L' amant

If a man tells you he loves this book — run. If a woman tells you she loves this book — give her a big hug. Now that I have your attention… Written by Marguerite Duras at 70, The Lover is about her, back then a 15 year-old, and her sexual relationship with a wealthy Chinese man in Vietnam in 1920s, where she grew up. The very introduction of this relationship made me want to quit the book right away. It’s a very, very short book, and just a couple of pages in, I hated it. But then I ranted briefly to the poor Notes app, as I do, then kept reading it and I’m glad I did. Because the book, despite terrible choices of book covers and sleazy movie adaptations, is not about the lover at all. In those few moments he’s in, you realise he is the result of everything else that the book IS about. Duras is reminiscing a couple of years folllowing her father’s tragic death, her family becoming destitute, with her mother, either distant or abusive, who is suffering from, I suppose, a bipolar disorder, and her two brothers, the one that was the only bright presence in her family, and the one that was a vile creature and, as it be, the only person her mother cared about and idolised. Her dissection of her dysfunctional family is honest, raw and disturbing. In a mix of poverty, grief, abuse and a complete lack of both motherly and fatherly love, she only finds comfort and revolt and a sense of control with that man, who showers her with attention and expensive presents and “love” in a dodgy neighbourhood where he acquired them a hiding place. At first, I was sickened by the way she described their encounters. As if, even at her older age, she’s unaware of how wrong it was from his side, with some descriptions even having that not-like-other-girls undertone, especially sickening considering the context. But by the end of it you realise that she’s not catering to the male gaze as it seems at first glance. She needed to believe that she’s special, she needed to believe there’s a deeper reason for him to be with her, at some point even saying he loved her like he would his own child, as if he were her parent. She doesn’t see him as a villain at all, which makes it even more disturbing, and even more sad. Her writing is unquestionably beautiful. Poetic yet so vivid and alive. She remembers in flashes and objects and smells and touches, forming images that sink into your brain, for better or for worse. The neighbourhoods and people in Vietnam, the river and forests and humidity, contrasted with memories of her adult life in Paris and peculiarities she remembers about people she’d since long forgotten. Underneath the loose structure and hazy memories, she’s observant and lucid. My main complaint is something that Duras is not directly guilty of. And that is the fact that it won the award for the best novel of the year in France, at the time when those same “intellectual” circles were actively lobbying for decriminalisation of sex with minors. It makes me uncomfortable to think that there is a possibility that this book was purposefully misinterpreted to reinforce the negative ideas about children and consent. Unfortunately, it probably was. Because there’s a movie, too, which I won’t be watching but based on the description and visuals, I sense it completely misses the point, like every Lolita adaption and every other attempt to depict the exploitation of the most vulnerable as something romantic. I’m appalled at people and directors (unsurprisingly, always men) reading Lolita or The Lover and finding anything remotely romantic in these tragic, heartbreaking stories.