“The only real happiness is the one you realize as you live it.”
If your idea is to open a book with a classic plot and a subdivision of longer or shorter chapters, this book is not for you.
If, on the other hand, you intend to dive into a new sphere of inner awareness, then take a deep breath of oxygen, and immerse yourself in reading.
A gallery of memories and observations on the meaning of life and the passing of time, on what remains of us in the world when the days to come are fewer than the past ones, and on what remains within us of the world, when we are saturated of life.
A Memoir-style text, but in the third person singular. The author’s memory superimposed perfectly on that of the rest of the world she knew, of her contemporaries. It is no coincidence that the personal pronoun I is never found, but a more generic third person, as if to say that it is a shared memory.
Old age and awareness of what is no longer there as a terminal disease. It is no coincidence that in some respects it reminded us as stylistic architecture and background theme, another always modern book of French literature, such as “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly”: the ability to appreciate the world, only when it is too late, and one is forced to live on memories.
Despite the international scope of the text, the writer’s constant references to French society and culture made us feel that we had not fully grasped the book in all its nuances; and it is perhaps the greatest regret we have. The same displeasure we had as children when we saw a rainbow in the sky, despite its beauty we were always left with a bitter taste in our mouths for not being able to see where it was born, as if something important had been taken away from us.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Annie Ernaux, The years, L’orma, Roma, 2015
Original edition: Les années, Gallimard, Paris, 2008