La vergüenza

by Annie Ernaux, Mercedes Corral Corral (Translator), Berta Corral Corral (Translator)

En 1952, cuando Annie Ernaux tenía doce años, su padre quiso matar a su madre un domingo de junio, a primera hora de la tarde. Años después, esa escena se le presenta a la autora tan diáfanamente cruel como el día en que la vivió. Como en tantas otras familias, sus padres, que se odian entre sí, adoran en cambio a la niña, por lo que, mientras pasan los días y el olvido invade el hogar, el recuerdo de aquel domingo parece convertirse en un mal sueño. Sin embargo esa escena cambió para siempre a la autora: aquella niña y su familia «habían dejado de ser gente decente», y todo había pasado a ser vergonzoso. Annie Ernaux recorre desde los códigos de conducta y las normas sociales que imperaban en su entorno, hasta las noticias del momento, las expresiones más usadas o el temor que infundían las grandes ciudades, para calibrar con exactitud hasta qué punto lo ocurrido la hicieron sentirse indigna.

Genres: Nonfiction, Memoir, France, Nobel Prize, Biography, French Literature, Womens

73 pages, Kindle Edition

First published June 1, 1997

About the author

The 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.

Reviews

[Ilse · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nobel prize in literature 2022 "for the courage and clinical acuity with which she uncovers the roots, estrangements and collective restraints of personal memory"

I had seen the unseeable

Shame is the fourth book I have read by Annie Ernaux this year (the other books were The Possession, Simple Passion and The Years) and it struck me mostly as another chapter in the socio-autobiography she is writing on her life. This piece focusses on her years as a young adolescent, the incipit the memory of an incident between her parents which the 12 years old Annie involuntarily witnessed. The impossibility to talk about the incident at the time prompts her to investigate that specific year 1952, to get closer to herself, to the girl she used to be, ruminating on and observing herself in her environment, through her parents, the private Catholic school she attended, the better and less situated girls on her school, contemplating her state of consciousness at twelve and now, through the two ideals held forth by her parents that were embodied in sending her to such a school: religion and education.

The incident functions as the madeleine biscuit in Proust, however not evoking the tender scent of lime-blossom tea and lilacs but the rather foul odour of the overwhelming emotion of shame, a run-up to a ruthless and raw descent into the grittiness of Ernaux’s life in the small provincial town of Yvetot, growing up in the shabby café annex grocery that her parents are running, where almost every space is open to the customers and parents and daughter share a bedroom - a dressing gown an unimaginable luxury for the social class of people that had to jump into their clothes for starting working as soon as they woke – the social class Ernaux belonged to but will desert. As a young girl she doesn’t dare to dream big, she rather envisages realism, reading stories she experiences as ‘more realistic than Dickens’ novels because they painted the picture of a likely future – love-marriage-children’, wondering if ‘the real therefore can be defined as the mere sum of potentialities’.

A friend who just had been reading both Proust and Ernaux appositely pointed at the shocking contrast of the world Ernaux’s father inhabited with Proust’s (privileged) world, despite the fact that Ernaux’s father and Proust both lived in France during the same period. This difference is reflected in Annie Ernaux’s own search for lost time, explicitly distinguishing the way memory worked for Proust and for her in relation to objects:

"In his writings, Proust suggests that our memory is separate from us, residing in the ocean breeze or the smells of early autumn—things linked to the earth that recur periodically, confirming the permanence of mankind. For me and no doubt many of my contemporaries, memories are associated with ephemeral things such as a fashionable belt or a summer hit and therefore the act of remembering can do nothing to reaffirm my sense of identity or continuity. It can only confirm the fragmented nature of my life and the belief that I belong to history.”

Recalling Sartre’s descriptions of how he was introduced to literature in the sumptuous home library of his grandfather in The Words and how by contrast Ernaux’s access to books was strictly regulated by nuns speaks volumes about class and cultural inequalities in France in the fifties.

As in The Years, objects, things, goods are important and anchor memories in time, although the social distribution of goods is far more significant than their actual existence – which reminded me my mother’s longing for a bathroom in the 70ies, at a time most households already had one and how she heated the water on the stove to fill a laundry basket for the weekly bath of her daughters.


(Berlinde De Bruyckere, blanket woman)

Just like the reading experience intensifies while reading The Years as soon as one happened to live through portions of the same period in time Ernaux is capturing (like the election of Mitterand) - the simultaneity implying sharing parallels with Ernaux’s experiences - some aspects of Shame might get close to the skin when touching the reader’s personal history. The importance of education, the parents who try to wrestle free from their social origin as manual labourers, the time in which working in a factory was considered a shame for (Catholic) women and running a small business seemed a decent alternative solution. The rough mentality in Normandy, some of the harsh judgementalism reminded me of my grandmother and aunts who spoke ill of bachelors and in whose lives the Roman Catholic rituals and traditions (the meatless Fridays, singing in the church choir, the Stations of the Cross, Easter confession ) still played a paramount role – including the obligatory journey to Lourdes – the only place abroad my grandparents ever visited in their life. Ernaux however delves deeper in pointing out the different meaning religion had for her parents and how different her mother’s view was from the doctrinary vision on it imposed on Annie at her private school.

As in the other books I read by her, Ernaux’s prose is austere and unembellished, reflecting the meagreness and the inadequacy of the language she experiences in her environment (the patois, the lack of metaphors, the deficiency of words to express feelings) as well as the detached coldness of her observations mirrors the desire of the young Annie to detach herself from the environment and accompanying social inferiority in which she was anchored – on which the dominant feeling became shame.

Ernaux doesn’t paint a pretty picture, but it is one which will stay with me.
(***1/2)

[s.penkevich [hiatus-will return-miss you all] · Rating 4 out of 5]

‘The worst thing about shame is that we imagine we are the only ones to experience it.’

First and foremost, a hearty congratulations to Annie Ernaux for winning the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature, an extreme international honor that cements a writer into the proverbial canon of literary greats and ensures their work is reprinted, translated and readily available. Shame, originally published in 1998 and later translated into English by Tanya Leslie, is a snapshot of French society in 1952 that grapples with many of the themes Ernaux is celebrated for: the clinical investigation of the self and memory and, as the title would suggest, earnest examinations of feeling shame. ‘My father tried to kill my mother one Sunday in June, in the early afternoon,’ begins Ernaux’s novella where this incident on June 15th, 1952, becomes ‘the first date I remember with unerring accuracy from my childhood,’ because it ‘introduces the era when I shall never cease to feel ashamed,’ a feeling that she carries with her all her life. While the novella is fiction, it reads very much like a historical memoir and is less a narrative and more an account of the social conditions of the narrator’s town and private school as well as the world events occurring that summer of 1952 that forever reshaped her own familiarity with herself. This slim novel is an intriguing look at narrative possibilities, with a brilliant depth of examination and a coolness of tone paired with precise and powerful language that reconstruct a dynamic portrait of life in a specific time and place that manages to resonate with universal emotional impact.

‘Shame became a new way of living for me. I don't think I was even aware of it, it had become part of my own body.’

The catalyst for the book here is a brief but lasting moment of violence that will ‘breathe disaster’ through every aspect of the narrator's life. ‘Now everything in our life is synonymous with shame,’ she writes, seeing how this one moment refocused all she thought and knew about life. Much of the shame felt in the novel comes from the idea that ‘ “no one except us” behaves this way,’‘ which is all the more a threatening feeling in a society that promotes conformity and fears aberration. ‘To be like everyone else was people’s universal ambition, the ultimate dream,’ she tells us, ‘those who were different were thought to be eccentric or even deranged.’ In order to portray just the sort of society this is, Ernaux goes into great detail to reproduce 1952 for the reader. I shall process them like documents, examining them from different angles to give them meaning,’ Ernaux writes, ‘in other words, I shall carry out an ethnological study of myself.’ While the style of this ethnological study does read as a listing of facts and observations, first delving into the city and the social structures within it before turning attention to the all-girls Catholic school she attended, the cumulative weight of insights and explanations begins to produce a very nuanced and detailed portrait of a society that you begin to feel yourself immersed within. Told from the adult perspective in 1996, this is ‘the bond between the little girl of 1952 and the woman who is writing this manuscript,’ through which we see life as a collection of events following one another, shame always a shadow over them.

‘Everything that cements this world is encouraged, everything that threatens it is denounced and vilified.’

We get an excellent depiction of post-war France, and the social and cultural norms down to linguistic choices that define the city of Y in the year 1952. We see the ways social classes interact and the narrator’s space here (her parents being shopkeepers), though the most of the hierarchies examined are those of the private school she attends. ‘Instruction and religion are inseparably linked, both in time and in space,’ she informs us and everything is strictly rule oriented ‘yet these rules are never perceived as being coercive.’ That said, she feels ‘compelled to use the present tense to list and describe these rules, as if they have remained as immutable as they were for me at the time,’ and it is evident how this sort of upbringing and extreme hierarchical perspective on society (even hanging out with public school girls is considered a taboo) would make the narrator view the violent event of her childhood as something that has shaken her loose from the perceived safety of her social position and piety.

‘Now I can see the good little girl who goes to private school, enjoying the power and ideology of a world symbolizing truth, progress and perfection, a world which, in her eyes, she would never fail.’

This belief in a fall from grace takes on a deep emotional and moral tone as if she has discovered she doesn’t belong in the society around her. ‘Was I doomed to pick up every single sentence that reminded us of our place in society?’ she wonders, which is a really personal feeling that I think we all have once we notice ourselves out of place. Which is what lands so well in this novel: the idea that shame is something that is so personally felt and specific yet also universal. This was particularly interesting to read on the heels of completing several works by Simone de Beauvoir, particularly Inseparable which, also an account of French private schooling, demonstrates how religious hierarchies weaponize shame and guilt as a method of obliging obedience at the punishment of being outcast.

Equally important to this book is the idea of memory, and how each compounding event across our lives recalibrates our relationship to our past. When looking at photographs from her twelfth year she finds she can barely link the young girl in the photo to the self writing the book in 1996, but surely they are the same. Time and our experience make memory a frail thing, and the idea of examining memory through the newspapers of 1952 in an attempt to recreate the world as it was is an interesting way to refresh the background thoughts that would be in everyone's head at the time.

‘This can be said about shame: those who experience it feel that anything can happen to them, that the shame will never cease and that it will only be followed by more shame.’

Ernaux is a gifted writer and I am excited to have read a novel from the newest Nobel winner, all the more excited that I have quite enjoyed it. It’s brief and quiet, though the pieces really fall into place and my enjoyment of it only increased the following day after finishing it as I found myself thinking about it frequently. ‘It was normal to feel ashamed: I saw it as an inescapable fatality,’ Ernaux writes, and this novel takes a clever approach to examining just how much society is bent towards inflicting shame upon us, with Ernaux reminding us that it is something we all inevitably endure and in our shared experiences of shame and frailties of memory we find ourselves joined as fellow humans.An interesting book, one written with a very clinical approach to the subject that performs wonderful artistry. This was my first experience with Ernaux but it will certainly not be my last.

4/5

‘In his writings, Proust suggests that our memory is separate from us, residing in the ocean breeze or the smells of early autumn—things linked to the earth that recur periodically, confirming the permanence of mankind. For me and no doubt many of my contemporaries, memories are associated with ephemeral things such as a fashionable belt or a summer hit and therefore the act of remembering can do nothing to reaffirm my sense of identity or continuity. It can only confirm the fragmented nature of my life and the belief that I belong to history.’

[El Librero de Valentina · Rating 3 out of 5]

La vergüenza de una niña, la propia escritora, ante un hecho que pone fin a su inocente infancia, el día en que su padre intenta matar a su madre. A partir de este momento y recreando diferentes anécdotas, la autora retrata su entorno, la vida a lado de sus padres, la educación religiosa que recibió y en cada una de estas vivencias la vergüenza prevalece.
La lectura es muy sencilla y por lo mismo, siento que puede llegar a ser fría, me cuesta conectar con la emoción.

[Rodrigo Unda · Rating 3 out of 5]

Le tengo mucho cariño a esta autora, pues adoro otras de sus obras. Sin embargo, esta no fue tan satisfactoria para mí.

El tema merodea la vergüenza, terror y confusión que un arranque de ira por parte de su padre, casi termina en la muerte de su madre. La autora, al recrear esa escena e ir desmenuzándola abordando temas como la religión, la posición de la mujer en esos años y la pérdida de confianza, hace que la premisa de este libro sea intrigante.

Mi problema es que el relato se pierde en detalles que rompen el ritmo y te dejan con la incertidumbre de a qué quiere llegar contando algo que pareciera no aportar tanto.

Aún así, la estructura podrá tener sus fallas, pero la pluma de Annie sigue impresionándome.

[Celeste Corrêa]

«A Vergonha» (1997)

«Sempre tive vontade de escrever livros sobre os quais, depois, me fosse impossível falar, que transformem o olhar do outro em algo de insustentável. Mas que vergonha me poderia trazer a escrita de um livro que estivesse à altura daquilo por que tinha passado aos doze anos?»

Não posso pôr em dúvida tudo o que a autora sentiu, mas fico constrangida em escrever uma opinião sobre um livro que aborda vergonha social, a existência de dois mundos, a pertença ao que se situava abaixo — e, principalmente, aquele dia domingo de 1952 em que o pai quis matar a mãe.

Em 1997, Annie Ernaux já nada tem comum com a menina de 12 anos, a não ser aquela cena do domingo de junho de 1952.

Um estudo sociológico de uma França de pequenos comerciantes, que falam um mau francês, cujo objectivo geral — o ideal a atingir— era ser como toda a gente da pequena localidade. «Se não, que vão pensar de nós?».
A vergonha repetida e acumulada; a pertença a uma classe perante a qual a escola privada manifestava apenas ignorância e desdém. As ofensas e desprezo suportados por uma jovem que sabia o que a separava das classes sociais superiores, mas não sabia o que poderia fazer para se parecer com elas. Era impossível escapar à vergonha.

«Estudo de defesa, a boa educação era inútil entre marido e mulher, pais e filhos, sentida mesmo como hipocrisia ou malvadez. A indelicadeza, a quezília e a gritaria constituíam as formas normais de comunicação familiar.»

Quão árdua era (e é) a ascensão social. Reconheço o valor daqueles que pela educação, dedicação e esforço no trabalho o conseguem — e condeno quem mordazmente os critica.

[Roman Clodia · Rating 4 out of 5]

The more I read of Ernaux, the clearer it becomes that each piece of writing is a fragment of a greater oeuvre that contemplates a historicised sense of European and female self in the latter half of the twentieth century forwards. Different aspects of 'Annie Ernaux' are foregrounded in each book, expressing a sense of the mutability and lack of easy coherence, that inability to say definitively and once and for all 'this is I'.

In this book, Ernaux returns to her parents and her adolescence, tracing the forces that press on her identity: class and socio-economic grouping, post-war generation, suburban France, education, religion, gender politics. The 'shame' of the title is generated in multiple ways and serves as a version of Proust's madeleine in the way it holds and releases memories that continue to shape her psyche.

As always, Ernaux's writing has a clean, clinical precision as she takes a scalpel to her memories of her earlier self. I think it is recognised that the two over-riding passions which propel Ernaux's writing are shame and desire: this book, originally published in the 1990s, is thus a critical component in understanding Ernaux's overarching project.

Many thanks to Fitzcarraldo Editions for an ARC via NetGalley.

[Henk · Rating 4 out of 5]

A reflection on class society and the imposter syndrome that accompanies a class migrant is interestingly, but not entirely coherently, bundled with reflections on violence within the marriage of the parents of the author
The worst thing about shame is that we imagine we are the only ones to experience it.

In Shame we are transported to postwar Normandy and the struggles the 12 year old Annie Ernaux has reconciling the relationship her parents have, with occasional flashes of violence, with the image that need to be kept up towards the outside world.

I enjoy how well Ernaux shows small history and major history besides each other, even though I can't say that there was a lot of synergies between the personal and broader narrative here.

One of the most readable Nobel laureates, and again an interesting addition to her work translated into English.

Quotes:
We have no true memory of ourselves.

When it comes to illustrating social change, newspapers can provide only collective evidence

Naturally I won’t opt for narrative l, which would mean inventing reality instead of searching for it.

In our lives nothing is thought, everything is done.

To be like everyone else was people’s universal ambition, the ultimate dream.

Religion must remain an auxiliary to education, it must never take its place.

[Lucinda Garza Zamarripa · Rating 5 out of 5]

En este libro Annie Ernaux toma las canciones que sonaban en la radio, la ropa que llevaban las mujeres a su alrededor, la mirada severa de su profesora de séptimo, las calles de su pueblo, y cada pieza que tenga al alcance, todo con el propósito de reconstruir 1952, el año que le cambió la vida, el año en el que su padre intentó matar a su madre y la vergüenza se convirtió en un hilo permanente en el tejido de sus días.

Además, lleva su usual transparencia a otro nivel: no solamente expone lo sucedido a sus doce años, sino también el proceso para escribir el libro que estamos leyendo. El texto viene acompañado de su propia radiografía creativa; se reflexiona sobre el pasado de la niña estudiante y también se analiza el presente de la mujer escritora, quien trata de hacer sentido sobre el evento que marcó un antes y después en su manera de ver al mundo y su lugar en él.

[Ariane Hoyos · Rating 5 out of 5]

“La vergüenza siempre lleva consigo la sensación de que, a partir de ese momento, puede sucederte cualquier cosa, de que es algo que no tiene fin, pues la verguenza se alimenta de vergüenza”. 💔

desde que leí el acontecimiento siento que tengo que leer todo de Annie Ernaux, hace un retrato increíble de su realidad, con una sinceridad que nunca había leído antes… es una pasada la amo

[Isabela.]

Nunca me he sentido capaz de calificar las vivencias de alguien. (Lo cual es irónico, teniendo en cuenta que le he dado cinco estrellas a una carta íntima escrita por Kafka).

Pero creo que siempre me ha resultado difícil otorgar una "calificación" al trozo de vida que alguien desea exponernos.

A través de este relato, uno cree que por la sinopsis que conocerá un evento traumático para la autora, que en parte si lo hace, pero creo que el enfoque principal de este libro es el como este evento desarrolló su relación con la vergüenza. Mientras nos cuenta sobre su vida a los doce años, entendemos como Annie va creando una relación con la vergüenza desde que es consciente que la posee.

Creo que Ernaux tiene una habilidad única para atrapar a sus lectores. Cuando crees que va a aburrirte toma una ruta completamente distinta, te mantiene enganchado.

También me resulta sorprendente la cantidad de eventos que han transcurrido en su vida. Pero aprecio la honestidad con que los cuenta.

[Dave Schaafsma · Rating 4 out of 5]

Congratulations to Annie Ernaux for being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, 2022!

“My father tried to kill my mother one Sunday in June, in the early afternoon. . .”

Thanks to Ilse, this is the fourth book by Annie Ernaux I have read already this year (including A Man’s Place, A Woman’s Journey, I Remain in Darkness, and this, Shame), all of which are memoirs or auto-fiction focused largely on her working-class parents, seen decades later through the eyes of the academic, teacher, and writer she became. Lest you seem too impressed by this output, let me make clear that these books are very short, which I have mostly been listening to and also reading some sections from as I listen. All of the books touch on the largely unsatisfying nature of narrative in “capturing” the past, but nevertheless exist for her as examples of explorations in memory writing:

“I realize that I have left part of myself in a place where I shall probably never come back.”

“In his writings, Proust suggests that our memory is separate from us, residing in the ocean breeze or the smells of early autumn—things linked to the earth that recur periodically, confirming the permanence of mankind. For me and no doubt many of my contemporaries, memories are associated with ephemeral things such as a fashionable belt or a summer hit and therefore the act of remembering can do nothing to reaffirm my sense of identity or continuity. It can only confirm the fragmented nature of my life and the belief that I belong to history.”

Ernaux tried crafting some of these as more fictional stories but wasn’t satisfied with the result. They felt less real and manipulative in a “literary” way that undermined her working-class roots.

The initial focus of Shame is an incident Ernaux never forgot, a fight in which her father erupts with rage and violently attacks her mother. Her mother isn’t hurt enough to be hospitalized, but for Ernaux it becomes an important moment in her life and of her assessment of her parents’ relationship, of relationships in general and human beings in general. She admits others have suffered far more and have survived greater trauma, but it was nevertheless life-changing for her.

And then, no one ever talks about the incident ever again. Nor nothing ever happens like it between her parents again. There emerges a kind of shame from it, a shame that prevents them from talking about it with themselves or others. This moment creates the opportunity for Ernaux to reflect on the nature of shame in the French culture she lived through of the fifties, in religion, in education, in society in general. You were shamed for not being good, for looking a certain way, linking education and religion in setting high moral bars for children, something that deeply shaped her.

I too recall my working-class and strict Calvinist religious upbringing--church twice on Sundays, being forced to go to a Christian (Protestant) high school, forced to make Profession of Faith as a teen--and the ways it seemed to compel me to rebel against it, as in many ways Ernaux also came to do in moving through the university to the middle class.

I am going to rate this four stars because it was good, because I could relate to it, though a couple other memoirs from her I liked better. But I am going to read every one of these I can get may hands on now.

[Patrizia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Una domenica di giugno del 1952 è una data spartiacque nella vita di Annie Ernaux. Aveva dodici anni e si ritrovò ad assistere a una lite violenta tra i genitori, una scena “indicibile”, in cui il padre ebbe l’impulso di uccidere la madre.
Nasce così la “vergogna”, sensazione che la accompagnerà a lungo, separando la bambina che era prima di quella domenica dalla Annie del “dopo”. Nulla sarà più lo stesso, la vergogna le si incolla addosso qualunque cosa faccia. Non ne può parlare, non esistono parole per descrivere un episodio del genere, finché, a distanza di molti anni, decide di scriverne. E nel farlo, le sembra che la scena si ridimensioni, perché

“Forse la narrazione, ogni narrazione, rende normale qualunque gesto, anche il più drammatico”.

Col suo linguaggio asciutto, che molti (diversamente da me) considerano algido e privo di sentimento, magnificamente reso dalla traduzione di Lorenzo Flabbi, la Ernaux tenta di reinserire l’accaduto nel suo contesto, in quel 1952 ormai lontano.
Tra fotografie precedenti e successive a quella domenica, in cui cerca di individuare il tratto caratteristico della vergogna percepita, giornali dell’epoca, cartoline e altri, pochi, oggetti personali, l’autrice effettua una ricostruzione quasi chirurgica, lucida della sua vita di ragazzina.

“Quel che mi importa [...] è ritrovare le parole attraverso le quali pensavo me stessa e il mondo circostante. Stabilire ciò che per me era normale e ciò che era inammissibile, persino inimmaginabile”.

È un viaggio a ritroso verso un mondo che non le appartiene più, verso regole di comportamento cui le sembrava naturale obbedire, verso una religiosità allora vissuta come necessaria, verso la scuola privata in cui, dopo quella domenica, si era sentita fuori posto.

“È la terra natale senza nome in cui, appena vi faccio ritorno, sono subito assalita da un torpore che mi sottrae ogni pensiero, pressoché ogni ricordo puntuale, come se fosse in procinto di inghiottirmi di nuovo”.

Era un paesino, il suo, in cui tutti si conoscevano e si tentava di mantenersi in equilibrio tra le domande fatte agli altri per estorcere informazioni sulla loro vita e l’esigenza di rendere inaccessibile la propria.
C’erano le ville dei ricchi e il quartiere come quello in cui viveva, abitato da persone che non si sognavano di mescolarsi a una classe sociale più elevata.
La scuola privata consentiva una certa elasticità da questo punto di vista, sotto l’egida del cattolicesimo. Ma dopo quella terribile domenica, anche questo era stato spazzato via. La vergogna faceva sentire Annie indegna di quella comunità.

“Nella vergogna c’è questo: la sensazione che possa accaderci qualsiasi cosa, che non ci sia scampo, che alla vergogna possa seguire soltanto una vergogna ancora maggiore”.

perché

“La vergogna non è altro che ripetizione e accumulo”.

Anche in altre opere, come Il Posto, si avverte questa sensazione, la vergogna nei confronti della famiglia, del lavoro dei suoi, della stanza in cui vivevano sopra la bottega, con la cucina nel retro, sempre esposti allo sguardo dei clienti.
Qui l’incursione nel passato accentua il distacco dalla Annie scrittrice, che espone al pubblico quello che dovrebbe restare privato.

“Mettere a nudo le regole del mondo dei miei dodici anni mi restituisce per qualche istante l’inafferrabile pesantezza, la sensazione di chiusura che avverto nei sogni. Le parole che ritrovo sono opache, rocce impossibili da smuovere. Prive di immagini precise. Prive persino di senso”.

Significativo, da questo punto di vista, l’esergo scelto dall’autrice:

“Il linguaggio non è la verità. È il nostro modo di esistere nel mondo”.
(Paul Auster, L’elogio della solitudine)

[Elyse Walters · Rating 4 out of 5]

“My father, who loved me, had tried to kill my mother, who also loved me”.

A very sad short memoir involving the complicated emotion - ‘shame’ - that hinders recovery from childhood trauma.

[Sana · Rating 3 out of 5]

راستش من نمیخواستم فعلا سراغ کتابای این نویسنده برم اما چند روز پیش نشر بیدگل رمان جدیدی از این نویسنده منتشر کرد و من ترغیب شدم یکی از کتاباشو بخونم و با شیوه‌ی روایتش آشنا بشم

کتاب شرم تجربه‌ی شخصی نویسنده است؛ او از یک روز عادی زندگی‌اش در دوران نوجوانی نوشته که شاهد اعمال خشونت پدرش نسبت به مادرش بوده و همین خاطره او را برای همیشه با حس شرم نسبت خانواده‌اش درگیر می‌کند..

در شرم از همه بدتر این است که گمان می‌کنیم تنها شخصی هستیم که آن را تجربه می‌کنیم.
البته بااین ترجمه نخوندم از نشر علمی فرهنگی کتاب رو خوندم اما تو گودریدز پیدا نکردم. ترجمه ی خوبی بود.

[Alan · Rating 4 out of 5]

It is officially Ernaux Season (™). Day 1.

I spent an important part of my life with a girl I respect and love very much. I will call her T. If she sees this, she knows who she is. T’s mother was insane, in the same way a prospective in-law is, but also insane in that she had allowed the shame of her earlier Catholic schooling to result in self-admitted and self-diagnosed neuroses and a host of interpersonal problems for her children. It would be easier to be more compassionate if she did not consider herself one of the most learned and wise individuals in her circle (of one). Conversations between us (numerous) were always tinged with a hue of condescension from her, and I was thus caught up in a cycle that I wanted no part of - I would take every single opportunity to correct her faulty assumptions and false information on the state of the world. Afterward, I felt shame. The temporary kind, not the one that drips down her every act and thought. This was intensified the other week, when I hung out with T - she mentioned that her mother did not enjoy my company while T and I were dating, but that she had spent the years after the relationship recounting all the instances where I had been right and she wrong. Nothing takes away the cool pleasure of being right more than a meek admission of defeat.

Ernaux mentions the role of her Catholic religious obligations in contributing to her eventual feelings of shame about the world - a systemic, bubbling feeling that she had to dissect. That’s why I bring up the previous story. In fact, most of my reading experience with this book was riddled with falling into personal memories after the short paragraphs that made up this story. Ernaux is exploring the fallout of a key moment in her life - an attempt made on her mother’s life by her father, one seemingly calm day in 1952. I find it remarkable, the sense of place and memory that she evokes. The writing seems cathartic but avoidant at the same time. She is unable to look the experience directly in the eyes, sometimes coming across as that same Catholic school girl in the fifth grade, wearing her uniform, holding her hands clasped behind her back, lowered gaze, shuffling feet kicking up dust. Shame. Shame.

Also, aren’t you just the biggest fan of the people who check out books from the library and use the margins as if they're their own personal playgrounds? Oh, it’s just great! I can’t reconcile this act with the fact that the person who has done all the markings and jotted down the notes in my edition makes good points, concise and clear, often thought-provoking. If you’re that thoughtful, I catch myself thinking, why didn’t you think of the hundreds or perhaps even thousands of people who would use the book after you? The copy I hold is otherwise new, not dog-eared (like the Hemingway analysis books) or ruined with coffee or tea (like the clinical psychology therapy books). It’s from 1998. Who knows when this person marked up the book. They are zeroing in on the religious aspects of Ernaux’s commentary, circling sentences about the catechism and mass, usually with the higher frequency of lines under certain words indicating a greater emphasis (one particular sentence is boxed in completely, along with a 2-centimetre cartoon-style exclamation mark). I wonder if the “editor” of this public and published manuscript felt any shame.

This book has an insane final paragraph. Just wild.

Some quotes:

“It may be that narrative, any kind of narrative, lends normality to people’s deeds, including the most dramatic ones.

“My overriding concern is to find the words I would use to describe myself and the world around me; to name what I considered to be normal, intolerable or inconceivable. But the woman of 1995 can never go back to being the little girl of 1952, who knew nothing beyond her small town, her family and her convent school, and who had a limited number of words at her disposal. With the immensity of time stretching ahead of her. We have no true memory of ourselves.”

“In his writings, Proust suggests that our memory is separate from us, residing in the ocean breeze or the smells of early autumn - things linked to the earth that recur periodically, confirming the permanence of mankind. For me and no doubt many of my contemporaries, memories are associated with ephemeral things such as a fashionable belt or a summer hit and therefore the act of remembering can do nothing to reaffirm my sense of identity or continuity. It can only confirm the fragmented nature of my life and the belief that I belong to history.”

[Fabian · Rating 4 out of 5]

"The Shame" has the feel of a crime novel in which a corpse is to be autopsied. But instead of the corpse, the hospital, the pathology and the doctor's sensitivities are described, all of which flow into her autopsy report without her being able to finalise it.

"The Shame" is an autobiographical account of the author's horrific memory of the day her father tried to kill her mother with an axe. The book revolves around this act and that is also the problem. 

Ernaux makes it clear that she is writing the book in order to finally come to terms with this act decades later. She wants to exorcise her demons with words, exorcise her irrational shame with the means of rationality, deal with the horror by expressing it. But in doing so, she is increasingly reluctant to return to the act that introduces the book. Instead, she describes her home town, the social customs of the 1950s, her time at the Catholic girls' school and it almost seems as if she has to admit defeat to her project, because the anatomy of an event and its far-reaching circumstances can be analysed but not ultimately grasped. In addition, there are inevitable gaps due to the memory of a time that was forty years ago at the time of writing.

Nevertheless, Ernaux manages to do justice to the title of her book. It is not just about the shame associated with her father's attempted murder of her mother, but also about the shame that was instilled in people at the time by convention and religion. Her fear as a twelve-year-old girl of accidentally breaking the host with the tip of her tongue when receiving communion and thereby committing a mortal sin represents the rigid oppression of the individual by dogmatic constraints in the middle of the last century. Shame is a social construct that can trigger damage of traumatic proportions in us.

Ernaux contrasts the decline of her ideal world with the expectations of a society that tolerates no transgressions. Her father's brutal act is, even in its approach, so stigmatising that one is excluded from society - even if this knowledge does not exist in it, but only in oneself. The book therefore analyses less the background to the crime and more the functional mechanisms of shame, which is ultimately also enlightening.

[فايز غازي Fayez Ghazi · Rating 1 out of 5]

ان تحويل الحياة الشخصية لشخص ما (أب، أم، ذات،..) الى صيغة عامة يقرأها الجميع ليس بالأمر السهل من حيث الفعل بداية ومن ثم من حيث الطريقة. لكن المهم (بالنسبة لي) هو الطريقة، كيفية تحويل القصة الى أدب ومزج التجربة الشخصية باللغة لإنتاج ما يستحق القراءة وهذا ما لم أجده في هذا النص.

الإستهلال كان جيدًا جدًا: "حاول أبي قتل أمي ذات أحد من شهر حزيران"، ملفت ومشجع على القراءة لكن ما تلاه من فصول ومحاولة الكاتبة إعادة خلق ذلك العام من ذاكرتها وأبحاثها ومدرستها كان مملًا بشكل فظيع وأقرب الى التحقيق الصحفي عن المدارس الكاثوليكية ونمط العيش وطبوغرافيا المكان. كما ان هذا "العار" المفترض الذي أحسّت به وصبرت خمسين عامًا لتكتب عنه لم يصلني كقارئ، بل ان مشهد أمّها في ثوب النوم مع المعلمة كان أشدّ وقعًا وأقرب الى هذا الشعور منه حادثة محاولة القتل.

تقول إرنو في بداية النص "لعل الحكي، أي حكي، يحيل اي فعل، حتى الأكثر مأساوية، الى حدث عادي"، وهذا بالضبط ما فعله "حكيها" فمع انتهائي من النص لم أجد ان محاولة القتل (رغم شناعتها بشكل مطلق) إلا حدثًا عاديًا لأن الكابة لم تستطع إيصال هذه المشاعر المفترضة عبر الكلمات بل برّدتها في ثلاجة اسلوبها وأوصلتها قطعة جليدية لا لون ولا طعم فيها.

تجدر الإشارة الى كلمة المترجم في بداية النص والتي لخّصت النص! وهذا معتاد من العديد من المترجمين ويؤدي الى افساد ا��نص على القارئ فمن الأفضل تجنبها حتى النهاية

[John Hatley · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a very personal account of the shame felt by a young girl when she begins to understand class differences. The distance between her social standing and that of those “above” her permeates every aspect of life, the neighbourhood in which she lives, the clothes she wears. The memory of this shame accompanies her throughout her lifetime.

[Helga چـو ایـران نباشد تن من مـباد · Rating 4 out of 5]

Shame is Ernaux’ memoir of 1952, when she was 12 years old and focuses on her experiences in daily life, at school, her relationship with her parents and one particular incident which helped shape her identity and future.

[محمد خالد شريف · Rating 1 out of 5]

"لعل الحكي، أي حكي، يُحيل أي فعل، حتى الأكثر مأساوية، إلى حدث عادي."

ورُبما هذا ما حدث في هذه الرواية، ورُبما لا!
كعادة "أني إرنو" تستقي من حياتها الشخصية مواقفاً وأحداثاً وتبني عليها رواية، فتصبح الرواية سيرة بشكلاً ما، وتُصبح السيرة رواية مُتخيلة، خليط من الواقع الممزوج بالخيال، فالحادث الحقيقي هنا هو حادثة محاولة قتل والدها لوالدتها بعد أحد المُشاجرات، وفكرة العار التي نشأت من تلك الحادثة، وكيف أنهم لم يتحدثوا عن ذلك الموقف بعد ذلك، ورغم الفكرة الجذابة، التي مهدت لأحداث مُنتظرة عن كيفية التعامل مع هذا الشكل من العار، وإنعكاسه على حياة الشخصيات، حتى لو بتجاهله، ولكن وجدت نفسي مع حكايات لعار من نوع أخر، وهو عار الفروق الطبقية، واستكشاف أنك لستُ مثل من حولك، وأنهم يفوقونك في ملبسك، وطريقة عيشك، وحتى دراستك، وللآسف رغم جاذبية كل تلك الأفكار، لكن الرواية باهتة للغاية، أحداث عادية، بلا هدف، سوى التأكيد مراراً وتكراراً على العار، الذي لم أرى أنه بهذا العُمق المُدعى، وأنه يُمكن بلعه، فهناك الملايين من كان حالهم أقل بكثير، ولم يسموا ذلك عاراً، بل سموه كفاحاً!

كانت هذه تجربتي الثانية مع "أني إرنو" بعد رواية "الحدث" الجيدة، وللآسف هذه الرواية هي تجربة سيئة للغاية، رغي كثير، وازدحام كلمات بلا أي معنى أو هدف، حتى أن المترجم كان يُزيد الهوامش بوضع أي مدينة يُقابلها كهامش ويحللها ويوصفها، ناهيك عن المُقدمة التي كتبها بنفسه، من أجل أن نشعر بأن الرواية ذات الـ120 صفحة طويلة، ولكنها ليست بطويلة وليست بجيدة، هي مجرد رواية عار؛ كاسمها وليس كسُبة بالطبع.

[Pedro · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Mi padre intentó matar a mi madre un domingo de junio. Fue a primera hora de la tarde."

Así comienza la narración de esta niña de doce años, evocada en el recuerdo, y que irá acompañada de otros recuerdos de ese tiempo, fragmentarios, aislados pero fuertemente grabados y asociados entre sí. Y el hilo que los une es esta sensación de vergüenza, de sentir que su vida fuera de casa es una puesta en escena; de vivir como intrusos en medio de un sector social al que no pertenecen. El otro elemento es la sensación de sentirse, tempranamente la responsable del bienestar de la familia.

La temática no es muy distinta a la de la descripta, con otro foco, en El lugar. Pero la excelente forma de narrarlo, contribuye a configurar un cuadro que se enriquece desde las distintas perspectivas. El rigor por la exactitud de lo recordado, y la asociación posterior con circunstancias históricas del momento, constituye una muy buena reflexión sobre el funcionamiento de la memoria.

[David Carrasco · Rating 4 out of 5]

A veces, todo lo que te define cabe en una frase que no dijiste tú. O en un gesto. Uno que viste de niño, un domingo cualquiera, y que partió tu vida en dos. Un gesto como un terremoto en miniatura: apenas perceptible por fuera, devastador por dentro. Que no te mata, pero no te deja vivir ya igual. Annie Ernaux lo sabe. Y lo cuenta. Como nadie más se atreve a hacerlo.

La vergüenza es la crónica de una fractura íntima, escrita con la precisión de quien ha pasado décadas rascando una cicatriz que no deja de escocer. El punto de partida es simple —un episodio de violencia doméstica que Ernaux presencia cuando tiene doce años—, pero lo que sigue no es una reconstrucción al uso. No hay un “qué pasó después” en términos narrativos convencionales. Lo que hay es el eco de ese instante, multiplicado a lo largo del tiempo, filtrado por el cuerpo y la lengua, convertido en materia autobiográfica que duele más por lo que calla que por lo que dice.

Y si eso duele, es porque la forma también duele. Porque la prosa aquí es la de siempre, sí, pero eso no la hace menos demoledora. Ernaux escribe como quien se desnuda delante de un espejo empañado: sabiendo que no va a verse del todo, pero intentando, aun así, decir la verdad. La suya, ya lo sabes si la has leído, es una escritura sin florituras ni abalorios, sin metáforas que embellezcan. Ella misma nos lo confiesa: ”Creo que siempre intento escribir en esa lengua material de entonces (…) Nunca conoceré el encanto de las metáforas, el júbilo del estilo”. Aquí cada frase es una piedra directa al estómago. Y sin embargo, hay ritmo. Hay cadencia. Hay estilo. Porque la verdad desnuda, cuando se dice con honestidad, tiene su propia música. Si en El acontecimiento el tono era quirúrgico y feroz, aquí se vuelve más impresionista, más nervioso, con frases que tropiezan entre recuerdos, anuncios, objetos, calles, programas de televisión y misas escolares. La lengua no es solo instrumento, sino campo de batalla: una lengua francesa atravesada por el clasismo, el peso de la religión, la humillación de sentirse siempre inferior, y los silencios impuestos a la fuerza.

Y es desde esa lengua —fracturada, tensa, contaminada— que Ernaux intenta reconstruir algo más difícil que un recuerdo: una identidad. Lo fascinante del libro —lo incómodo también— es cómo la narradora se mueve entre la niña que fue y la mujer que escribe. No hay impostura, pero sí distancia. Ernaux no busca comprender a su yo de doce años desde la indulgencia, ni maquillar la vergüenza con discursos terapéuticos. Lo que hace es contemplar ese momento como un quiebre lingüístico: un suceso que le arrebató el derecho a narrarse desde un lugar sin manchas. A partir de ahí, todo lo que vino después —el cuerpo, las relaciones, las amistades o la falta de ellas, la clase social, el colegio de monjas, la vida entera— quedó marcado por esa mancha inicial.

Porque la vergüenza no es solo un sentimiento. Es un sistema. Una forma de orden social. Ernaux lo descompone con una mezcla de sociología encarnada y memoria sensorial. ”Lo peor de la vergüenza es que uno cree que es el único en sentirla”. Cuando habla de las canciones de Luis Mariano, de Bourvil, de Reina por un día, de Le petit écho de la mode, de las faldas plisadas, está hablando del capitalismo emocional de la Francia de los 50, sí, pero también de cómo se fabrica el sometimiento en lo cotidiano. En eso recuerda a Natalia Ginzburg, pero con menos ternura y más rabia. O al Didier Eribon de Regreso a Reims, aunque sin el andamiaje teórico. Aquí no hay tesis: hay carne. Y culpa. Y una niña que no sabe si la violencia que ha presenciado la convierte en cómplice o en víctima.

Esta sensación de desconcierto y fragmentación se refleja también en la estructura del libro, que se aleja del orden clásico para volverse más convulsa, más discontinua, menos ‘cerrada’. Comparada con El lugar , que es una despedida sobria al padre con una estructura casi esquelética, esta novela se mueve entre fragmentos que se encabalgan, como si la memoria no quisiera obedecer el orden cronológico. Y es que no lo hace. Porque recordar, para Ernaux, no es contar una historia: es sobrevivir al acto de contarla. Lo que sostiene el texto no es la línea narrativa, sino una especie de obsesión lúcida por el lenguaje como cárcel. La vergüenza no se dice: se insinúa. Y justo ahí —en lo no dicho, en lo apenas nombrado— es donde la novela se vuelve devastadora.

Pero esa desconexión no se limita a la forma; también habita en los personajes. Porque lo más interesante aquí es que ninguno está dibujado para caer bien. Ni la madre, ni el padre, ni siquiera la niña. Aquí nadie sale limpio del retrato. Lo que tenemos delante es una comunidad entera atrapada en el qué dirán, en la culpa católica, en la obediencia sin matices. La violencia, cuando irrumpe, no sorprende: es la consecuencia lógica de un mundo construido sobre la represión. Y sin embargo, Ernaux no acusa. No perdona, pero tampoco señala. Solo escribe. Y al hacerlo, nos obliga a mirar de frente lo que llevamos décadas evitando.

Y lo que queda al cerrar el libro no es una historia, sino un zumbido. Un temblor. Un recordatorio incómodo de que todos tenemos un momento que nos partió en dos, aunque no lo hayamos contado nunca. Ernaux lo cuenta. Pero no para redimirse. Ni para educarnos. Lo hace porque esa es su única manera de estar viva: decir lo indecible. Y hacerlo sin adornos.

Que nadie espere aquí épica, ni redención, ni siquiera comprensión. Lo que hay es otra cosa. Algo más sucio. Más urgente. Más humano. Una mujer intentando entender qué le pasó, sin pretender que esa comprensión cure nada. Y ese gesto —tan frágil, tan valiente— es literatura en su forma más pura.

[piperitapitta · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bellissime le parole di Annie Ernaux che accompagnano la pubblicazione nella nuova traduzione (e con il nuovo titolo, La Vergogna, da lei fortemente voluto) di Lorenzi Flabbi, divenuta ormai insostituibile voce dell'autrice qui da noi: «Ho sempre avuto voglia di scrivere libri di cui poi mi fosse impossibile parlare, libri che rendessero insostenibile lo sguardo degli altri.»



«Scrivere è un atto pubblico.»

Ancora una volta scrivere e scavare nel proprio passato è l'unico modo, per Annie Ernaux, per elaborare il proprio vissuto.
Il pretesto, l'avvenimento da esorcizzare, è il racconto di un episodio drammatico della sua infanzia: il giorno di giugno in cui il padre, durante un litigio, tentò di uccidere la madre.
Per Annie, allora dodicenne, è quello l'episodio che segnerà la sua crescita e, successivamente, la vita intera; fin quando non riuscirà ad analizzarlo, e a scriverne pubblicamente, con gli occhi della donna adulta che è diventata.
Ma è solo un punto di partenza, l'onta, il racconto appena accennato, il pretesto che dà modo all'autrice di sviscerare e descrivere a fondo i macrosistemi che hanno scandito la sua vita in provincia, riportare alla luce «i codici e le regole degli ambienti» nei quali ha vissuto, in quell'Alta Normandia - della quale scrive «Qui nulla si concepisce, tutto si compie» - che fino alla sua emancipazione culturale l'avevano avviluppata e rinchiusa in sé.
E così ci racconta della scuola privata (e religiosa) alla quale i genitori, titolari di piccolo un caffè drogheria che rispecchia per locali e clientela l'ambiente operaio e contadino nel quale vive, l'avevano iscritta, il confronto continuo con l'ambiente borghese che inizia a frequentare, la vita in famiglia, la scoperta di un mondo - «A dodici anni vivevo con i codici e le regole di quel mondo, senza poter neppure sospettare l'esistenza di altri modi di vivere.» - che fino ad allora non aveva nemmeno sospettato potesse esistere.
Alla rivalsa dei genitori, al poter «dire "mia figlia va in collegio" - e non semplicemente "a scuola"» che «consente di far sentire tutta la differenza fra il mescolarmi alle persone comuni l'appartenere a un ambiente unico, particolare, fra la semplice sottomissione all'obbligo scolastico e la scelta precoce di un'ambizione sociale», corrisponde il desiderio di Annie Ernaux adolescente di affrancarsi da tutto e di mutare radicalmente la sua vita, di abbandonare quel mondo violento e sudicio, di recidere il legame con quella gente che ha dimostrato una volta di più (e in questo l'episodio, l'onta subita, ne sono la prova emblematica e indiscutibile), che la portano con dolorosa vergogna ad ammettere «abbiamo cessato di appartenere alla categoria della gente perbene».
E il modo per farlo, l'unica ancora di salvezza e l'unica via di fuga, sono la lingua corretta, la cultura, il distacco dal dialetto e dalle inflessioni dialettali che, come un marchio a fuoco, rivelano la sua provenienza e quello che è ed è destinata a essere.
Sempre caratterizzato da quella "scrittura bianca" che rende quasi asettico e impersonale il racconto dell'autrice, L'onta ripercorre tutte le tappe del suo dolore adolescenziale, il tormentato rapporto di amore odio con i genitori, e si avvicina sempre più alla perfezione stilistica de Il Posto, quella che finora considero la massima espressione della sua maturità artistica.

«L'aver messo a nudo le regole del mondo dei miei dodici anni mi restituisce fuggevolmente l'impercettibile pesantezza, l'impressione di chiusura, che avvertono i miei sogni. Le parole che ritrovo sono opache, pietre che è impossibile smuovere. Prive di un'immagine precisa. Prive addirittura di significato, perlomeno di quello che potrebbe fornirmi un dizionario. Prive di trascendenza, non sono circondate da alcun alone di sogno: come materia pura. Parole d'uso indissolubilmente unite alle cose e le persone della mia infanzia, con cui non posso giocare. Le tavole della legge.»

[Iris ☾ (iriis.dreamer) · Rating 3 out of 5]

★★★☆☆

Leer un Ernaux es sinónimo de una lectura rápida, profunda y de una calidad exquisita. Pero tengo que avisaros que este no ha resultado ser del todo lo que esperaba encontrar.

La premisa siempre me ha resultado la más atrayente de todas sus novelas autobiográficas. Nos encontramos ante un suceso escalofriante pues Annie, en 1952 presenció como su padre intentó asesinar a su madre. Y en este libro nos explica toda su investigación (dándonos datos del contexto histórico, geográfico y familiar) durante ese año con el que ella intenta recordar con más detalle lo que envolvió el acontecimiento.

Resultando en ocasiones sencillamente extraordinarias sus descripciones, algunas otras se me han hecho eternas. El ecuador del libro se sucede de esta forma: descripción del lugar donde vivía, de su población, de sus comercios, de la iglesia; dejando de lado lo más importante que sí encontramos en el inicio y en el desenlace.

Es en este último donde he sentido más cercanía con la idea que la autora nos quiere transmitir. Ya es sabido por sus lectores que no suele ahondar mucho en sentimientos propios, ni sensaciones y solo le dedica una pequeña parte: la final. En esta revela la vergüenza que sigue sintiendo después de ese año por la diferencia de clases, pero sobretodo por darse cuenta de cómo cambio eso su vida.

Esta obra en conclusión no me ha parecido inolvidable y no creo que esté a la altura de sus otros dos libros que he leído. Una pequeña decepción que pasa inadvertida por la expresiva y descriptiva narración de Ernaux que siempre emana esa impersonal forma de contarnos su historia.

[diario_de_um_leitor_pjv · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cada página que leio, cada história que acompanho na escrita e na narrativa de Ernaux me encanta cada vez mais.
Desta feita a autora volta ao Verão de 1952, com 12 anos. Volta à pequena cidade pobre onde vivia, a escola católica onde estudava, à taberna/mercearia familiar, aos conflitos... à vergonha que foi sentindo!

Que livro perfeito para pensar. E sentir.

[Fátima Linhares · Rating 3 out of 5]

"O pior da vergonha é acreditarmos que somos os únicos a experimentá-la."

Ainda não tinha lido nada de Annie Ernaux e, de entre o que vi na biblioteca, estava este que começa com "O meu pai quis matar a minha mãe num domingo de Junho...", parece uma frase que desperta a curiosidade e eu sou pessoa curiosa.

Nas duas primeiras páginas o pai quis matar a mãe da autora, mas nada temam, que depressa passou e depois foram todos passear de bicicleta.

Depois, Ernaux desfia as memórias do colégio privado onde estudou e uma excursão que fez com pai até ao santuário de Lourdes no verão em que o pai quis matar a mãe. E já está um livro escrito.

[Marta Silva · Rating 4 out of 5]

“O pior da vergonha é acreditarmos que somos os únicos a experimentá-la.”

Este livro é um retrocesso à infância da autora, onde esta nos fala da sua vida/família num período específico e aborda temas sobre a sociedade francesa no início dos anos 50.
Foi uma narrativa que me fez refletir, pensar que essa sociedade longínqua, em alguns aspectos, não tivesse sido tão diferente e menos exigente que a atual. Parece-me, só é lembrado quem é visto, mas é melhor ser lembrado, do que apenas visto.

Por fim, adorei reencontrar-me com uma palavra que não ouvia há muito tempo - patoá - quem não se lembra dela? :)
Uma leitura que gostei bastante!

[Janelle · Rating 4 out of 5]

In this memoir Ernaux describes her 12th year, her family life, schooling and the town she lives in trying to make sense of an event that sticks in her mind. The opening sentence My father tried to kill my mother one Sunday in June, in the early afternoon. grabbed my attention.

[Molinos · Rating 4 out of 5]

en enero de este año leí Una mujer, asi que de alguna manera he empezado y terminado el año con esta autora francesa. Ernaux habla de cosas que nos atañen a todos. En Una mujer hablaba de nuestra incapacidad, la de todos, para conocer a nuestros padres, a nuestras madres en concreto y en La vergüenza retrata con maestría ese momento en la vida, el comienzo de la adolescencia, en que aparece en nuestra vida la vergüenza. Por supuesto que antes de los doce o trece años hemos sentido vergüenza, vergüenza por participar en una función, por saludar a un desconocido, por hablar con alguien, pero es cuando dejas la infancia atrás, o comienzas a dejarla atrás, cuando la vergüenza que sientes no es por lo que haces sino por lo que eres. Te da vergüenza ser quien eres, ser como eres, quienes son tus padres, como es tu casa, lo que tu gusta. Es un sentimiento que te llega por comparación, empezamos a fijarnos en lo que hay más allá de nuestro entorno y, como siempre, la hierba es más verde al otro lado de la valla. ¿Quién no recuerda haber ido a casa de amigos suyos del colegio y pensar que en esa casa todo era más bonito, se comía mejor y eran más felices? Es un sentimiento estúpido pero inevitable. Arnaux lo reconstruye maravillosamente bien partiendo de un hecho que para ella marcó la llegada de la vergüenza a su vida, un momento con el que comienza el libro: «Mi padre intentó matar a mi madre un domingo de junio. Fue a primera hora de la tarde» La época que retrata Ernaux no es la mía, es la de mi madre, pero eso da igual. Puedo reconocer la vida repartida entre el círculo escolar y el círculo familiar, las rutinas de los días de colegio y la de los días de vacaciones, las sensaciones entre otras niñas y las que tenías en tu familia y, también, el momento en que empiezas a sentir vergüenza, en el que la vergüenza te acompaña todo el tiempo y valoras cualquier opción, lo que vas a hacer, decir, sentir o ponerte, en función de cómo lo van a ver los demás. ¿Qué pensarán los demás de este vestido, de mi peinado, de como va mi madre, del coche de mi padre? Puedo reconocerme en ese sentimiento. Lo tenía olvidado desde la seguridad de mi edad actual pero leyendo a Ernaux, lo he recordado.

«Siempre he deseado escribir libros de los que m sea imposible hablar a continuación, que hgan que la mirada ajena me resulte insostenible. Pero por mucha vergüenza que pueda producirme escribir un libro, nunca estará a la altura de la que experimenté cuando tenía doce años».

Leed a Annie Ernaux, os revolverá y encantará.

[NenaMounstro · Rating 3 out of 5]

Primer libro que leo de Annie y definitivo me sigo con los demás. Un suceso terrible que ella ve cuando tenía 12 años y que décadas después al fin puede hablar de ello. Para relatar el suceso Annie se echa para atrás en el tiempo y empieza a rebuscar entre las calles de donde vivía, cómo era su casa, quiénes eran las compañeras de escuela, cómo la trataba su mamá, qué hacía su papá, qué comían, cómo vestían, por qué calles caminaban.... y solo así es como ella empieza a darse cuenta de las cosas tan vergonzosas que le ocurrieron durante ese año.

Annie quiere encontrar entre esos recuerdos algún suceso en el mundo que haya sido peor de lo que le pasó a ella, pero a pesar de las tragedias mundiales que sí hubo, para ella no hubo nada que superara el hecho de ver cómo tu papá quiso matar a tu mamá con un hacha en un domingo cualquiera.

Vergüenza de el cuerpo, vergüenza de la casa dónde vivía, vergüenza de lo que su padre le hizo a su madre y cierra el libro diciendo: "Por mucha vergüenza que pueda producirme escribir este libro, nunca estará a la altura de lo que experimenté cuando tenía 12 años".