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73 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1823
God will bear witness, I was happy for Charles. But why had that same God given poor Ourika life? Why wasn't it ended on the slaver from which she had been snatched -- or at her mother's breast? A handful of African sand would have been enough to cover my small body, and I should have found it a light burden. What did the world care whether I lived?Why was I condemned to exist? Unless it was to live alone, always alone, and never loved. I prayed God not to let it be like this, to remove me from the face of the earth. Nobody needed mw, I was isolated from all.This edition was translated by novelist John Fowles, who gave us The French Lieutenant's Woman. While Ourika lacks serious literary merit, its author had psychological insights far in advance of her contemporaries. In France, slavery was not abolished until 1848.
You confide in people—then they tell you it was your own fault.The wonderful and the horrible thing about literature is how little a guarantee there is of finding everything there is to offer. It enables the exhilaration of stumbling across whenever and whatever one has access to at any given moment, but it also makes for easy burial of many any author who fell under the glib summary of being "ahead of their time" and was the target of one or more petty white male bitcheries (in the case of Claire de Duras fueled by Stendhal and his egotistical ilk). In this case, we have a white woman who dared not only to write about the French Revolution, but to render that a subsidiary backdrop to another, even more radical story: that of a black woman raised from infancy in the rarefied atmosphere of a white supremacist aristocracy. Such gave the character Ourika sufficient intelligence and taste to realize the full devastation of the cannibalistic society she found herself living in when it came time for her to think about love, marriage, and a lifelong connection with a valued human being, and while the text is awfully short and Duras misses the mark of compassion at times, there is a whole world to think about in terms of the effect of dehumanization via physical characteristics on the human psyche, as well as how such compares and contrasts with the French Revolution with all its ideals and its horrors. Indeed, the more I think about it while composing this review, the more I consider raising the rating, which should tell you something about the ratio of quantity to quality for this particular piece.
There is something humiliating in not knowing how to tolerate the inevitable.For a long while now, I've made a habit of avoiding pieces of literature that have an almost 100% chance of amounting to little more than artfully contrived (black/yellow/brown)face. It's a matter of recognizing how much unpicking of my thought processes I would have to do should I engage with this kind of content written during an age of continued racialized stratification and segregation, and the more I gained access to voices that far more credibly represented their non status quo personas and cultures, the less I was tempted by the easy pickings born of primarily of exotification. Still, there are times when the piece itself comes from such a singularly rare place that I undertake the risk in hopes that the reward will be sufficient, and here, while it certainly helped that the text didn't take all too long to get through, the writing itself was both unpretentious and incisive enough to impress me. Couple that with the rare view of a certain highly charged portion of history, and you have a recipe for what I dare say can be easily be called, for all the reservations I have about the inherent nature of the material, a classic. Such a statement won't be of much comfort to those who are served up a warmed up TV dinner version of this text through various school assignments, but it spawns enough contentment for me.
I had done nothing—and yet here I was, condemned never to know the only feelings my heart was created for.Shorter works have proved a boon of late due to the severe cramping of my schedule, and it was nice to encounter something relatively out of the blue that managed to surmount my usual dislike of extreme brevity and prove itself all the more impressively in a very short span of pages. I'm not going to demand that Black readers agree with my positive assessments, but there is something to be said for how the character is believable in both her qualities and her flaws, and were she removed to modern times, I feel she would have an easier time not demonizing the entirety of her race based on one sensationalized through severe decontextualization event or another. In any case, this proved to be one of those reads that opened a veritable Pandora's box of, what else did Duras write? Did she have any comrades in feminine authorship of the time? And what is that delightful looking list of translations at the back of this particular edition? So, I move on from this in hopes that I will do some more stumbling in fruitful directions, now knowing that the phrase 'MLA Texts & Translations' is a herald for promising things. I won't promise you that this book has a happy ending. But I can guarantee that it will leave you thinking, and that sometimes is all one can ask.