The Trolley by Claude Simon
By Claude Simon
Translated by means of Richard Howard
Was capable of finding yet another novella of Simon's. something no longer at the tracker is, in fact, welcomed!
The Nobel Prize winner's beautiful new novel—his first in over a decade. on the age of 88, Claude Simon, a Nobel Prize-winning writer and a cultural icon in France, has written a Proustian novel, intermingling the thoughts of teenybopper and of outdated age. His madeleine is the trolley of the book's identify, the delivery that took him to and from his college each morning of his adolescence. Describing it in beautiful element, the outlet pages are one of the marvels of contemporary French prose. we're magically drawn into Simon's formative years with its gives you and risks. because the ebook progresses, we circulate from formative years into outdated age and our narrator is now on a unique kind of shipping, a cellular health center mattress, starting a distinct voyage into previous age. the mix of the 2 creates a fabulous fugue, person who has been hugely praised by means of the entire French critics and made the ebook into an instantaneous bestseller in France.
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Extra resources for The Trolley
As for that Madame Espinosa, the m other of little Gaguy, our playmate whose indisposition my young cousin had already told me about, this was a sort of beach acquaintance who, if she was received in her salon-shelter by my aunt, was never invited to the musical evenings or the bridge parties my aunt gave about three or four times during the winter in our old family mansion in town, either because the fact that she rented out rooms in her villa was regarded as a comedown in social position, or because she was considered a poor bridge player, or else (though she belonged to a “good” set) because she did not share that exclusive passion for music which pre vailed in our family, the question of Jewishness never having been mentioned, at least in my presence, even by allusion (contrary to the affair of the thousand-legger, 38 The Tr ol le y which my m other made into a lasting grievance) in that nonetheless ultra-Catholic and reactionary milieu, either because it was felt to be in bad taste or else, as seems likely, because it was not current in that extreme southern part of France where many M arranos from the neighboring country had settled, so that for a long time I never knew that the blue-painted sign of the little dry-goods shop which stood at the corner of our street and of which a handwritten version could also be seen among other ad vertisements on the movie-house curtain during inter mission, “Chez Sam: N otions” should have read: “Chez Samuel,” e tc ..
The reader is similarly astonished, to say the least, by the dramatic accounting of certain practices the same nar rator produces at the beginning of Sodom and Gomorrha, the accursed adepts of which he presents at great length before informing the reader that these “accursed” persons are to be num bered in the thousands in every society and that the barons, counts or dukes among his acquaintances bragged to each other about the charms and valor of their splendid footmen. And, as in the case of anti-Semitism, I do not recall, in the course of my childhood and in the most straitlaced milieu of my upbringing, having heard the slightest condem nation of such practices of which the most visible representative himself belonged to what was considered (or considered itself) the “society” (though, in his case, a trifle tarnished) of the town, a man already of 48 The Tr ol le y a certain age who called himself a poet and whose nar rative of such escapades trum peted with great self satisfaction constituted the fabric of universal gossip, his identity as a poet justified by a m onthly page which he composed with the help of friends and of several poet esses, laureates of the “Golden Gorse” in the Floral Games of Toulouse, especially prized for the main column which he perm itted no one else to compose.
Each cry em pha sized by low trills in the bass notes of the piano sug gesting thunderstorm s or else that Invitation au Voyage singing Mon enfant ma soeur and so on after which some one would say Now children It’s time (or It’s late) and to 56 The Tr ol le y get from the left wing to the right I would have to cross the garden shielding the candle constantly threatening to blow out then pulling open the screen door the bottom of which scraped loudly against the doorsill and some times jam m ed and the washer of the handle would come loose the upper part banging against the jamb, then mak ing my way into the dark entrance hall then climbing the dark winding staircase the walls papered if I remember right with an ugly pattern of vertical olive-green and gar net stripes made of im itation plush between thin gold threads then crossing the tiled landing to my bedroom opening the door and releasing each time a gust of air which bent the candle flame almost horizontal but I could have made my way w ithout any light into that bedroom with its wallpaper of huge poppies their hairy stems twist ing upwards against a greenish-gray background.