Chapter 51 appendix

wedding mass ——About Emily L. " [France] Marguerite Dura Translated by Wang Daogan Which novel is this book similar to?You tell me ① that;Emily L.It shouldn't be too far from Lol Va Stein.For this point, I have never thought about it.You say: "There is also the difference that in Lohr wa Stein none of the characters ever look at another story, whereas here, in the opening part, there is a woman who wants to write a book, but she didn't know when and how to write it, so she saw and found the story of Emily L. unfolding." But the situation of the woman who wanted to write a book did not Changed by another incident involving a woman sitting in a bar always looking down at the floor.This is not a replacement, replacement.It's just that she's attracted to another story, she's caught, and she starts off with that story.Maybe she didn't know she was creating that story.Things like this always happen and can happen.A story happens suddenly, unfolds, but no writer writes it, only sees it.And well-defined.If one were to write it, one would only have to adjust it a little, and work the rest for comprehension.This situation is rare.But such things can happen.If there is such a situation, that would be great.Sometimes, such a book, I want to write, I have such an idea.I would rather let it be with me, I, I am in that state.It can be said that it is almost involved in the whole process of writing.But such a thing has never happened to me.Irene Landon came every day to ask for some pages already written, to have them typed on the typewriter, and to send them back to me so that I could read them again.So I started again, continuing to write what I had already started.It's an unfettered break.It's like a plain.The scenery has become similar to the one written at the end of the book. As for the light and color, it is still flickering, hazy, between day and night, and there is no wind blowing.Such a scene can not help but make people cry because of some kind of diffracted and tranced emotions.What kind of feeling is that, I don't want to ask.There is no intention of asking to know more.

① Ma Dura's novel "Emily L. "Published in September 1987.French "New Observer" magazine, October 16-22, 1987, No. 1197, was published by Didier Eribon in an exclusive interview with the author. The title should be determined by the interviewer.At the beginning of this article, the interviewer came forward, and soon the interviewee made statements. ② One of the editors and directors of Ziye Publishing House, which published the author's novel. At the end of the book, I considered whether to start writing the second story in the book.I might just start with Emily L.Dancing with the ship's officers on the deck of the ship and describing the dress she wore began.It was a white tunic with blue and green flowers, like calico.That was the dress she wore in the little winter drawing room, four years after that event.I would have written at length about the fabric, its wear, its texture, what people call muslin, and the style of the skirt.Suddenly, it seemed likely that I could write a lot about the dress she had been wearing for four years.I don't know why.Because, needless to say, this dress hugged her tightly, and because it was closest to her body, which was worn out by her skin, it absorbed the fragrance of the body, that of English soap. breath.See how this irrationality suddenly appears?

Emily L.Hadn't something happened with the young keeper on the Isle of Wight?In such cases, they may also reside in that part of the Malaya Islands for a year or two.As soon as that dress is written, they are bound to leave.Things are always going in parallel.Or would she never know that the Watcher was following and finding her?But what's the difference?Since that afternoon scene in the little parlour, to the lover of the young watchman on the Isle of Wight, Emily L.The appearance and non-appearance of are the same.She drifted out, appeared on the deck of the ship, and it was as if he had seen her, he had seen her.In this way, she is still confined to the situation where she may not appear on the scene. Since that afternoon, four years have passed, and before she knew it, she had been gently taken away from the place where she appeared on the scene.

I would like to continue writing my book.But I can't.The time has come when the book must be opened, its whole body must be broken to put in the last chapter, which was written after the book had been put together.The book had to be cut up to introduce the part about dancing with the ship's officers.So I dare not go any further.Should not be extravagant. In that little winter drawing-room in the whiteness of the Isle of Wight, something happened, it was like a mass for a wedding, the young caretaker and Emily L. ．The bond between the woman.That kiss, deliberate and restrained, dignified and courteous in its infernal intensity, the kiss on the eyes and on the closed lips, the long kiss, was hers. Invented, she, as a woman, and given by her own initiative, dedicated to the love that governed their whole life until their death.No sensual gratification, no pleasure of any kind is sufficient to replace this void of absence.It is all this that always fills my heart with infinite excitement whenever I think of her.And now it was the same for him, just like for her.They are united by a kind of cognate relationship belonging to the religious level, an endless derivation.

Emily L.Writing poetry, about which she is silent.Her desire is to write.Her desire, she accepts as a command.This order has been around for a long time.It's very old, very old.I'm tempted to contrast this kind of command with the supreme command that the hunter felt in the dark of spring in prehistoric times, and I think that's the same thing.I see literature in the same way, it's what one can draw analogies to that kind of hunting in prehistoric times.When a word has not yet been written, I see that kind of order as if it has been issued.It is by this power that springs men up and forces them to trudge day and night on the Lorraine mesas to wait for the stag to come out of the great forests of the German land, even though the Germans and the German land had not yet get named.Writing, too.This is a thirst for delicious meat, killing, trekking, exhausting use of force.This is also a kind of blindness.

①A region in eastern France bordering Germany. Emily L.I used to study at school and received a classical education.Studied at a good school in Southampton and is well informed.She also reads.There was another father by his side.I think the father must have talked to his kids about writing or something.It probably started with reading poetry, which is a very common thing in the first place.It must have been him who made her read American poetry and discovered that there was such a woman, Emily Dickinson, who opened the way for modern poetry in English.For her, it started with her father's suggestion to read.Emily would have been able to write without this father, no problem, though it might have been delayed in her life, perhaps in another way.We don't know the reason for people to write or not to write.What we do know is that this is how things often start.At first, in childhood, there was always that father, either because of a certain book, or a female teacher at school, or some woman in a remote settlement on the rice-growing plains of Indochina. They are different, but they have one thing in common, that is, the loneliness of children.

① Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), an American poet, began to write poems at the age of 20. Most of her early poems were lost. After the age of 28, he stayed behind closed doors, and after the age of 40, the reason was unknown.I wrote poems in solitude, leaving more than seven hundred poems. ② Ma Dullah spent her childhood in Indochina. Once, I once talked about this issue. The theme of my story is always the self.I am very sure of that.Even now this book is like that.Even when a novel is being written and the person responsible is absent, the subject of the book is still me.I was begging to write a book, and I found it.So I went to that place, to Kiboff, in order to forget that I was in the process of seeking to write a book.Besides, outside of me, there are no books.

I have often said this, and now I am free to talk about it, about novels written by men.There is a kind of male literature, full of nonsense, chattering, immobilized by knowledge and education, full of cumbersome thoughts, ideology, philosophy, and discourses and comments in disguise. This kind of literature is no longer within the scope of creation, but It's another thing, a kind of arrogance, a kind of thing that generally shows the status of the boss, and it has no specificity at all.In most cases, it is impossible for them to reach the realm of poetry.Poetry has been stripped from them.A man's novel is not poetry at all.As for novels, novels are poems, or they are nothing, plagiarism.

But, you know, male literature, there are exceptions.This occupies only a small part in literature.Literature is a vast and boundless continent.This is the literature of the people, the song, and Stendhal, and Proust... Proust does not belong to the literature of men.This is literature.