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Do You Hear Them?
The setting of Nathalie Sarraute's Do You Hear Them? is a dinner conversation between a father and his old friend about a recently acquired pre-Columbian statue. As they discuss the merits of the piece and art in general, the father hears his children upstairs giggling. This childish mirth is barbaric and devastating to the father, for in their laughter he hears them mocking his "old-fashioned" viewpoint and the energy he wastes by collecting lifeless objects. In his mind, they have no respect for what has been of greatest importance in his life.
147 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
About the author
Nathalie Sarraute
75 books247 followersNathalie Sarraute (July 18, 1900 in Ivanovo, Russia – October 19, 1999 in Paris, France) was a lawyer and a French writer of Russian-Jewish origin.
Sarraute was born Natalia/Natacha Tcherniak in Ivanovo (then known as Ivanovo-Voznesensk), 300 km north-east of Moscow in 1900 (although she frequently referred to the year of her birth as 1902, a date still cited in select reference works), and, following the divorce of her parents, spent her childhood shuttled between France and Russia. In 1909 she moved to Paris with her father. Sarraute studied law and literature at the prestigious Sorbonne, having a particular fondness for 20th century literature and the works of Marcel Proust and Virginia Woolf, who greatly affected her conception of the novel, then later studied history at Oxford and sociology in Berlin, before passing the French bar exam (1926-1941) and becoming a lawyer.
In 1925, she married Raymond Sarraute, a fellow lawyer, with whom she would have three daughters. In 1932 she wrote her first book, Tropismes, a series of brief sketches and memories that set the tone for her entire oeuvre. The novel was first published in 1939, although the impact of World War II stunted its popularity. In 1941, Sarraute, who was Jewish, was released from her work as a lawyer as a result of Nazi law. During this time, she went into hiding and made arrangements to divorce her husband in an effort to protect him (although they would eventually stay together).
Nathalie Sarraute dies when she was ninety-nine years old. Her daughter, the journalist Claude Sarraute, was married to French Academician Jean-François Revel.
From Wikipedia
Sarraute was born Natalia/Natacha Tcherniak in Ivanovo (then known as Ivanovo-Voznesensk), 300 km north-east of Moscow in 1900 (although she frequently referred to the year of her birth as 1902, a date still cited in select reference works), and, following the divorce of her parents, spent her childhood shuttled between France and Russia. In 1909 she moved to Paris with her father. Sarraute studied law and literature at the prestigious Sorbonne, having a particular fondness for 20th century literature and the works of Marcel Proust and Virginia Woolf, who greatly affected her conception of the novel, then later studied history at Oxford and sociology in Berlin, before passing the French bar exam (1926-1941) and becoming a lawyer.
In 1925, she married Raymond Sarraute, a fellow lawyer, with whom she would have three daughters. In 1932 she wrote her first book, Tropismes, a series of brief sketches and memories that set the tone for her entire oeuvre. The novel was first published in 1939, although the impact of World War II stunted its popularity. In 1941, Sarraute, who was Jewish, was released from her work as a lawyer as a result of Nazi law. During this time, she went into hiding and made arrangements to divorce her husband in an effort to protect him (although they would eventually stay together).
Nathalie Sarraute dies when she was ninety-nine years old. Her daughter, the journalist Claude Sarraute, was married to French Academician Jean-François Revel.
From Wikipedia
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
October 19, 2020
Another lovely little gem from Nathalie Sarraute. I snagged a hardcover first edition of this one at the thrift store for only $3! Was thrilled as it's one of the few novels of hers that I own back in Florence but haven't yet gotten around to reading, so win/win, I got a nice book to add to my library when I get back and also something to read these months while abroad and away from home.
Written in Sarraute's usual no exposition, impressionistic style of thoughts and dialogue attributed to nameless hes, shes, and mostly theys, Do You Hear Them? (from 1972) deals with the generation gap, pitting the seriousness of an art collector father and an unspecified number of giggling daughters, the "plot" centering around a family-owned work of Mesoamerican sculpture and the daughters' laughter--which prompts the father to exclaim the novel's title to a visiting friend. In classic Sarraute fashion, this laughter and the father's attitudes toward his daughters are spun again and again as per their intentions, exploring the dynamics between them, the love, suspicion, duty, resentment, differences, education, culture, as pivots between one generation and the other, one gender and the other, etc. etc. It drags just a bit about 2/3 of the way through, but the ending was wonderful and, by then, I'd really came to admire the concise whole of it. For me this is one of Sarraute's best novels.
Written in Sarraute's usual no exposition, impressionistic style of thoughts and dialogue attributed to nameless hes, shes, and mostly theys, Do You Hear Them? (from 1972) deals with the generation gap, pitting the seriousness of an art collector father and an unspecified number of giggling daughters, the "plot" centering around a family-owned work of Mesoamerican sculpture and the daughters' laughter--which prompts the father to exclaim the novel's title to a visiting friend. In classic Sarraute fashion, this laughter and the father's attitudes toward his daughters are spun again and again as per their intentions, exploring the dynamics between them, the love, suspicion, duty, resentment, differences, education, culture, as pivots between one generation and the other, one gender and the other, etc. etc. It drags just a bit about 2/3 of the way through, but the ending was wonderful and, by then, I'd really came to admire the concise whole of it. For me this is one of Sarraute's best novels.
March 22, 2022
Con decir Nouveau roman muchos lectores huyen despavoridos y otros nos quedamos a ver qué pasa. A intentar entender qué es lo que pasa.
En mi caso, que soy un lector sin conciencia sobre los estilos o tendencias que lee, siento atracción por estos autores complicados; te sacan a bailar toda la noche y apenas podés seguir sus pasos. Te embriagan en esas páginas donde parece no pasar nada para que pase todo. Te obligan a derrochar imaginación, a tirar de brújula.
En estas 125 páginas Sarraute nos plantea una situación que parece muy concreta: dos amigos frente a frente mirando una estatua y un grupo de jóvenes riendo en la habitación de arriba. A partir de esa, toda la acción de la novela, uno se sorprenderá metido en el bucle que lo llevará a pensar en educación, en la madurez, en el valor del arte, en el paso del tiempo… En ser hijo, en ser padre, en todo lo que pensamos sin decir…etc.etc.
Más al fondo, sin duda, viejos intelectuales franceses y Mayo del 68.
En mi caso, que soy un lector sin conciencia sobre los estilos o tendencias que lee, siento atracción por estos autores complicados; te sacan a bailar toda la noche y apenas podés seguir sus pasos. Te embriagan en esas páginas donde parece no pasar nada para que pase todo. Te obligan a derrochar imaginación, a tirar de brújula.
En estas 125 páginas Sarraute nos plantea una situación que parece muy concreta: dos amigos frente a frente mirando una estatua y un grupo de jóvenes riendo en la habitación de arriba. A partir de esa, toda la acción de la novela, uno se sorprenderá metido en el bucle que lo llevará a pensar en educación, en la madurez, en el valor del arte, en el paso del tiempo… En ser hijo, en ser padre, en todo lo que pensamos sin decir…etc.etc.
Más al fondo, sin duda, viejos intelectuales franceses y Mayo del 68.
September 13, 2026
Painful to read, but captures something true about the pettiness, the obsession, the instability, the incoherence, of being a human. Of the closest relationships, those you are most tightly connected to. Yet, despite the closeness (because of it?) it’s still possible to manufacture so much.
One of those novels where every part of being wants to stop reading. Every moment requires force of will. But, it reminds you of something undeniable. And so it is precious.
Secondary commentary:
[Writing her concept of tropism - from biology, where it means an involuntary orientation toward a stimulus. A plant bending toward light, for example.
For her it means the tiny, extremely rapid inner movements underneath conscious thoughts, declared emotions, and social behaviour. Before you can name a feeling there is something much messier: a bodily contraction, a flash of humiliation, attraction, aggression, suspicion, pleasure, recoil. Then consciousness arrives and builds a story around it.]
[And the father’s attachment to the statue isn’t simply satirised. At some moments the thing seems to give him access to something genuinely extraordinary: permanence, beauty, something outside the frantic movements of human judgement.]
[Sarraute said she wanted to depict interaction between consciousnesses so close that they almost fuse, with what one person feels or attributes to another passing between them.
That’s why reading it feels less like inhabiting several clearly bounded minds and more like being inside a shared nervous system.]
Quotes:
Why, of course, they had seen, they had heard, they had taken in... fully... There's not a tremor in him, however slight, that they don't sense right away, taught, drilled by him as they are, possessing all the most detailed maps, real ordnance maps, gifts from him, constantly being brought up to date under his guidance, of this terrain which they are now occupying in complete security... the sharp peals of their laughter slip into every coil, permeate every recess...
Fleeing from there, running toward them... Impatient to join them, to find again in them this secret particle of himself that all his life he had helped to crush, that he had thought was buried and which had come to life again in them... hastening to recover that, what there was that was best in him...
They had known how to keep it, to preserve it in themselves, they let it bloom freely in broad daylight, they who have always refused compromises, abdica-tions. They who dare-they have the courage-when the moment comes, if such is their desire, their whim, slightly to stretch themselves, stifle a yawn, rise perfectly naturally, take leave, go...
Alone now, leaning toward each other, the two friends turn in every direction the stone set before them on the low table... the two misers tenderly stroke this precious chest, this casket in which there has been deposited, in which is locked up for safekeeping, preserved for all time, something that calms them, reassures them, ensures them security... Something permanent, immutable... An obstacle set on the path of time, a motionless center around which time, ar-rested, is revolving, forming circles... They hold on to that, seaweed, swaying grasses clinging to the cliff...
Yes, thanks, yes, “There’s no accounting for tastes," yes, one should not make impossible demands, set one's heart on the moon... There's no accounting for tastes... Everyone is free. Everyone is alone. We die alone. That's the common lot. Yes that's it.
Thank you very much. Yes. There's no accounting for tastes...
In predisposed organisms, on propitious terrains, the slightest germ will develop, proliferate... However much you asepticize, filter, take out of their hands, burn everything that risks contaminating them... fashion magazines, comic strips... turn off the radio, the television, tear down sign-boards, posters... As soon as he is with them his eye becomes a perfected instrument for detecting, perceives everywhere and follows up in them as though on an X-ray photograph, the course of the malady, the progress of the lesions... He will readily spare no effort, avail himself of all his knowledge to preserve them, restore them to health... triturate them, model them... apply the most recently recommended methods to them... depositing in them without their knowledge, leaving within their reach...
Have they come near? Are they busy sniffing, feeding?... Incapable of waiting any longer, he half opens the door, sticks his head in... They don't hear him... stretched out on the bed, they are turning pages, they pause, absorbed... they let him approach, take from their hands, tear up, trample... There that's what I do with them... But where did you get them? And how can you waste your time like that?... He stamps his foot, he shouts, they must perceive in his voice the puerile fury of the weak, childish despair... Well, it's
• very simple. Do you hear me: I want none of that in my house. And that's that. Period. When all is said and done, this is my house, you're under my roof.
You know that I forbid. I prohibit... With dilated pupils their vacant eyes glance off him without seeing him as he leaves....
But they lose nothing by waiting, they'll see, they'll learn that he's the stronger. One day they'll be starved and whether they like it or not, they'll have to eat what they're given, the food that's left in the little captive animal's cage...
they'll have to make up their minds...
But great attention must be paid, he must take pre-cautions, above all so they won't be able to suspect that he is there crouching, watching... they would turn aside right away.
But quite evidently this is only a pretext, the first one at hand... he can use everything... everything can be used to keep alive his distrust, his hostility… the hatred he has for us…
No more struggling... What's the use?... We have to understand finally that we've had our turn, and that it's up to them to play...
We'll have to submit, let ourselves be taken in hand...
Not struggle, kick when they try gently but firmly to mold us, swaddle us, turn us over and over with looks, with gestures of indulgence, of tender pity. And it's even better to precede them, to appear before them more bent over than the weight of the years would demand, pant a bit more... ah these old bones, ah this old heart... Be touchingly coy... Know how to practice this art. Those who refuse to do so, those who try in a cowardly manner to get out of doing it, are pitilessly called to order, after a brief, mocking glance, by the first bicyclist they've allowed to graze them, when they step too soon onto the street, when they walk too close to the edge of the sidewalk...
That's true, they are right, how could these old sclerotic words retain, enclose the fluid, fluctuating thing that circulates among us, in constant transforma-tion, spreading out in every direction, that no boundary can stop... that is ours, ours alone... What outside word can set things right between us, separate or bring us together?... You know perfectly well that here, between us, all these words... We used them for fun.
In play...
One of those novels where every part of being wants to stop reading. Every moment requires force of will. But, it reminds you of something undeniable. And so it is precious.
Secondary commentary:
[Writing her concept of tropism - from biology, where it means an involuntary orientation toward a stimulus. A plant bending toward light, for example.
For her it means the tiny, extremely rapid inner movements underneath conscious thoughts, declared emotions, and social behaviour. Before you can name a feeling there is something much messier: a bodily contraction, a flash of humiliation, attraction, aggression, suspicion, pleasure, recoil. Then consciousness arrives and builds a story around it.]
[And the father’s attachment to the statue isn’t simply satirised. At some moments the thing seems to give him access to something genuinely extraordinary: permanence, beauty, something outside the frantic movements of human judgement.]
[Sarraute said she wanted to depict interaction between consciousnesses so close that they almost fuse, with what one person feels or attributes to another passing between them.
That’s why reading it feels less like inhabiting several clearly bounded minds and more like being inside a shared nervous system.]
Quotes:
Why, of course, they had seen, they had heard, they had taken in... fully... There's not a tremor in him, however slight, that they don't sense right away, taught, drilled by him as they are, possessing all the most detailed maps, real ordnance maps, gifts from him, constantly being brought up to date under his guidance, of this terrain which they are now occupying in complete security... the sharp peals of their laughter slip into every coil, permeate every recess...
Fleeing from there, running toward them... Impatient to join them, to find again in them this secret particle of himself that all his life he had helped to crush, that he had thought was buried and which had come to life again in them... hastening to recover that, what there was that was best in him...
They had known how to keep it, to preserve it in themselves, they let it bloom freely in broad daylight, they who have always refused compromises, abdica-tions. They who dare-they have the courage-when the moment comes, if such is their desire, their whim, slightly to stretch themselves, stifle a yawn, rise perfectly naturally, take leave, go...
Alone now, leaning toward each other, the two friends turn in every direction the stone set before them on the low table... the two misers tenderly stroke this precious chest, this casket in which there has been deposited, in which is locked up for safekeeping, preserved for all time, something that calms them, reassures them, ensures them security... Something permanent, immutable... An obstacle set on the path of time, a motionless center around which time, ar-rested, is revolving, forming circles... They hold on to that, seaweed, swaying grasses clinging to the cliff...
Yes, thanks, yes, “There’s no accounting for tastes," yes, one should not make impossible demands, set one's heart on the moon... There's no accounting for tastes... Everyone is free. Everyone is alone. We die alone. That's the common lot. Yes that's it.
Thank you very much. Yes. There's no accounting for tastes...
In predisposed organisms, on propitious terrains, the slightest germ will develop, proliferate... However much you asepticize, filter, take out of their hands, burn everything that risks contaminating them... fashion magazines, comic strips... turn off the radio, the television, tear down sign-boards, posters... As soon as he is with them his eye becomes a perfected instrument for detecting, perceives everywhere and follows up in them as though on an X-ray photograph, the course of the malady, the progress of the lesions... He will readily spare no effort, avail himself of all his knowledge to preserve them, restore them to health... triturate them, model them... apply the most recently recommended methods to them... depositing in them without their knowledge, leaving within their reach...
Have they come near? Are they busy sniffing, feeding?... Incapable of waiting any longer, he half opens the door, sticks his head in... They don't hear him... stretched out on the bed, they are turning pages, they pause, absorbed... they let him approach, take from their hands, tear up, trample... There that's what I do with them... But where did you get them? And how can you waste your time like that?... He stamps his foot, he shouts, they must perceive in his voice the puerile fury of the weak, childish despair... Well, it's
• very simple. Do you hear me: I want none of that in my house. And that's that. Period. When all is said and done, this is my house, you're under my roof.
You know that I forbid. I prohibit... With dilated pupils their vacant eyes glance off him without seeing him as he leaves....
But they lose nothing by waiting, they'll see, they'll learn that he's the stronger. One day they'll be starved and whether they like it or not, they'll have to eat what they're given, the food that's left in the little captive animal's cage...
they'll have to make up their minds...
But great attention must be paid, he must take pre-cautions, above all so they won't be able to suspect that he is there crouching, watching... they would turn aside right away.
But quite evidently this is only a pretext, the first one at hand... he can use everything... everything can be used to keep alive his distrust, his hostility… the hatred he has for us…
No more struggling... What's the use?... We have to understand finally that we've had our turn, and that it's up to them to play...
We'll have to submit, let ourselves be taken in hand...
Not struggle, kick when they try gently but firmly to mold us, swaddle us, turn us over and over with looks, with gestures of indulgence, of tender pity. And it's even better to precede them, to appear before them more bent over than the weight of the years would demand, pant a bit more... ah these old bones, ah this old heart... Be touchingly coy... Know how to practice this art. Those who refuse to do so, those who try in a cowardly manner to get out of doing it, are pitilessly called to order, after a brief, mocking glance, by the first bicyclist they've allowed to graze them, when they step too soon onto the street, when they walk too close to the edge of the sidewalk...
That's true, they are right, how could these old sclerotic words retain, enclose the fluid, fluctuating thing that circulates among us, in constant transforma-tion, spreading out in every direction, that no boundary can stop... that is ours, ours alone... What outside word can set things right between us, separate or bring us together?... You know perfectly well that here, between us, all these words... We used them for fun.
In play...
January 15, 2012
The kind of literature that needs to digest in your mind between readings. Fragmented sentences slowly give way to a dramatically charged whole. Having not read any of Sarrautes work before I went in expecting something completely different from what I got but somehow I came out on the other side amazed at Sarrautes feat and hungry for more.
April 24, 2025
This is the most avant garde novel I have read. I’m not gonna lie I wanted to throw my laptop across the room like 30 pages in because I was frustrated that I wasn’t following along at first, and certain things were going over my head. As the book progresses, though, I got a better sense of what the author was doing. The book has a stream of consciousness style, very untraditional sentence structure, and the plot and characters are not the focal point. Characters are not named and it is easy to lose track of who is speaking/ if people are speaking or thinking/ where they are and is what I am reading really happening or is it just some abstract idea? The book revolves around a sculpture which is interpreted differently across a generational divide. It raises really interesting questions about art. It’s really helpful to contextualize this text with Derrida’s theory of différance. Art as a sign is constantly shifting, yet retains the trace of past traditions/legacies. I’d love to revisit this book in the future.
October 6, 2019
I imagine it as an impressionistic painting of words. I did not understand and grasp at the outlines of the narrative nor characters before I saw the full composition (or at least half of it).
On page 20 I wanted to smash the book and rip it apart, because I did not understand and I thought that it’s pointless, weak. After I finished the book, my feelings had transformed into the opposite. For me, relevant themes took shape and were much clearer to me by the end.
On page 20 I wanted to smash the book and rip it apart, because I did not understand and I thought that it’s pointless, weak. After I finished the book, my feelings had transformed into the opposite. For me, relevant themes took shape and were much clearer to me by the end.
February 11, 2019
I read this, and there was an extent to which I appreciated it, and especially the obvious influence on Christine Brooke-Rose, but ultimately it felt a little hollow to me. It might benefit from rereading, or it might just be a bit arid as radical stylistic experiments sometimes are.
July 1, 2020
Fog-like narrative. Unique style. I have experience quite weird sensation with this book. But I cannot read twice.
February 26, 2026
He tardado como 50 páginas en entender su estilo y sus ideas, pero cuando lo he hecho ha sido bastante maravilloso (dentro de las posibilidades de la literatura experimental altomodernista)
May 18, 2016
Okay so picture reading Virginia Woolf-- all that out of control watery writing that seems to slip out from between your fingertips before you can look at it properly. Only, take away all of the gorgeous colours and intriguing shapes that you manage to glimpse from the corner of your eye before Woolf's writing evaporates. Or Clarice Lispector minus her intensity. James Joyce without the magnitude. Now for the plot, insert something roughly equivalent to Bowie's "Oh You Pretty Things." You're left with.... this.
I get that books don't always give you things like meaning, beauty, whatever, easily. But there should be something that you can find, or make, or take away, or appreciate, or be pained by. It should not just feel like trudging through ellipses and sentence fragments, which is how I felt reading this. It's not that it's bad-- it flows better than you would expect it to. But- maybe it's just me, or maybe it's the translation- it just feels like empty effort.
Somewhat salvaged by the very end-- having been numb to the first 120 pages, my heart thawed a little bit for the last 20. I'd give it a 2.5 because well, it comes together somewhat decently. But overall-- I got more out of the Bowie song.
I get that books don't always give you things like meaning, beauty, whatever, easily. But there should be something that you can find, or make, or take away, or appreciate, or be pained by. It should not just feel like trudging through ellipses and sentence fragments, which is how I felt reading this. It's not that it's bad-- it flows better than you would expect it to. But- maybe it's just me, or maybe it's the translation- it just feels like empty effort.
Somewhat salvaged by the very end-- having been numb to the first 120 pages, my heart thawed a little bit for the last 20. I'd give it a 2.5 because well, it comes together somewhat decently. But overall-- I got more out of the Bowie song.
April 10, 2013
Blogged about our creative engagement here: http://www.5cense.com/13/devotion.htm
(lets see how long Amazon allows us to put outside links in these reviews...)
(lets see how long Amazon allows us to put outside links in these reviews...)
September 1, 2016
Бред сивой кобылы!
January 13, 2017
meer gemompel en gedachtenkronkels dan gebeurtenissen. plot komt niet ter sprake. moeilijk om te concentreren bij het tramlezen. net de juiste lengte en maakt me benieuwd naar meer boeken van haar
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