• Пожаловаться

Кристин Анго: Incest

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Кристин Анго: Incest» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. Город: Brooklyn, год выпуска: 2017, ISBN: 978-0-914-67187-9, издательство: Archipelago Books, категория: Современная проза / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

любовные романы фантастика и фэнтези приключения детективы и триллеры эротика документальные научные юмористические анекдоты о бизнесе проза детские сказки о религиии новинки православные старинные про компьютеры программирование на английском домоводство поэзия

Выбрав категорию по душе Вы сможете найти действительно стоящие книги и насладиться погружением в мир воображения, прочувствовать переживания героев или узнать для себя что-то новое, совершить внутреннее открытие. Подробная информация для ознакомления по текущему запросу представлена ниже:

Кристин Анго Incest

Incest: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Incest»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

A daring novel that made Christine Angot one of the most controversial figures in contemporary France recounts the narrator’s incestuous relationship with her father. Tess Lewis’s forceful translation brings into English this audacious novel of taboo. The narrator is falling out from a torrential relationship with another woman. Delirious with love and yearning, her thoughts grow increasingly cyclical and wild, until exposing the trauma lying behind her pain. With the intimacy offered by a confession, the narrator embarks on a psychoanalysis of herself, giving the reader entry into her tangled experiences with homosexuality, paranoia, and, at the core of it all, incest. In a masterful translation from the French by Tess Lewis, Christine Angot’s Incest audaciously confronts its readers with one of our greatest taboos.

Кристин Анго: другие книги автора


Кто написал Incest? Узнайте фамилию, как зовут автора книги и список всех его произведений по сериям.

Incest — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Incest», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

I’m twenty-eight years old, no one in the village knows he has a child, in addition to the other two, an additional child, an older girl, that it’s me, and that I ended up going by Angot like him. With regard to acknowledgment, there’s something I wanted to say:


Tough luck


Yesterday, in a conversation with my mother, I’m talking about what happened. She asks her question, “would it have been better…?” Because of something his sister said on the phone that shocked her “one more headache, as if there haven’t been enough headaches already, now he’s going to have another child.” My mother thinks of the poor baby about to be born, none of this is the baby’s fault. My aunt had to put up with a lot, she repeats, I tell my mother that it’s classic, just like my father who must have had to put up with some difficulty or other, to get the upper hand and, in the end, to lose his mind. My mother goes: well, I’ll tell you something: tough luck. No, not tough luck. I explain. I feel neither hatred nor love. She thinks she understands and says “yes, that’s it (her implication ‘like me’) indifference.” No, not hatred, not love, not indifference, it’s my father, not forgiveness, not indifference, nor love of course: acknowledgment. There, that’s it, acknowledgment. He didn’t acknowledge me, but me, I acknowledge him. He’s my father, I acknowledge him. I acknowledge him as my father. He is my incestuous father, I acknowledge that. I am his incestuous daughter, he is my incestuous father, I acknowledge him, he would not acknowledge me, but I acknowledge him. Léonore is his granddaughter, she could have been his daughter, that’s enough.


Digression, I recount a dream


Léonore is his granddaughter, she could have been his daughter, that’s enough. Phew. That’s what I just wrote. And this is the dream I had last week. A quick look backward. Claude and Judith, the daughter of my psychoanalyst in Reims, Jean-Claude Brot, from a long time ago, more than fifteen years, Claude and Judith, she’s blond, about twenty-five years old, they’re attracted to each other, they’ve talked about it, it’s a matter of time. I was sure as soon as I heard that she was going to medical school in Montpellier, she wants to be a psychoanalyst like daddy, she met Claude, she reads my books, she knows who I am, I shaped her father as an analyst, I was his most important patient. Things are taking shape. It’s New Year’s Eve, they’re attracted to each other, apparently she told him some “powerful things.” But when she feels a strong emotion, she represses it. That’s one of her problems. But it’s on my back that they profit. They get a frisson of incest over my body. I shudder. I shiver. It’s a mise en abyme like the vache-qui-rit label that sends you running to the toilet with the urge to vomit. A few days ago I dreamed that Claude and Judith had a child, the child of incest will soon exist in a debased form. Yes, yes, comparisons are always tough. Yes, yes. Yes. Yes… Not tough luck. No, not tough luck. It’s not enough for me to describe rejecting the monster, I live it. I live it, and often at night. I spent an awful day. I take advantage of this to tell Jean-Claude Brot, if he reads this book, that he shouldn’t have talked about me to his children, that was a huge mistake. Even if he said “the young woman,” they were able to recognize me, the proof. He should have talked about me only in work groups, he should have been able to manage. He should refund the cost of my analysis because he ruined everything, blabbermouth. I’m not a topic of discussion. Or for a thrill. I thought about telephoning you, Mr. Brot, but honestly, do I want to spend my life calling out everyone who pulls some shit or other? I’d end up in an ocean of slime. I’ll write and that’s it. My ambition: the extent to which I’m limited, merely to write about that. I can hear you: as for that, Christine Angot, no one is making you say this. Exactly.


Tough luck


Kréma candy, public garden, chocolate cookies with hazelnuts, whole ones, Rue Grande, my childhood friend Jean-Pierre, Chantal Ligot, my wheelbarrow, our store, which we made in the cellar, not the cellar, some abandoned house next door, with broken windows, the turret, the big wooden door we didn’t open. But something else too. Later. From the time I took the name Angot. Do you think it would have been better in the end if you’d never taken the name Angot. Philippe Sollers: Angot, in the eighteenth century, a woman who was prepared to do anything to succeed was called an Angot. The Codec is done. I’m going to get to Le Touquet, I don’t enjoy it. Or sodomization either. I don’t enjoy any of it. The car, giving him blow jobs in the car, eating clementines off his cock, stiff, the pharaohs of Egypt, the day we didn’t go to Carcassonne. Nancy. I’ve already said a lot about it. What else is there? I’m thinking. There’s the adret and the ubac. With Mozart playing in the car, in Isère, where we’d rented a house in a small village for a week or two. He showed me the adret and the ubac on either side of the road, with a cassette tape of Mozart, or Albinoni. It was hell. The clementines, that was there. To hear him push, that was in London in a hotel, around Easter, near Marble Arch. The restaurants, too many restaurants. Too many restaurants and hotels, an enormous number of churches visited, points of interest, including physical, geological, geographical, precisely in Isère a resurgence. Do you know what a resurgence is? And we went to see the resurgence. The guide to Isère is something his father concocted when he worked for Michelin. Not hatred, nor love, nor indifference, acknowledgment. It’s not in my shitty Châteauroux that I ever would have seen a resurgence, not in my mother’s milieu, at least the milieu into which my mother was born. I wouldn’t have learned to speak German sitting at a café table there or gotten 19 out of 20 in Latin on my bac after studying in depth the first two sentences of variant translations.


Le Touquet


Easter vacation. Often at Easter. It was in Le Touquet that he ventured to my genitals. Until then we were restricted to mouths, arms, thighs no doubt, I imagine, to kisses, lots of kisses. Caresses in the largest sense. In Le Touquet he has severe migraines. We’re staying in a hotel in the center of the village, which he had no doubt found in the Guide Rouge. Which I still use myself, by the way, it’s great. Acknowledgment. I don’t know what’s up with him but he insists we go see My Name is Nobody. With that blue-eyed actor, whose name escapes me, Terence Hill? Terence Hill. Of course he was always the one who chose the movies. That’s how I ended up seeing Aguirre, the Wrath of God even though it wasn’t at all appropriate for my age. Or a film with Alain Delon and Senta Berger, she was shown naked, you could always see her breasts, I remember how awkward it was for me. And that he found her pretty. And I was jealous, I was a real idiot. I deserved what happened, I was an idiot. An idiot, a fuckwit, from the cunt, all to explain that I shouldn’t use those words, out of respect for women, that it’s necessary to be polite. Aguirre, the Wrath of God, I can’t think of Klaus Kinski without thinking of my father, I can’t. We go for walks, we go out to dinner, out to lunch, one Sunday midday he points out some homosexuals and explains how they do it, anal sex. I was learning all this at once. I didn’t like My Name is Nobody, I didn’t understand why he had taken me to see it. He read the news. Every day we had to find Le Monde. Every day. He read it every day. He counseled me to do the same. Sometimes he read it in restaurants sitting across from me. He’d offer me a page. Surely I wasn’t always as interesting. He had seen me up close an hour before that was enough, and he would see me again. When I wasn’t bored, it was exhausting. The interesting conversations were exhausting. At home, it was a completely different world, in Reims, Champagne. In Le Touquet he had a lot of headaches. He’d wanted to go back to the hotel so he could rest, in the dark. (When Marie-Christine told me that she wanted to go home after the movie on Sunday, it must have been that, I had another breakdown. Because she was tired and wanted to go home and I would rather have gone for a walk. She cannot understand and today, Tuesday the 22nd, she’s leaving for Paris to stay with Nadine, we separated last night on the phone, it wasn’t definitive, the definitive break happened a little later.) He asked me to come with him, told me it would be nice of me. I wanted desperately to be nice, I really wanted to please him, I wanted him to approve of me. He didn’t protect me at all, I can’t remember him being gentle, not once, for example. For example, if I hurt myself somewhere, would he take my arm and kiss the spot? No. Or would he pull the covers up over me so I wouldn’t be cold? Never. My mother was the exact opposite. She never told me I was extraordinary, I never was extraordinary (Sujet Angot, the narcissism I’ve been accused of, it’s not my fault), but she did pull the covers up over my shoulders, yes. Often. She took wonderful care of me, as a mother. He had headaches, and he wanted to rest in the dark, in his room, shutters closed, as little light as possible, and if possible my hands, my hand on his forehead. I was very, very nice. I was really very nice. He appreciated it very much, it did him so much good, I had no idea how much good it did him. I did him an enormous amount of good. Thank you. Thank you. It did him so much good, so much good, how nice it was of me. There was nothing unusual, nothing complicated, I was lying next to him on the bed, the shutters were closed, I didn’t like it. It was nice outside, I thought it was awful to stay shut up indoors on Easter vacation with my father. And then, I guess, I had to get under the sheets, at some point he must have suggested it. Things went further, he touched my sex at Le Touquet. He said: you know why it’s wet? Because you love. I regret having discovered wetness in circumstances like those.

Читать дальше

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Incest»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Incest» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё не прочитанные произведения.


Ray Todd: Incest niece
Incest niece
Ray Todd
Kathy Andrews: Incest mom
Incest mom
Kathy Andrews
Anaïs Nin: House of Incest
House of Incest
Anaïs Nin
Patrick Modiano: After the Circus
After the Circus
Patrick Modiano
Отзывы о книге «Incest»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Incest» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.