Кристин Анго: Incest

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Кристин Анго Incest
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Incest: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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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.

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I was at her place yesterday. In the morning. While I was in Paris, she felt free, to do her usual things. One of the patients, a woman, said to her secretary “what beautiful eyes the doctor has,” in front of her. On Avenue Saint-Lazare last week, Sylvie was attracted by an androgynous young woman; she realized it was me when she saw my profile. At the hotel, I needed a taxi, I was asked “are you ready, sir… oh, I beg your pardon, miss?” My face and allure are ambiguous, always have been. The mark has only deepened given the test results. Even if it’s over. I call two hundred times, but after two days of emptiness, I don’t call on the third, and I don’t call anymore. I never call again. And I don’t care. Me, I wouldn’t have called her again. She called me and said “it would have taken locking me up to keep me from coming to pick you up.” Since you’re at the airport… And yet, I’d already taken out money for the cab fare. At night, I mentally filmed the weekend. I was going home. There was no one at the airport, I’d hoped. Phew. I was calm. I would need some time, some peace and quiet, and then… I’ll meet a guy. Unless I stop everything. We’ll see. For now, I take a cab, I head home. I don’t like taking taxis, they bore me. She had called me in Paris, I was at Frédéric’s, I told him, “tell her I’m gone.” He handed me the phone anyway. “I’ll come pick you up as we agreed? —No, not necessarily.” I’d filmed my arrival. It was fine. I took a taxi. I checked if she was there, she wasn’t. It didn’t make me angry, on the contrary, phew. Finally. Three months. Phew. Next week, I’ll call Mathilde, she’s getting back on Thursday, and we’ll go to a nightclub. I take a cab. It drops me off. I go in. Maybe there’s some mail for me. I look. I unpack. Calm. It’s nice to be home. After four days. I dream. I unpack, I separate out the dirty clothes. That was my movie, it’s not the way things happened. In my movie, I took my trousers to the dry cleaners. I washed a few things by hand. My sweaters smelled of sweat. You can’t even put up with drunkenness in people you love, I thought of that line again. Your little calculations. Your little savings. Your legacy. Your family. Your cousin. NC, Nadine Casta, haine c’est, hate is, this drama, this movie, this money. Since we’d separated, she had made all her little plans, filled all her little weekends in May. And me, naïvely, because she had come to pick me up: For the Ascension Day holiday, I’d like to go to Paris with you, we could stay at Frédéric’s, he’ll be in Italy. We’ll go to the theater, and especially we’ll go see The Mother and the Whore together. And all the other Eustache films. She had planned her weekends in conjunction with her sole heirs, we are separated. For the Ascension Day holiday, Île de Ré with NC.

(I don’t have the right to use real names, the lawyer has forbidden it, not even real initials. “This manuscript repeatedly presents problems with regard to violating the privacy of individuals close to the author, notably her daughter Léonore, a minor, her former partner, Claude, her father [who was engaged in an incestuous relationship with her – see the extended description at the end of this work]. Other individuals also see intimate details of their private lives broadly exposed, notably Marie-Christine Adrey, the author’s lover and the ‘protagonist’ of this work, the actress Nadine Casta, etc. Beyond this general problem, which runs through the entire manuscript, the following passages, which contain particularly imprudent statements, must be removed. She doesn’t want me to call her X. Neither her real name, nor her initials. […] Neither X, nor MCA, nor Marie-Christine Adrey, nor Aime CA. This invasion of privacy is all the more intolerable as Marie-Christine Adrey’s refusal to be identified is emphasized by the author herself and because the revelation of her identity allows her to be connected to the work as a whole. Your cousin. NC, Nadine Casta, haine c’est, hate is, this drama, this movie, this money […] For the Ascension Day holiday, Île de Ré with NC. Invasion of privacy in addition to defamation. Then page 23, Eustache, I’m sorry, but it’s better than Nadine Casta, a defamation, which may not seem objectionable per se, but becomes so through repetition throughout the work of similar phrases that reveal a profound animosity, page 30, Your cousin. NC, Nadine Casta, haine c’est…, calumny, page 61, defamation, page 61, invasion of privacy, page 67, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 74, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 84, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 87, new defamation, page 106, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 110, invasion of privacy, page 111, libel with regard to an obvious attack on the reputation of Doctor Jean-Claude Brot, page 119 to page 123, serious invasion of the privacy of the author’s father, as she recounts their incestuous relations in precise detail. In conclusion: these passages are listed as examples, however the entire manuscript presents a comprehensive problematic of the invasion of privacy of persons mentioned, described, etc., whether they are explicitly identified, as is often the case, or identifiable. The risk of legal action is all the more evident given the pointedness and relentlessness of the attacks and the fact that they constitute attacks on the private lives of private individuals. The damages resulting from judicial action would be significant as no precautions were taken. The lack of moderation or compromise in the author’s statements is a determining element of the work to the extent that it allows the reader access – in so far as is possible – to the author’s passionate insanity.” Well, there you have it.)

X had magical moments. On the phone, comments I would have liked to transcribe. I love you. It’s good when we’re together. It’s good when we… and she was off, Nîmes, Domus, a sofa, we’ll go for a walk, I’ll call you… she laid out our daily life. She would have kept going but vampirism, feeding on, sucking me dry, taking everything, keeping me from living, from breathing, I’m sick of always being reproached for the same thing when the opposite is true. I made an appointment with a children’s shrink. Léonore needs help too. Locked-in syndrome, ways of dying. I pressed my palm against the back of her neck, gently, so she would keep the same rhythm. Bill told me about the disease. Equilibrium will return. No, everything was fine. I dreamed, I thought things over. One half of my life, men, the second, women. PS to Claude: I’ll be thirty-nine on Saturday, that’s probably why this week is so difficult. You’ve probably thought up an entire plan for my birthday, me, I don’t know what I’m going to do. A kiss. “Locked-in syndrome” is a rare form of brain injury. The test results were positive. Always. “Do you want to relax at your place? Do you want me to drop you off, so you can go through your mail in peace?” Yes. She drops me off, a quick kiss, I get out of the car. Ok, everything’s fine. It’s all going the way I filmed it. For my arrival in Montpellier. My departure and my arrival up to then. It’s fine. She came to get me but, apart from the drive, in her car, the Saab, nothing is different. From what I imagined in Paris last night before leaving, at Frédéric’s. The mail, the phone, the dirty laundry, the dry cleaning, the cinema listings, some reading, some rest, and tomorrow, writing. Phew. Three months. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t work. At that point it was getting dangerous. I open the front door. She leaves. I hear the Saab’s motor. The Saab, Île de Ré, NC, they’re supposed to be part of the charm. Yesterday, I said to X, Eustache, I’m sorry, but it’s better than Nadine Casta. She, that it was different, I answered “yes, like homosexuality, always the same argument.” And she, you really just say anything at all. But I insisted: Modiano is better than Rouaud, Eustache better than Nadine Casta, heterosexuality better than homosexuality, doctors better than blue-collar workers. She uses her tongue like a cock. The test results were positive, I loved her tongue. Like no other. My father spoke twenty-five tongues. The doctor and the writer rise from the ranks of murderers, that’s something we had in common. How’s Léonore? She sees Doctor Dhersigny on Thursday the 14th. She was fine when you got back on Saturday? I’m going to have my blood pressure checked this afternoon. If some dramatic event occurred, everything would be more bearable. In Beethoven, the concertos where the orchestra abandons its role of accompanist and comes into direct conflict with the soloist. With X, the change of scenery, transgress, transcribe, transfer, alas, this won’t last. I slept at her place after the airport. I cried. I was so moved. Calf, cow, pig, before falling asleep, I called her “my little girl.” I didn’t know what I was saying, I was falling asleep, I had come. Otherwise, too bad, I’d opened the gate. Carrying my bag, I was halfway upstairs. I dropped my bag. Flew down the stairs four at a time. I opened the door, the street, the car was blocked on the street, she hadn’t taken off yet. I got there. In front of her. I told her “you go and park.” And she “come here.” I let her kiss me in the middle of the street, I don’t give a shit now. Calf, cow. eczema, scaly hands, calf, cow. Her black hair and eyes like the last water lily. Genetically identical animals are rare. Among cows, several dozen for fundamental research. Why MCA? Léonore said to me “you’re crazy about babies,” we were watching television, and then “you’re a mad cow.” I wasn’t able to work before I quit. I did a little on Sunday, Sunday night phew again it’s over. Next to last. Water lily. Before starting again the next day and quitting. I quit, finally. I developed some ideas, scenarios, faxed them to Jean-Marc, they all fell down laughing. I was inspired by Tahar Ben Jelloun, explaining racism to his daughter, to do the same with homosexuality. Calf, cow, pig. What do you think? My sweet little five-and-a-half-year old. You are my love. I know you know this, that you’re my love. My great love. The greatest love of my life. You know it. You know that X slept at our house. You asked me last night, you said “where’s she sleeping?” She slept at our house. It’s quarter to ten, she’s still asleep. She’s tired. I was just making love to her, there it is, that’s what I wanted to explain to you. My love. You know, sweetheart? When she comes back up towards my face, the name on my lips is yours, my beauty. Lé-o-nore. You know what she said this morning when I woke her around six? I woke her up because I was writing down ideas. In my little notebook, you know, on the mantel? I turned on the light, I couldn’t see what I was writing. She said to me, “you’re a little devil with the face of an angel, and I love you.” A little devil because I’d woken her up. The face of an angel because she thinks I have an angelic face. And I love you, because she’s in love with me. You think that’s funny, hunh? A girl who’s in love with another girl. Well, yes, that’s the way it is. She’s homosexual. Frédéric is too, you see. He’s in love with a boy at the moment. They write each other letters but never see each other. That makes Frédéric sad. Some are happy, others are unhappy. I know a writer – unhappy – who masturbates dogs. You don’t know what that means, I’m sure. I’m heterosexual. My sweet. Of course. Straight. Or else how could I have had such a pretty little girl? Never, you understand, not once have I ever felt desire for a woman. A man’s sex penetrates radically. I like what’s radical. Other kinds of penetration are possible, borders, journeys. Crossing borders, go get your globe, I’ll explain. The idea didn’t work, I kept going, I could have stopped. There was an interview with a singer right after the babies. “What effect did learning your father was homosexual have on you? —None, well yes, actually, laughter.” Léonore said “she shouldn’t laugh, it means that he doesn’t love her mama anymore.”

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