Monologues de la boue par Colette Mazabrard

Abstract

Reviews 273 Lenoir, Hélène. Tilleul. Paris: Grasset, 2015. ISBN 978-2-246-85676-4. Pp. 190. 16 a. For the two decades she has been writing novels, Lenoir has made her mark as a smithy of dense interior monologues, a characteristic that has justly earned her prose favorable comparisons with that of Sarraute. In Tilleul, Lenoir adds a slow layering of character that foils readerly expectations both about plot and character. For example, it would be logical to assume that the spontaneous love affair that opens the novel will provide its narrative wellspring. Sophie Harper is, after all, a sympathetic if fragile character: a single mother who has managed to raise a daughter into adolescence while working toward the degree that will eventually ensure a decent wage and her longdelayed independence. Her accidental lover, Jonas Raasch, is a sensitive landscaper whose every impulse is to care deeply, perhaps even selflessly. Alternatively, there is potential for feuding in the testy cohabitation of two unrelated families on a divided property. Sophie and her brother, Gilles, have sold off the larger, choicer piece of their inheritance to a family of great means. The new owners dig up the original garden, cut down old-growth trees, and construct an outsized, characterless structure that dominates the lot. But beyond tasteless displays of wealth and bad behavior by spoiled brats—not all of them children—there is little in the way of story development. To the surprise of this reader, the real pith of this novel is in the unspoken conflict between siblings: Sophie has returned to the family home in defeat and out of financial necessity. Gilles, on the other hand, thrives on the arrangement; over-protective of his niece and controlling of his younger sister, he appears to suffer from nothing more than overbearing affection for his closest family members. Indeed, even Sophie, with her years of proximity, sees Gilles as a middle-aged “enfant de chœur asexué et certainement puceau”(136), positively reverent about their deceased mother, playing Scrabble and exchanging banal confidences with an elderly neighbor lady, and focused on desserts. Premonitory signs indicate, however, that Gilles is beginning to run off the rails: his tavern time with questionable cronies lengthens; his concerns for his niece turn obsessive; and for all his unfeigned naïveté, Gilles has secrets, even from his sister. Herein lies the unexpected tale.As with many narratives that stream several alternating consciousness, Tilleul requires a concerted effort to keep characters and developments straight. But the pay-off comes in terms of a subtle rendering of intrigue and a richer sense of human response to what passes, and no doubt should not, for ordinary. Lawrence University (WI) Eilene Hoft-March Mazabrard, Colette. Monologues de la boue. Lagrasse: Verdier, 2015. ISBN 978-286432 -780-6. Pp. 88. 13 a. The narrator is on the road, hitchhiking as far as Belgium, Switzerland, and Spain, but the readers are not sure of her reasons. Predominant in her experience are the rain and mud, the wind and farm animals. She is “tu,” nameless, and in search of inner peace: “Tu écris pour ne pas hurler de solitude, tu écris pour ne pas devenir folle à force de tourner dans la ville sans personne avec qui entrer dans les tavernes tapageuses” (24). She camps out in barns and fields, forests, and along canals. Her images are of the ugly, and are often self-punishing. Her narrative resembles a series of diary entries, and yet, at the same time, is somewhat poetic. Her descriptions include the odors of rancid oil, manure and diesel fuel; her encounters include the old, the weary, and the downtrodden. In two of the villages where she stops, she copies the entire lists of the war veterans of World War I. Her diet consists of sausage and beer, and the occasional coffee. Her vocabulary involves words of darkness, humidity, death, and despair: “Dorée comme une mirabelle, tu aimes la tristesse mélancolique de la pluie. Ta tente pue le lait de vache”(46). Her shoes (and feet) are in ruins. She mentions countless bars, small places where the name would be easily forgettable; she talks of all those...