LAMANTE MARGUERITE DURAS EPUB

adminComment(0)

This page is updated frequently at any time and contains information about books , past and current users, and software. This page also. Translation of: L'amante anglaise. texts. L'amante anglaise. byDuras, Marguerite. Publication date Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. Marguerite Duras El amante El amante Marguerite Duras, adolescente, en el período que ella reconstruye en este libro. Marguerite Duras se convierte de la.


Lamante Marguerite Duras Epub

Author:DORCAS STERNER
Language:English, Arabic, Portuguese
Country:Tuvalu
Genre:Environment
Pages:386
Published (Last):07.09.2015
ISBN:732-8-24350-868-9
ePub File Size:25.72 MB
PDF File Size:11.88 MB
Distribution:Free* [*Sign up for free]
Downloads:44608
Uploaded by: GHISLAINE

notes by H. F. BROOKES and C. E. FRAENKEL. London: Heincmann. Educational. pp. 85P. Marguerite Duras is not especially well served by this. Marguerite Duras: French Writer And Filmmaker, L'amant De Chine Du Nord: amante download l amante or read online here in pdf or epub. please click. bestthing.info Online Source For Free Ebook and. Pdf Downloads. LAMANTE ANGLAISE By Marguerite Duras. Reading is often a favourite pastime for lots of people.

But what can we do, but go on living? I glance outside, and the wind is speeding like my heart is beating, faster and faster, bum, bum, bum, as I get to know you. But suddenly my mind gets back inside. Yes, I was also there when you met the nameless man while crossing the river going back to Saigon with a storm blowing inside the water.

I have to agree with you, The crucial ambiguity of the image lies in the hat. He was elegant, not a white man but wearing European clothes. Again I remember myself, walking hand in hand with a year-old man when I was just sixteen. But while I had two fine sisters, you had two wild brothers that would never do anything.

Going back to your nameless young man, as you told me he got out of the limousine and is smoking an English cigarette.

He slowly comes over to you. I was still a boy, at And you simply got into his car. The door shuts. A barely discernible distress suddenly seized you, weariness, the light over the river dims, but only slightly. Further memories of those times we shared during one of our meetings, comes running back to me. It is as if I was there with you, peeping into your afternoons. He says he loves you madly, says it very softly.

Then is silent. You say nothing. He looked at you in horror, asked, Is that what you want? You said it is. Then you let him say it. The man is a victim of sorts, ruled by fear, especially of his father, and looked down on by colonials because of his skin. Photos are a small, recurring, and significant trope.

In particular, she muses on a non-existent one: If perhaps she actually did? However, long before she wrote this, Duras wrote another, semi-autobiographical novel, The Sea Wall , in It presents a similar picture, but notably different in other ways.

See Jim's excellent review here. It would be easier to think this story is fiction, but evidently the general narrative is true. Both are doomed to discredit because of the kind of body they have, caressed by lovers, kissed by their lips, consigned to the infamy of a pleasure unto death… the mysterious death of lovers without love.

There are far more mentions of fear, madness, and death than of love or even passion. It is more disturbing - or should be - than expected.

View all 32 comments. A world away from the intelligence insulting and glorified trash of E. James, Marguerite Duras has written a sparse, minimal and painfully sad erotic love story that never gets drawn into the realms of romantic fantasy.

And to deeply appreciate 'The Lover', it needs to be looked at from the perspective of Duras herself. Pen was put to paper when she was 70, it's predominantly all about looking back on memories past, and I say it's a painful read, painful in respects to nostalgia, as nostalgia A world away from the intelligence insulting and glorified trash of E. Pen was put to paper when she was 70, it's predominantly all about looking back on memories past, and I say it's a painful read, painful in respects to nostalgia, as nostalgia forms the basis for the story that has origins from her actual youth while living in French Indochina, age fifteen she fell in love with a rich Chinese man.

Duras takes this premise and places a white teenage girl in South Vietnam, into the arms of a wealthy older man who catches her eye while been driven in a limousine. But this is a forbidden love that was always doomed, trying to keep secret from her mother and two brothers she would regularly meet with her lover for moments of passionate bliss. Duras stays away from any attention seeking sexual content, and never covers ground of what's right or wrong, just tells the simple tale of innocence lost.

The narrative at times appears broken, and there is little in the way of dialogue, but his only helps to fortify the reading experience of it feeling like a distant dream.

After being Oscar nominated for her screenplay on the Alain Resnais film classic 'Hiroshima mon amour', Duras would rightly win Frances most prestigious literary prize, the Prix Goncourt, and she will always remains a significant French writer.

View all 12 comments. Desire The first time ever I saw your face was on the ferry. I had my head buried in a copy of the South China Morning Post. My father had said, if I read it every day, I would learn about the world around us, and his boy would become a man.

Only then would I be ready to take over the family business after him. He was right, in his way. I had slept with many girls in Paris, and I bedded plenty more after you, before I married my wife, a virgin until our wedding night. But I didn't sleep with any of these girls out of love or even desire.

I fucked them because I could. They all came to me, because they wanted something that my father had. My father was not an egotistical man. He did not display pride or shame. He did everything out of duty, even make money, download property, run a department store and build wealth. But when it came to the girls I slept with not you , and he always found out about them, he took some delight in my sexual activity. No matter how attractive each one was, he knew that by sleeping with them, I was actually disqualifying them from the race to be my wife and share his wealth.

Everyone I slept with narrowed it down to the one I would eventually marry.

I looked up from the Post, some article on inflation, and I saw you taking a seat opposite me. I gazed at you longer than I should have. Everything about you was wrong. Once I took all of this in, I tried to resume reading the Post. Like a boy. Later the same week, we happened to be on the same ferry again. You were apprehensive at first, but I reassured you of my good faith, and you decided to accept. It helped that I was shaking the whole way through our brief discussion.

While we were talking, we stood side on, so that my driver could see both of us, the sides of our faces and the hints of nervous smiles. Something must have touched him, unless he did it out of a sense of duty to my father, for he took a photo of us that day. He gave it to me when he retired 10 years ago. I have carried it with me, in my wallet, every day since then. That moment, in my eyes, has been engraved in my mind for fifty years.

The image is true, and so now is my memory.

Open Library

After all, it was you who made me a man, not reading the Post. Like my father before me, I am a man of duty. Everything has grown under my watchful and caring eye.

I have done the right thing, and I will die a contented man, if contentment is what I am looking for. No, what that photo and that moment remind me of is my capacity for desire. I already knew the rudimentary mechanics of sex when we stood before each other, a skinny Chinese boy and a skinny French girl, in my bedroom for the first time.

As I had done before, I was shaking. Even my tentative erection looked as if it might shake off and fall to the floor. Until I met you, I had been lonely. I was even lonelier after I had met you, because of the obsessive love I had for you. Still I knew that you would never love me, that you could never love me. I did my best to comply. Although you were a virgin, I made love to you the way you directed me to.

It was different to how I normally did it, well there was one difference, I wept while we made love. The driver soon learned about you, and so did my father. He made his position very clear. But it must have affected me subliminally. For a long time, it seemed as if that torrent would never stop. My father did, and so he built a dam that would contain the flow, and one day the torrent just stopped.

Loving you had made me a man, he knew that, as I did, and although we disagreed wildly, I was reconciled to my future in the family business. As my father loosened his grip on the reins and handed them over to me, I expanded to two and then eventually five department stores, and then years later with such a solid foundation, I started investing in shopping centres in Australia, until my family became the largest private holder of retail real estate in the country. Like my father, I am not an egotistical man or a proud one.

I do this because of duty. But there was a moment when I contented myself with a smile. A youngish fellow, he decided to phone my banker and ask whether I had sufficient funds in my account to clear the cheque. The banker asked what the total sale price was.

The lawyer answered, and my banker laughed. It turned out he had married one of my property managers and was now running a coffee shop, ironically in one of my centres. I have two daughters. They run our portfolio, and they do a more professional job of it than either I or my father ever did. Perhaps, my father was better at taking risks than they are, but to be honest they are pretty good at it.

I am proud of them, and he would be too. They have married well, and have given me four beautiful grandchildren. As I said, I have carried our photo in my wallet for many years, ever since I learned of its existence.

Any other man in my position would possibly say that they had everything that they had ever desired. For me, that is true, except in one sense that I have tried to overlook for fifty years. I once desired you, that skinny white French girl in the fedora. I desired you with an intensity that I cannot find words to describe.

I have tried to rationalise and deny that desire.

And that is actually the truth. I did only desire you once, but that one occasion has lasted fifty years. Now that I am about to die, or think I am, and my family will soon gather around me to say their farewells, I must take a match to this photo and set it alight, like you once set me alight, and perhaps, I will never know, perhaps I also set you alight, if not for as long.

My favourite nurse just brought me an ashtray and a cigarette lighter. It took me two or three attempts to burn this image.

But now it is finished and there are only ashes in the tray, and my failing memory, and when I die and it too goes, there will be nothing left of our desire. View all 58 comments.

Prix Goncourt: View 2 comments. Jul 07, Samra Yusuf rated it really liked it. And time comes, when those fragmented pieces of the past are to be jotted down, the unspoken tale to be spoken after all, to let out the stories inside us, not to seek a sympathetic heart or to moan over our losses, we say our hearts just for the sake of saying, to breathe freely, to be at peace.

I see the war as like him, spreading everywhere, breaking in everywhere, stealing, imprisoning, always there, merged and mingled with everything, present in the body, in the mind, awake and asleep, all the time, a prey to the intoxicating passion of occupying that delightful territory, a child's body, the bodies of those less strong, of conquered peoples. Because evil is there, at the gates, against the skin.

He will always feel the same for her, he said! View all 26 comments. It has been translated to 43 languages and was awarded the Prix Goncourt. It was adapted to film in as The Lover. Set against the backdrop of French colonial Vietnam, The Lover reveals the intimacies and intricacies of a clandestine romance between a pubescent girl from a financially strapped French family and an older, wea Set against the backdrop of French colonial Vietnam, The Lover reveals the intimacies and intricacies of a clandestine romance between a pubescent girl from a financially strapped French family and an older, wealthy Chinese man.

She attracts the attention of a year-old son of a Chinese business magnate, a young man of wealth and heir to a fortune. He strikes up a conversation with the girl; she accepts a ride back to town in his chauffeured limousine. Oct 13, Vessey rated it really liked it Recommended to Vessey by: Is it pleasure or pain?

Can and should we try to control it? To trust it? To understand it? Do we shape our desires or do they shape us? What part of us is desire? Is it the purest and deepest aspect of human nature? Where does it come from? Can a desire on its own be vile or virtuous or only actions are bound to be judged? How much do we know about our desires and where do they lead us? What brings two people together?

What brings together a French girl and Chinese man twelve years olde Desire. What brings together a French girl and Chinese man twelve years older than her?

Set in the s in Indochina, this is a tale about two people trying to break their bonds, but unable to do so. They are kindred spirits in more ways than one.

They are both oppressed by their families, they are both unable to understand their feelings. They lose themselves in passion that is born from more than romance. It is a passion for change, for freedom. But can there be truly freedom in desire? Is desire bound to enslave us or free us? Buddhists believe that desire is the reason for all human suffering and only liberation of desire may lead to ultimate happiness.

Marguerite Duras

But along with pain can we also find pleasure in unfulfilled desires? Is all longing pain and dissatisfaction? Can it be an inspiration, a fuel? Should we give up the possibility for more in order to fully enjoy what we have now or should we sacrifice some of that bliss for the hope of a bigger one?

Longing brings pain and emptiness with itself, but it also makes the good part even better. Which is better? An ordinary, calm, perfect happiness or happiness stained by the pain which comes with longing, but also enriched by the intensity and passion that come along with it? The former sounds better if we accept that happiness is just a lack of pain.

But Is it just that? They also desire what ultimately can never bring them happiness. Often the greatest joys and sorrows are consequences of each other. This is a story of doomed lovers, who love each other with all the intensity and passion of people who know they are about to lose each other. But he never said anything about the images he saw behind his closed eyes.

Do we treasure the most that which we are bound to lose? Do we sometimes risk to lose it in order to feel it more intensely? If we always want more, does that make us adventurers, masochists, seekers of wisdom…or maybe just people? Desire can built us or ruin us. Sometimes is does both. If desire is pleasure and pain equally, how do we cope? How do the protagonists do it? She admits her feelings only in the end, when she has already lost him.

Maybe because she was afraid that loving him would make the loss all the more painful? Maybe this is why he loves pain. It is pain born out of feeling which he savours at its wholesome. Do we dare to be adventurous and desire or are we determined to treasure that which we already have?

Dreams of the future can both enrich and rob us of our present. It is all about balance. We should always look with hope for the future and dream, but not in a way that makes us forget the value of that which we have now. We should always remember the value of what we already have, but we should also always remember to dream. Worlds are built on dreams and desires.

Read count: View all 25 comments. Apr 02, Praj rated it it was amazing Shelves: Dearest Marguerite, I know it is awfully late now, to write to you.

I could not resist though. I thought about you the other day; as her eyes scanned the Chinese gentleman for the first time, on the ferry to Mekong. The demure young features veiled under a mannish hat, gave away precocious impression of a 15 year old girl as he offered her a cigarette.

The statuesque Chinaman who exuded charm and eloquence was besotted by her as she was by him. He was to be her lover; an escape from the abhorrent Dearest Marguerite, I know it is awfully late now, to write to you. He was to be her lover; an escape from the abhorrent and impoverished life.

Navigation menu

On the brink of her sexual exploration, she yearned for the pleasure of his touch, his embrace; a world that was beyond the imagination of a young school girl.

Over the years, the book was disparaged for its pedophilic nature and the overtly sexual display of a young girl romanticizing to the term 'prostitutes'. The story is far more complicated than just the exterior of a love affair.

It delineates a distorted notion of true love if the term is applicable here , the hypocrisy of social mores and the chaos derived from infidelity and wealth. I have cherished the book for decades now, and words fail me in expressing my heartwarming thankfulness for bursting my initial deluded bubble of an idyllic Nancy Drew utopia, exposing the discrepancies of a flawed society and sullied emotions. Life unexpectedly became a rational place to live in.

View all 14 comments. Xiaolu Guo. Something dark and deeply unsettling simmers angrily beneath the surface of this narrative. This 'something' becomes so potent a force, arousing fear and feelings of disgust in the reader, that one is often tempted to abandon reading and save oneself from all the unpleasantness Duras shoves right in the reader's face without inhibitions. It is a tale of Marguerite Something dark and deeply unsettling simmers angrily beneath the surface of this narrative.

It is a tale of Marguerite Duras' childhood years spent in what is modern day Vietnam and reads almost like a memoir or piece of non-fiction at times. The narrator of The Lover is sometimes a young girl of 15, sometimes a woman, sometimes a mere child, sometimes an old lady living in France as an established novelist and sometimes a girl caught in a painful identity crisis.

Duras' erratic narration and tendency to flip back and forth between the past and present and her personal contemplations slightly in a Slaughterhouse-Five ish way ensure that the reader occasionally loses the thread connecting all the events. But even so the story resonates strongly with the one reading and and one can barely prevent a disturbing image of human suffering from being burned into their mind. The unnamed narrator's voice is strangely full of apathy and indifference.

It almost lacks a clear character. There are times when the resentment in this young girl reaches a fever pitch and thrashes about restlessly for an outlet into the realm of reality. But in the very next moment, it reduces in intensity and assumes its former state of equanimity. It is as if she is torn between feelings of revulsion and longing and cannot pick one over the other.

Her existence itself seems precariously balanced on the predominant emotions of hatred and love that she feels for the people closest to her. She begins a turbulent love affair with a much older, rich Chinese man and this, in turn, becomes both a boon and a bane for her. He becomes her safe haven from the cruelties of life and the emotional and physical abuse she silently suffers at the hands of her own family members.

But then, he also becomes the cause of her social stigma and shame - thus he is her tormentor and her savior at the same time. Initially it is hinted that the young girl is cold and indifferent towards her lover and possibly does not reciprocate his feelings. But at the end of the affair, she comes to the realization that her love for him may have been genuine after all. A perpetual state of chaos seems to prevail inside the adolescent protagonist's head and this almost becomes an accurate reflection of the tumultuous times of a colonized, multi-cultural, multi-ethnic Indo-China present Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia - a war-ravaged land whose fortunes remained at the mercy of various colonial masters for decades.

Even though a doomed romance forms the main subject matter of this book, what often overshadows its acutely depressing tones, is the looming presence of Indo-China. Duras' love for this land shines through the haze of her traumatic years. Because interspersed between the disturbing imagery, there are beautiful descriptions of Cholon, the Chinese capital of French Indo-China, bustling with life and activity, the river Mekong and the morning ferry carrying its passengers across to Saigon, where the young girl goes to boarding school.

Thus it is heartening to see that Vietnam is not reduced to the status of a mere backdrop in a tale of personal miseries but comes alive in its state of silent agony, in Duras' sparse but beautiful prose. Its sights and sounds and smells and landscapes become an integral part of this semi autobiographical novella and add a distinct character to it. There's nothing solid separating us from other people.

They don't know of our existence. We glimpse something of theirs, the sum of their voices, of their movements, like the intermittent hoot of a siren, mournful, dim. Whiffs of burnt sugar drift into the room, smell of roasted peanuts, Chinese soups, roast meat, herbs, jasmine, dust, incense, charcoal fires, they carry fire about in baskets here, it's sold in the street, the smell of the city is the smell of the villages upcountry, of the forest. But even then it rightly deserves the 4 stars I awarded it, simply because it succeeds in painting a moving picture of ambivalent relationships, that transcends the boundaries of race or ethnicity and appeals to the universal human spirit.

View all 27 comments. L'Amant looks simple on the surface. Marguerite Duras, about 70 when she wrote it, tells you about her first affair, with a rich Chinese man. She was a fifteen year old girl in colonial-era Vietnam, he was a dozen years older. Her family was desperately poor. Her mentally ill mother tacitly condoned the relationship; Marguerite's lover was generous, and they needed the money.

Then she screamed at her daughter and beat her. The language is plain, unadorned and impersonal, stripped to its bare ess L'Amant looks simple on the surface. The language is plain, unadorned and impersonal, stripped to its bare essentials.

Sometimes I almost felt I was reading a math text. The author is not trying to tell you a love story or complain about how fate, her lover or her family mistreated her. She just wants to write down what happened and make peace with it.

Lamante marguerite duras pdf

The result is a beautiful and deeply affecting book. I wish I could write something like this. I thought back to things that had happened to me when I was a teenager and I tried to write about them the way Duras did, and I couldn't do it. I can't detach enough. I can't be sufficiently objective. I can't stop myself from judging or interpreting.

Here's a fragment, one piece I can see clearly. I hadn't seen my lover for some weeks; she had been sent overseas by her parents. Maybe it was because they disapproved of our relationship. I went to visit her. She came to meet me at the station. We went to a cheap hotel. We both were introduced to this world by tortured mothers, who experienced this deep despondency about living.

Sometimes it lasted, sometimes it would vanish with the dark. That image of our mothers certainly stayed with both of us for life, my friend. But what can we do, but go on living? I glance outside, and the wind is speeding like my heart is beating, faster and faster, bum, bum, bum, as I get to know you. But suddenly my mind gets back inside. Yes, I was also there when you met the nameless man while crossing the river going back to Saigon with a storm blowing inside the water.

I have to agree with you, The crucial ambiguity of the image lies in the hat. He was elegant, not a white man but wearing European clothes. Again I remember myself, walking hand in hand with a year-old man when I was just sixteen. But while I had two fine sisters, you had two wild brothers that would never do anything.

Going back to your nameless young man, as you told me he got out of the limousine and is smoking an English cigarette. He slowly comes over to you. I was still a boy, at And you simply got into his car. The door shuts. A barely discernible distress suddenly seized you, weariness, the light over the river dims, but only slightly.

Further memories of those times we shared during one of our meetings, comes running back to me. It is as if I was there with you, peeping into your afternoons. He says he loves you madly, says it very softly.

Then is silent. You say nothing.That even if her French family was penniless and hungry, they still felt superior compared to Asians Chinese and Vietnamese included because they have whiter skin. The book is an experiential wonder, slipping between past and present, the concrete observations of the moment and whimsical, beautiful thoughts of the natural world and the history of mankind. The air was blue, you could hold it in your hand. Written as a novel, there is no doubt, however, that we have our own love story when, at 15, she maintained a relationship in Indochina in the s while her mother, an impoverished teacher with three children, tried to reach at the end of the month.

I answered that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to write, nothing else but that, nothing. Due to the economic situation of the family, Marguerite herself was in a boarding s Marguerite Duras has written retrospectively the hypnotic story of her strange relationship with the son of a millionaire Chinese, at least 15 years older than her. The characters in this story are nameless.

L' amant by Duras, Marguerite. I wish I could write something like this. I can't detach enough.

ALANNA from New York
Feel free to read my other posts. I take pleasure in footvolley. I fancy sharing PDF docs longingly .
>