, và sự thật rằng một ngày nào đó tôi phải nói lời chia xa với hai người quan trọng nhất trên thế gian ấy, và phải chuẩn bị tâm lý bao nhiêu cho đủ để vượt qua chuyện khi mà hiện tại nghĩ tới, tôi đã cảm thấy như một vực thẳm đang mở ra trước mặt và tôi sắp rơi vào đó, rơi mãi mà không bao giờ chạm đáy.
Sẽ có ngày, tôi phải đọc lại cuốn sách này, chắc chắn là như vậy.
August 30, 2025
Ich mag wie Ernaux schreibt, sie spricht so vieles einfach direkt an, auch Dinge die man gar nicht denken, geschweige denn aussprechen möchte.
April 10, 2025
Ein trauriges, ein liebevolles, ein klarsichtiges Buch über den Abschied von der Mutter.
Ein erster Abschied als die Mutter sich in der Demenz verändert und wieder hilfsbedürftiges Kind wird, der zweite Abschied beim Tod der Mutter.
Dennoch ein tröstliches Buch.
Ein erster Abschied als die Mutter sich in der Demenz verändert und wieder hilfsbedürftiges Kind wird, der zweite Abschied beim Tod der Mutter.
Dennoch ein tröstliches Buch.
February 24, 2024
Potresno i mučno.
May 30, 2025
Nachdem ich von Der stille Don. Band 1. mit säuerlichem Geruch der Damenröcke und weiterem Gestank behaftet, gerade so in Fahrt war, bot sich das hier doch regelrecht an.
Einmal ab durch köstliche Urinpfützen und Kotkekse.
Ernaux schreibt selbst, das hier, sei keine Literatur.
Ist es in meinen Augen auch nicht. Ein klares Dokument.
-update- Ok, ich habe darüber nachgedacht was Literatur ausmacht und für mich ist die Form ein entscheidender Aspekt. Der Text tastet sich stellenweise an Literatur heran – bleibt aber überwiegend im Bereich der Mitteilung. Seine Kraft liegt in Momenten, in denen die Grenze zwischen Erzählen und Empfinden sichtbar wird – aber er bricht das nicht in Form auf. Das strukturelle Außen wird nur angedeutet -update ende-
Ihre Notizen kreisen extrem redundant um Pisse und Scheiße. Dennoch öffnet sie in kurzen Rückblenden und erweiterten Überlegungen ein bisschen über das Beschriebene hinaus.
Ein durchwachsenes Leseerlebnis. Eine ähnliche Tonalität schlägt auch Doris Lessing in Das Tagebuch der Jane Somers. an. Auch wenn Lessing in dem Buch noch andre Themen verarbeitet, dreht sich gegen Ende alles um dieselbe Thematik. In solch einer Romanform kann ich deutlich mehr damit anfangen.
Dennoch, ein Zitat aus Ernauxs Buch, das mir im Bild und der Konsequenz zugesetzt hat und ein Beispiel für ein leichtes Kippen in die Symbolische Erfahrung mit einem angedeuteten Außen darstellt:
„An Neujahr hat man meiner Mutter und den anderen Bewohnerinnen ihre frühere Kleidung angezogen, Blusen und Röcke. Sie bekamen ein Glas Sekt. Simulation des Lebens. Sich den Morgen vorstellen. Pflegerinnen ziehen die Unterröcke aus dem Schrank, streifen sie den alten Körpern über, rufen: »Frohes Neues! Heute wird gefeiert!« Den ganzen Tag über wird so getan, als fände ein richtiges Fest statt. Die Frauen warten auf etwas Unbestimmtes. Es passiert nichts. Es wird Abend, man zieht ihnen die Kleidung wieder aus, die Bluse, den Rock. Wie Kinder, die sich für ein imaginäres Fest verkleidet haben. Das alles liegt hinter ihnen, für sie wird es nie wieder ein richtiges Fest geben.
Meine Mutter sagte oft: »Man muss sich im Leben zu wehren wissen.« Und: »Wer nicht stark ist, muss schlau sein.« Man dachte nur in Kampfvokabular über sich nach. Ich spreche in der Vergangenheit von ihr. Dabei ist die Frau, die ich vor mir habe, dieselbe wie früher. Das ist ja das Grausame.“
.
Einmal ab durch köstliche Urinpfützen und Kotkekse.
Ernaux schreibt selbst, das hier, sei keine Literatur.
Ist es in meinen Augen auch nicht. Ein klares Dokument.
-update- Ok, ich habe darüber nachgedacht was Literatur ausmacht und für mich ist die Form ein entscheidender Aspekt. Der Text tastet sich stellenweise an Literatur heran – bleibt aber überwiegend im Bereich der Mitteilung. Seine Kraft liegt in Momenten, in denen die Grenze zwischen Erzählen und Empfinden sichtbar wird – aber er bricht das nicht in Form auf. Das strukturelle Außen wird nur angedeutet -update ende-
Ihre Notizen kreisen extrem redundant um Pisse und Scheiße. Dennoch öffnet sie in kurzen Rückblenden und erweiterten Überlegungen ein bisschen über das Beschriebene hinaus.
Ein durchwachsenes Leseerlebnis. Eine ähnliche Tonalität schlägt auch Doris Lessing in Das Tagebuch der Jane Somers. an. Auch wenn Lessing in dem Buch noch andre Themen verarbeitet, dreht sich gegen Ende alles um dieselbe Thematik. In solch einer Romanform kann ich deutlich mehr damit anfangen.
Dennoch, ein Zitat aus Ernauxs Buch, das mir im Bild und der Konsequenz zugesetzt hat und ein Beispiel für ein leichtes Kippen in die Symbolische Erfahrung mit einem angedeuteten Außen darstellt:
„An Neujahr hat man meiner Mutter und den anderen Bewohnerinnen ihre frühere Kleidung angezogen, Blusen und Röcke. Sie bekamen ein Glas Sekt. Simulation des Lebens. Sich den Morgen vorstellen. Pflegerinnen ziehen die Unterröcke aus dem Schrank, streifen sie den alten Körpern über, rufen: »Frohes Neues! Heute wird gefeiert!« Den ganzen Tag über wird so getan, als fände ein richtiges Fest statt. Die Frauen warten auf etwas Unbestimmtes. Es passiert nichts. Es wird Abend, man zieht ihnen die Kleidung wieder aus, die Bluse, den Rock. Wie Kinder, die sich für ein imaginäres Fest verkleidet haben. Das alles liegt hinter ihnen, für sie wird es nie wieder ein richtiges Fest geben.
Meine Mutter sagte oft: »Man muss sich im Leben zu wehren wissen.« Und: »Wer nicht stark ist, muss schlau sein.« Man dachte nur in Kampfvokabular über sich nach. Ich spreche in der Vergangenheit von ihr. Dabei ist die Frau, die ich vor mir habe, dieselbe wie früher. Das ist ja das Grausame.“
.
October 9, 2024
Não tenho palavras para este livro, sei que nada do que eu escrever vai fazer justiça a "Não saí da minha noite".
Mais uma vez, de uma forma extremamente crua, sem floreados, e retratando uma experiência muito pessoal, Annie Ernaux fala de todos nós. De nós, que temos ou já tivemos um familiar com Alzheimer. De nós, que vimos um ente querido a definhar de dia para dia, a desesperar por não saber quem era, onde estava. Mais uma vez, mesmo que seja através de uma escrita simples, nada rebuscada, Annie Ernaux escreve sobre ela e sobre nós. A absoluta genialidade desta mulher de pegar numa experiência tão pessoal, tão íntima, e transformá-la em algo universal, tão humano.
"Não saí da minha noite" é um retrato muito humano, muito real, muito triste do que é testemunhar o dia-a-dia de alguém que sofre da doença de Alzheimer. São os pensamentos de Annie Ernaux enquanto vê a mãe desaparecer, a definhar. Não são textos bonitos e foi um dos livros mais difíceis da autora que já li, precisamente por ser tão duro e tão cru.
Quando descobrimos o significado do título... é de partir o coração 🥺
Annie Ernaux já se consolidou como uma das minhas autoras favoritas, uma das minhas maiores inspirações. Não sei qual é a magia de Annie Ernaux, mas sempre que a estou a ler acabo por também escrever sobre a minha própria vida (mas nunca vou ser uma Annie Ernaux porque ela escreve frases curtas e textos curtos, e eu só sei escrever testamentos).
Este é um dos livros mais tristes de Annie Ernaux e nunca me deixa de maravilhar a capacidade que a autora tem de transformar os momentos mais tristes em algo tão bonito e tão profundo. Tão carregado de emoção, mesmo que através de uma escrita crua.
"Não saí da minha noite" tornou-se num dos meus livros favoritos da autora e tenho cada vez mais a certeza que Annie Ernaux é uma das escritoras da minha vida ❤️ (quando for grande, quero ser como a Annie Ernaux 🥹)
Mais uma vez, de uma forma extremamente crua, sem floreados, e retratando uma experiência muito pessoal, Annie Ernaux fala de todos nós. De nós, que temos ou já tivemos um familiar com Alzheimer. De nós, que vimos um ente querido a definhar de dia para dia, a desesperar por não saber quem era, onde estava. Mais uma vez, mesmo que seja através de uma escrita simples, nada rebuscada, Annie Ernaux escreve sobre ela e sobre nós. A absoluta genialidade desta mulher de pegar numa experiência tão pessoal, tão íntima, e transformá-la em algo universal, tão humano.
"Não saí da minha noite" é um retrato muito humano, muito real, muito triste do que é testemunhar o dia-a-dia de alguém que sofre da doença de Alzheimer. São os pensamentos de Annie Ernaux enquanto vê a mãe desaparecer, a definhar. Não são textos bonitos e foi um dos livros mais difíceis da autora que já li, precisamente por ser tão duro e tão cru.
Quando descobrimos o significado do título... é de partir o coração 🥺
Annie Ernaux já se consolidou como uma das minhas autoras favoritas, uma das minhas maiores inspirações. Não sei qual é a magia de Annie Ernaux, mas sempre que a estou a ler acabo por também escrever sobre a minha própria vida (mas nunca vou ser uma Annie Ernaux porque ela escreve frases curtas e textos curtos, e eu só sei escrever testamentos).
Este é um dos livros mais tristes de Annie Ernaux e nunca me deixa de maravilhar a capacidade que a autora tem de transformar os momentos mais tristes em algo tão bonito e tão profundo. Tão carregado de emoção, mesmo que através de uma escrita crua.
"Não saí da minha noite" tornou-se num dos meus livros favoritos da autora e tenho cada vez mais a certeza que Annie Ernaux é uma das escritoras da minha vida ❤️ (quando for grande, quero ser como a Annie Ernaux 🥹)
Read
September 2, 2023beaucoup de difficultés à noter un livre pareil (la meuf t'explique pendant 120 pages que sa mère est morte dans ses propres excréments je me vois difficilement dire "deux étoiles intrigue pas assez palpitante" t'as capté), mais je dois admettre que le malaise que j'ai éprouvé à ma lecture n'a fait que croître avec le recul. évidemment il appartient à Annie Ernaux de raconter la dépendance et la maladie de sa mère comme elle l'entend, et ça fait trop longtemps que j'écris et édite des livres pour me sentir une quelconque pertinence à juger sa démarche voyeuriste ou non (on l'est tous quand on écrit à divers degrés, honnêtement), n'en reste pas moins que j'ai trouvé le livre gênant, crispant, avilissant, et c'est probablement le but hein I mean old age is a curse, mais précisément je sais juste pas si c'est de ce genre d'ouvrages sur la vieillesse dont j'ai envie et besoin. je ne nie pas la réalité de la grande dépendance et du dénuement, mais peut-être on peut raconter d'autres histoires pour préparer nos futurs, et imaginer comment s'occuper de ceux qui deviendront bientôt vieux autour de nous je sais pas peut-être je suis idéaliste tsais mais voilà, ce livre qui n'en est pas vraiment un mais littéralement le journal qu'AE tenait à l'époque me semble au mieux maladroit au pire pas bienvenu, je me dis qu'à la place de la mère de l'autrice j'aurais vraiment pas kiffé qu'on raconte tout ça de moi. ouais je suis la censure tout ce que vous voulez, tant pis. seul le titre est beau, vraiment beau, et je dis pas que la littérature doit être belle hein on peut raconter l'horreur le glauque et le pathétique dieu sait que je le fais moi-même et pas qu'un peu, mais voilà, quand c'est juste pour raconter à quel point ta mère se faisait caca dessus avant de mourir pendant que tu culpabilises de continuer à vivre ta vie et de baiser un mec plus jeune je sais pas bref, ça m'a un peu saoulée tbh, je crois qu'avec les années je deviens de moins en moins fan d'Annie Ernaux, probablement pck j'en sais plus sur la personne, sur la façon dont elle utilise le pacte de confiance entre elle et ses lecteurs, sur les récits aussi qu'elle peut réarranger à son avantage et les engagements politiques qu'elle refuse de prendre. qu'on se comprenne bien : je la respecte toujours, grande écrivaine, bravo le Nobel, mais je ne l'admire peut-être plus. d'aucuns diraient que grandir, c'est faire descendre ses idoles de leur piédestal - je dirais que grandir, c'est surtout en trouver d'autres à faire monter encore plus haut. plus je grandis, plus mes idoles sont radicales, marginales, plus elles s'éloignent du consensus et des postures dont, je trouve, AE est un peu trop friande, et je trouve ça beau.
October 1, 2018
Una grande prova di coraggio scrivere di vicende così intime e personali.
Con il consueto stile scarno e disincantato la Ernaux racconta gli ultimi anni di vita della madre affetta dalla terribile malattia.
Il rapporto tra madre e figlia è quanto di più complesso e misterioso, origine di drammi e conflitti che non si esauriscono con il tempo e neppure con la morte.
Noi maschi non possiano capirlo.
Qui poi c'è la tragedia della vecchiaia, questo invisibile veleno che pian-piano si insinua nella nostra vita e la consuma.
Morire giovani è un dispiacere, ma diventare vecchi è un dramma, specialmente se l'ultima parte della vita viene vissuta in condizioni di assoluta mancanza di coscienza e quindi di dignità.
I progressi della medicina, il testamento biologico, l'eutanasia: riuscirà l'uomo ad eliminare la vecchiaia?
Non è la morte il peggiore dei mali.
Con il consueto stile scarno e disincantato la Ernaux racconta gli ultimi anni di vita della madre affetta dalla terribile malattia.
Il rapporto tra madre e figlia è quanto di più complesso e misterioso, origine di drammi e conflitti che non si esauriscono con il tempo e neppure con la morte.
Noi maschi non possiano capirlo.
Qui poi c'è la tragedia della vecchiaia, questo invisibile veleno che pian-piano si insinua nella nostra vita e la consuma.
Morire giovani è un dispiacere, ma diventare vecchi è un dramma, specialmente se l'ultima parte della vita viene vissuta in condizioni di assoluta mancanza di coscienza e quindi di dignità.
I progressi della medicina, il testamento biologico, l'eutanasia: riuscirà l'uomo ad eliminare la vecchiaia?
Non è la morte il peggiore dei mali.
January 7, 2023
Mi primer libro de Ernaux. No decepcionó. Resalto la prosa minimalista y al punto. A la idea concisa. Una especie de cuaderno de notas que se amalgama en una obra cruda, que da al lector un golpe de realidad acerca del paso del tiempo y de su desborde y fuerza inmisericorde sobre las cosas, pero principalmente sobre los seres que mas apreciamos (o no), y su efímero recuerdo.
May 23, 2025
كتاب مؤلم وقراءة حزينة جدا عن يوميات الكاتبة عن آخر ثلاث سنوات من حياة أمها بعد أن أصيبت بالزهايمر وإقامتها في بيت مسنين ... التفاصيل الصغيرة لتدهور حالة الأم وخوف الابنة عليها وعلى مواجهة نفس المرض في الشيخوخة والرجوع بالزمن لذكريات الطفولة مع الأم ... كتاب جميل وإنساني جدا
May 24, 2023
Naslov je posljednja rečenica koju je autoričina majka napisala. Kako i piše na koricama knjige: „Annie Ernaux njegovala je majku oboljelu od Alzheimerove bolesti. Kada je majka smještena u dom, ondje je redovno posjećuje. Svaki posjet otvara novu bol, i svakim se posjetom majka sve više udaljava od svijeta i od nje.“, ne možemo ne naslutiti što nas u ovoj knjižici od niti 100 stranica čeka.
Ernaux ispisuje posljednje mjesece i dane majčina života i stvara dnevnik s kojim si pokušava olakšati situaciju u kojoj se nalazi. Nada se da će nekada u budućnosti, čitajući retke u kojima opisuje susrete s dementnom majkom, isti pomoći oko prihvaćanja, boljeg razumijevanja sebe i njihovog odnosa. Razumijevanja u konačnici sebe i svih osjećaja koje je kroz život uz majku povezivala i doživjela.
Dubina emocija koje autorica osjeća opipljivi su toliko da diraju one koji se usude, skoro poput voajera, proći njihove zajednički provedene sate. Stilski vrlo hladno, kratkih rečenica ponekad nerazumljivih čitatelju ne umanjuju težinu trenutaka koje autorica prenosi.
„Jer bol ne možeš taložiti. Moraš je okrenuti na šalu.“
Uhvatila sam ovu knjigu samo da virnem i nisam ju mogla ispustiti, morala sam ju dovršiti i proći uz autoricu ono što svi dotaknuti demencijom prolaze. Tuga, ljutnja, nemoć... Tri su suputnika na tom putu zaborava...
„Danas je sve zvučalo kao nekakav koncert, kao život koji hlapi brže nego inače dok se upinje da potraje.“
Ernaux ispisuje posljednje mjesece i dane majčina života i stvara dnevnik s kojim si pokušava olakšati situaciju u kojoj se nalazi. Nada se da će nekada u budućnosti, čitajući retke u kojima opisuje susrete s dementnom majkom, isti pomoći oko prihvaćanja, boljeg razumijevanja sebe i njihovog odnosa. Razumijevanja u konačnici sebe i svih osjećaja koje je kroz život uz majku povezivala i doživjela.
Dubina emocija koje autorica osjeća opipljivi su toliko da diraju one koji se usude, skoro poput voajera, proći njihove zajednički provedene sate. Stilski vrlo hladno, kratkih rečenica ponekad nerazumljivih čitatelju ne umanjuju težinu trenutaka koje autorica prenosi.
„Jer bol ne možeš taložiti. Moraš je okrenuti na šalu.“
Uhvatila sam ovu knjigu samo da virnem i nisam ju mogla ispustiti, morala sam ju dovršiti i proći uz autoricu ono što svi dotaknuti demencijom prolaze. Tuga, ljutnja, nemoć... Tri su suputnika na tom putu zaborava...
„Danas je sve zvučalo kao nekakav koncert, kao život koji hlapi brže nego inače dok se upinje da potraje.“
January 1, 2024
البنت الأخرى، لم أخرج من ليلي
روايتان قصيرتان لآني أرنو، الكاتبة الفرنسية التي تعتمد على سيرتها الذاتية في كل أعمالها، ترى أرنو أن الإنسان موضوع كافٍ جداً للكتابة، ليس الإنسان ككل وإنما آني أرنو تحديداً، فلذا كتبت عن والدتها مرتين، مرة في رواية (امرأة) ومرة أخرى في (لم أخرج من ليلي) والتي توثق فيها صراع والدتها مع ألزهايمر، كما كتبت عن عواطفها وحالاتها العشقية في (احتلال) و(عشق بسيط)، كل ما تكتبه أرنو تلتقطه من الأشياء الصغيرة في حياتنا والتي ننساها بسرعة، ففي روايتها (البنت الأخرى) مثلاً تكتب عن أختها التي توفيت قبل ولادة آني، تلتقط كيف تعرفت على أختها، حزن والديها وإصرارهما على إخفاء وجود البنت الأخرى (جينيت)، كما تسجل الخيبة التي شهدتها في طفولتها، عندما وصفت أمها جينيت بأنها (قديسة) وفضلتها على آني، أعمال آني أنو حساسة جداً وتأملية.
روايتان قصيرتان لآني أرنو، الكاتبة الفرنسية التي تعتمد على سيرتها الذاتية في كل أعمالها، ترى أرنو أن الإنسان موضوع كافٍ جداً للكتابة، ليس الإنسان ككل وإنما آني أرنو تحديداً، فلذا كتبت عن والدتها مرتين، مرة في رواية (امرأة) ومرة أخرى في (لم أخرج من ليلي) والتي توثق فيها صراع والدتها مع ألزهايمر، كما كتبت عن عواطفها وحالاتها العشقية في (احتلال) و(عشق بسيط)، كل ما تكتبه أرنو تلتقطه من الأشياء الصغيرة في حياتنا والتي ننساها بسرعة، ففي روايتها (البنت الأخرى) مثلاً تكتب عن أختها التي توفيت قبل ولادة آني، تلتقط كيف تعرفت على أختها، حزن والديها وإصرارهما على إخفاء وجود البنت الأخرى (جينيت)، كما تسجل الخيبة التي شهدتها في طفولتها، عندما وصفت أمها جينيت بأنها (قديسة) وفضلتها على آني، أعمال آني أنو حساسة جداً وتأملية.
August 8, 2020
“Where are the eyes of my childhood, those fearful eyes she had thirty years ago, the eyes that made me?”
This super short (somewhat scatalogical) book is actually a candid compilation of diary entries over a period of four years from the time Ernaux's mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's till her death. Its emotional power has a distinct rawness which emerges from the almost detached narration of events, a direct earnestness, around her mother's increasing debilitation. It bares the conflicted feelings that Ernaux has for her and their obviously complicated relationship. This was my first book by her and I am really interested in reading more of her work now.
This super short (somewhat scatalogical) book is actually a candid compilation of diary entries over a period of four years from the time Ernaux's mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's till her death. Its emotional power has a distinct rawness which emerges from the almost detached narration of events, a direct earnestness, around her mother's increasing debilitation. It bares the conflicted feelings that Ernaux has for her and their obviously complicated relationship. This was my first book by her and I am really interested in reading more of her work now.
March 2, 2025
Quando a vida segue o seu curso natural há uma fase em que os pais podem começar a precisar da ajuda dos filhos. Gradualmente, ou de forma mais abrupta, os papéis invertem-se. Quando se trata de uma doença como demência ou Alzheimer, além das dificuldades físicas, há também uma degradação que leva ao desaparecimento da identidade.
Annie Ernaux, revela neste livro o diário que escreveu ao longo de quase três anos, os últimos anos de vida da sua mãe. Depois das visitas que fazia ao lar onde estava internada, registava os sinais do agravamento da doença de Alzheimer mas também os seus próprios sentimentos.
Um registo cru e honesto, ao jeito de Annie Ernaux, muito tocante e comovente. Um livro muito triste e duro, carregado de emoção, a provar que a sua forma de escrita é poderosa e impactante.
Annie Ernaux, revela neste livro o diário que escreveu ao longo de quase três anos, os últimos anos de vida da sua mãe. Depois das visitas que fazia ao lar onde estava internada, registava os sinais do agravamento da doença de Alzheimer mas também os seus próprios sentimentos.
Um registo cru e honesto, ao jeito de Annie Ernaux, muito tocante e comovente. Um livro muito triste e duro, carregado de emoção, a provar que a sua forma de escrita é poderosa e impactante.
October 10, 2022
غالبا هي مترجمة واحدة لكل أعمال آني أرنو ولكن تجعلنا نكره الترجمة والكاتبة
حتي الآن ثلاثة أعمال ترجمتهم الاسوء للاسف
لكن من بينهم هذه أفضل رواية للكاتبه حتي الآن بالنسبة لي
وصلني آلمها ومعاناتها مع والدتها المصابة بالزهايمر
حتي الآن ثلاثة أعمال ترجمتهم الاسوء للاسف
لكن من بينهم هذه أفضل رواية للكاتبه حتي الآن بالنسبة لي
وصلني آلمها ومعاناتها مع والدتها المصابة بالزهايمر
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