But this novelist, and I share many things in common. We grew up very similar, similar aspirations, a similar observation, similar everything.
My respect reaches mountains that I can't even climb. I can only rhapsodize and praise her aptitude. A strong women who wore her destiny well, and frighten of its outcome, but stood tall.
Enough of my praises!
"The Lover" describes a scrabbling of thoughts, of past indiscretions. Painting a picture to an unforgettable love affair, and literary figure sees the future of literature, mankind, her's, and her family in ardent detailing scenes. As if you could smell the burnt sugar, roasted peanuts, incense, monsoon season.
Visualizing the whitewash walls, the rice fields, the Mekong ferry, dainty room where she embraced, enamoured, her first and last true lover.
A young girl dressed to attract attention from wealth, her family silently encourage this behavior, because of poverty.
You can see it, sign in exasperation, suddenly melancholy takes over.
While the chinese lover played a big part in her autobiography, it shadows the saddens, pain, despair of the family that lays in ruin; one look at each other reminds each other of it, so they stay away from each other, or fight to the death, torture one another, endlessly.
A sad inescapable battlefield.
|Photo taken By Nailah D'arcy|
Marguerite Duras explains death is her, its in her blood, an immortality that seethes the family offspring.
She fears fear itself, it haunts her in ever shadow of the way, it consume her, and becomes a drinking endeavour. She speaks of her lover, the tell of star-crossed lovers that involves race, and wealth plays an intrinsic part, yet, they desperately needed each other out of loneliness.
Tears fall in their last moments, they cry endlessly holding each other, with her back turned from him; knowing this will be the end of an opulent happiness, they'll never find elsewhere.
But, the realization is that they both enjoy the misery. Its all they ever known, Its what gives the surge of love.
The struggle of alienation of class, and race, wealth, ostracized the family from everyone. The quality they have is only their white skin color, to claim superiority.
Her past wane on her, it showed in her appearance, wiriness of the lack integrity of others wore in her declining beauty, as she goes into details the first three pages.
Random flashbacks contrived to truth, that she understood, now and then; the unequivocally last cry before death evolves her. You can hear the sound of the clicking, and taping of her forcefully, ferociously as she conjunction the story together, on the typewriter.
Her farewell is in this effortless classic.She knew death was around the corner, she could not run, or hide from it, she bargained with death, for the chance to write, a few more novels.
Then she was gone.
Her style of writing, is a labyrinth of creative input.
You either comprehend it, or you don't.The sadness is there, esoterically only a few, will truly understand her life.
"The Lover" epitomise an understanding, a farewell to the past and to the future.