Yann Andréa Steiner
Marguerite Duras, Mark Polizzotti
Language: English
Pages: 47
ISBN: 2:00157616
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Dedicated to Duras’ companion with whom she spent her last decade of life, Yann Andréa Steiner is a haunting dance between two parallel stories of love and solitude: the love between Duras and the young Yann Andréa and a seaside romance observed – or imagined – by the narrator between a camp counselor and an orphaned camper, a Holocaust survivor who witnessed his sister’s murder at the hands of a German soldier. Memory blurs into desire as the summer of 1980 flows into 1944. An enigmatic elegy of history, creation, and raw emotion.
L'Amour médecin – Le Sicilien ou l'Amour peintre
Vathek (Oxford World's Classics)
Project for a Revolution in New York
staring up at the sky, and she says whatever comes into her head and then she laughs. And the children laugh and listen with all their might. The weather is so calm that bands of swallows come in turn, swirl above the beach, beautiful as gray velvet, as if mad for children, for the flesh of children. As for the children, well, it makes them laugh ... The shark scolds David for crying, the counselor continues. He reminds David that he was the one who gobbled up David’s father and mother, and
And little David too. Yes, repeat the animals. In a marvelous gibberish, the Source says a prayer. The animals answer in their own ways of speaking and this makes for a very unexpected cacophony. And then: And what about killing? Does the child know how to do that? the Source asks, hypocritically. Oh, no, say the animals. Then the animals wait. They remain nearby to keep the Source from doing whatever she can to die. No, say the animals, no, no, no . . . The kid can’t kill anything. Not a
his head slightly raised toward her, listening carefully, and sometimes he smiles. Like her, he smiles. It’s as if she’s happy because of Gdansk, she says. He knows nothing of Gdansk, but he is happy too. She tells of the shark’s visits to David. That one time he comes by with an American accent, another time with a Spanish accent, another time with an accent from nowhere at all, a sneezing, blowing, bellowing accent, and David just has to deal with it. The child laughs. He laughs and laughs and
told you how to find my apartment, which floor, which hallway, which door. You never returned to the city of Caen. It was July ’80. Twelve years ago. You are still here in this apartment, here for the six months of vacation I’ve taken annually since that illness that dragged on for two years. That coma of horror. A few days before they were to “pull the plug,” as the doctors in my ward had unanimously decided, I opened my eyes. I looked around: people, the room. They were all there (so I’ve been
child removed his wool vest, as if he were all alone in the world; he went to drop it near her and then headed off toward the sea with the other children. He didn’t mention the death of the new kite. And very soon he came back up the beach, toward the young counselor. The child is in a white bathing suit. Thin. You can see his body clearly. He is too tall, as if made of glass, a windowpane. You can already tell what he’s going to become. The perfect proportions, his joints, the length of
