DesireThe first time ever I saw your face was on the ferry.I had my head buried in a copy of the South China Morning Post. My father had said, if I read it every day, I would learn about the world around us, and his boy would become a man. Only then would I be ready to take over the family business after him.He was right, in his way. I was thin and soft and naïve, even though I had just returned from two years in Paris. I was still a boy, at 28. I’m sure I would have continued as a boy, unless I had met you.I had slept with many girls in Paris, and I bedded plenty more after you, before I married my wife, a virgin until our wedding night. But I didn't sleep with any of these girls out of love or even desire. I fucked them because I could. They came to me eager to be fucked, and we all knew the reason, my family’s wealth and increasing prominence in Saigon. They all came to me, because they wanted something that my father had.My father was not an egotistical man. He did not display pride or shame. He did everything out of duty, even make money, buy property, run a department store and build wealth. But when it came to the girls I slept with (not you), and he always found out about them, he took some delight in my sexual activity. No matter how attractive each one was, he knew that by sleeping with them, I was actually disqualifying them from the race to be my wife and share his wealth. Everyone I slept with narrowed it down to the one I would eventually marry.I looked up from the Post, some article on inflation, and I saw you taking a seat opposite me. I gazed at you longer than I should have.Everything about you was wrong. You were Caucasian, white, 15 ½ years old, slim, you were wearing a flowing dress that alternately swayed in the breeze or clung to your body, outlining and highlighting your petite breasts. And you were wearing a man’s fedora and gold shoes.Once I took all of this in, I tried to resume reading the Post. I was looking down at the page, but I couldn’t distinguish a single word, I was thinking of you and I was shaking. Like a boy.Later the same week, we happened to be on the same ferry again. I didn’t see you on board, but when my father’s driver (until recently, when he retired, my driver) opened the door to the limousine, I noticed that you were standing near the waterline, apparently deciding what you would do next.I went up to you, determined to offer you a ride in my car, I mean my father’s car. You were apprehensive at first, but I reassured you of my good faith, and you decided to accept. It helped that I was shaking the whole way through our brief discussion.While we were talking, we stood side on, so that my driver could see both of us, the sides of our faces and the hints of nervous smiles. Something must have touched him, unless he did it out of a sense of duty to my father, for he took a photo of us that day.He gave it to me when he retired 10 years ago. I have carried it with me, in my wallet, every day since then. Until today, I haven’t pulled it out and looked at it again. I didn’t need to. That moment, in my eyes, has been engraved in my mind for fifty years. The only difference is that the image confirms that I was there, that it wasn’t all in my imagination, you can see both of us. The image is true, and so now is my memory. Only I’m not sure whether I ever wanted to be reminded. It’s not that the photo reminds me of a time when I was a boy. After all, it was you who made me a man, not reading the Post.Like my father before me, I am a man of duty. I have faithfully taken care of my wife, my family, my family’s business. Everything has grown under my watchful and caring eye. I have done the right thing, and I will die a contented man, if contentment is what I am looking for.No, what that photo and that moment remind me of is my capacity for desire. It is something I eliminated from my field of vision after we parted company, at my parents’ insistence, and you returned to Paris, I thought, with your mother.I already knew the rudimentary mechanics of sex when we stood before each other, a skinny Chinese boy and a skinny French girl, in my bedroom for the first time. As I had done before, I was shaking. Even my tentative erection looked as if it might shake off and fall to the floor. It’s funny now, but it wasn’t funny then.Until I met you, I had been lonely. I was even lonelier after I had met you, because of the obsessive love I had for you.You said, “I’d rather you didn’t love me, but if you do, I’d like you to do as you usually do with women.”I asked, “Is that what you want?”You nodded. Still I knew that you would never love me, that you could never love me.I said, “You’ve come here with me as you might have gone anywhere with anyone.”You replied, “I can’t say, so far I’ve never gone into a bedroom with anyone.”You begged me, again, to do what I usually did with the women I brought to my room.I did my best to comply. Although you were a virgin, I made love to you the way you directed me to. It was different to how I normally did it, well there was one difference, I wept while we made love.The driver soon learned about you, and so did my father. He could tell I felt differently about you, that I wasn’t disqualifying you, that I wanted to marry this white girl, even though you would never love me in return.He made his position very clear.“I will not let my son marry this little white whore from Sadec.”I tried to obliterate his attitude from my thinking. But it must have affected me subliminally. In bed, as we fucked more and more passionately, I would call out, “My whore, my slut, you are my only love.” And you and I and my cum and your juices and our sweat would be swept up in a torrent of desire.For a long time, it seemed as if that torrent would never stop. I didn’t know where the waters sprang from, but I definitely didn’t know where they were heading.My father did, and so he built a dam that would contain the flow, and one day the torrent just stopped.Loving you had made me a man, he knew that, as I did, and although we disagreed wildly, I was reconciled to my future in the family business.As my father loosened his grip on the reins and handed them over to me, I expanded to two and then eventually five department stores, and then years later with such a solid foundation, I started investing in shopping centres in Australia, until my family became the largest private holder of retail real estate in the country.Like my father, I am not an egotistical man or a proud one. I do this because of duty. But there was a moment when I contented myself with a smile. I had just signed a contract to purchase a centre in Australia for A$30 million. I signed a cheque for a A$3M deposit and gave it to the Vendor’s lawyer. A youngish fellow, he decided to phone my banker and ask whether I had sufficient funds in my account to clear the cheque. The banker asked what the total sale price was. The lawyer answered, and my banker laughed. “There are enough funds in this account to pay the entire sale price in cash.”The lawyer turned to me, squeamishly, and declared that we had a deal. I said, “I was under the impression we had a deal before you phoned my bank.”I enquired after that lawyer once. It turned out he had married one of my property managers and was now running a coffee shop, ironically in one of my centres.I have two daughters. They run our portfolio, and they do a more professional job of it than either I or my father ever did.Perhaps, my father was better at taking risks than they are, but to be honest they are pretty good at it. I am proud of them, and he would be too. They have married well, and have given me four beautiful grandchildren.As I said, I have carried our photo in my wallet for many years, ever since I learned of its existence.Any other man in my position would possibly say that they had everything that they had ever desired.For me, that is true, except in one sense that I have tried to overlook for fifty years.I once desired you, that skinny white French girl in the fedora. I desired you with an intensity that I cannot find words to describe.I have tried to rationalise and deny that desire. I’ve tried to convince myself that I only ever desired you once. And that is actually the truth. I did only desire you once, but that one occasion has lasted fifty years.Now that I am about to die, or think I am, and my family will soon gather around me to say their farewells, I must take a match to this photo and set it alight, like you once set me alight, and perhaps, I will never know, perhaps I also set you alight, if not for as long.My favourite nurse just brought me an ashtray and a cigarette lighter. It took me two or three attempts to burn this image. It didn’t seem to want to go.But now it is finished and there are only ashes in the tray, and my failing memory, and when I die and it too goes, there will be nothing left of our desire. Mural at the Pawpaw Cafe attached to the Brisbane Restaurant "Green Papaya"
***AWARDED THE 1984 PRIX GONCOURT***“The story of my life doesn’t exist. Does not exist. There’s never any centre to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it’s not true, there was no one.” The young Marguerite DurasShe has pretty hair, copper hair that spools down her back in waves of alluring movement. People always comment on how beautiful her hair is which she interprets to mean that they don’t find her pretty. She cuts her hair off. She wears what is left in pigtails. She buys a man’s hat that is certainly eccentric for a young girl to wear in Saigon in 1929. She wants people to notice her eyes, her lips, certainly something other than her hair. She wants reassurance that her beauty is larger than one exquisite feature. She is fifteen and a half. Her father is dead. Her mother is poor. Her older brother is a layabout, spoiled by her mother. Her other brother is nice, but no match for the rest of the family. She is lost in a world between adulthood and childhood, a dream world, and a world of harsh realities. Her mother insists that she study mathematics, but she wants to be a writer. She has a friend at school. A lovely friend totally uninhibited and unaware of how beautiful she is. ”Hélène Logonelle’s body is heavy, innocent still, her skin’s as soft as that of certain fruits, you almost can’t grasp her, she’s almost illusory, it’s too much….I am worn out with desire for Hélène Logonelle. I am worn out with desire.”He has a limousine with a chauffeur. He is rich, or let me be more precise, his father is rich. He is Chinese. He is infatuated with her. He trembles with fear born desire.She wants them both. ”I’d like to give Hélène Lagonelle to the man who does that to me, so he may do it in turn to her. I want it to happen in my presence, I want her to do it as I wish, I want her to giver herself where I give myself. It’s via Hélène Logonelle’s body, through it, that the ultimate pleasure would pass from him to me. A pleasure unto death.” Tony Leung Ka Fai and Jane March star in the 1992 French Film.He is twenty-seven, but it is as if she were older. He is slender, insubstantial, built like a boy. A man trapped in a young mind. Arrested development. ”He often weeps because he can’t find the strength to love beyond fear. His heroism is me, his cravenness is his father’s money.” He is hindered instead of strengthened by his father. He is obsessed with her, with her nubile body, but knows his father will never let him keep her. ”She wasn’t sure that she hadn’t loved him with a love she hadn’t seen because it had lost itself in the affair like water in sand and she rediscovered it only now, through this moment of music flung across the sea.”This book is based on the real life of Marguerite Donnadieu better known as Marguerite Duras. She was born in Saigon and did have a wealthy, much older, Chinese lover. At fifteen I think most of us believe we will love many people. We will have many exciting affairs of the heart. True love will be a field of flowers not a single stem already residing in the hand. At fifteen, even when we think we are in love, we can’t know whether it is real. Our basis of comparison is too slender, too new, too wrapped in hormonal need to really know what we feel is love. I love this picture of Marguerite Duras. The languid, weighted eyelids are a point of fascination.She wrote this novel at the age of seventy. After fifty-five years I’m sure that Duras’s memories have been filtered through many lenses. The sepia tones of her time with her Chinese lover have deepened. The uncertainty is gone and she is left with clear, concise, brush strokes of a commemoration of lost love. This is a novel and from what I read there are deviations from her nonfiction accounts of her first affair, but this book reads of truth. The reader is left with a precise picture of a young woman who may have lost some of her innocence, but gains a self-confidence to break away from her meaningless life and swim for a new shore. If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.comI also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten
What do You think about The Lover (1998)?
It appears as though Duras has entrusted her memories to paper in an involuntary attempt to come clean: in essence this is a fascinating story. I realize what an intriguing experience this must have been for her. As a reader however, I felt like being provided with mere glimpses of a rich and interesting biography. Duras' memories you must color with your own imagination. You need to speculate, in order to fill in the gaps, the details the authors sparse prose does not offer. If anything, this was not an engrossing read. Perhaps it simply has been too long for Duras to recall her childhood, perhaps she - as I suggested earlier - was reluctant to put down in words her disjointed collection of memories, but could not resist the urge to confess. Whatever the case, the author did not allow me to come too close. I couldn't taste prewar Indochina in her words. I could not indulge in the "tumultuous passionate relationship", the back flap falsely promises. In reality, Duras describes in distant, emotionless prose how she, her narrator, surrenders to her Chinese well-doer merely because she feels the responsibility to take care of her poor family, not in the least of her mentally ill mother. And because it may be expected of her anyway, with her gold lamé high heels and cherry-red lipstick. Thus, the young Duras appears mostly unmoved by her Chinese lover. What they share seems a, to them, necessary emptiness, a closeness devoid of intimacy in a city - Saigon - that does not come to life.As the ghost of a slightly uncomfortable dream, The Lover lingered in my mind because of what it could have been, if Duras had been been lured into a richer, more compelling writing style.
—Loederkoningin
Yeah, Star Trek is all about finding the actors who can emote from beneath pounds and pounds of latex. Robert O'Reilly's amazing, he just bugs out those eyes and... damn. After watching the episode, my girlfriend and I must've watched that part about 20 times.
—Kelly
The book is like being trapped inside a deep and disturbing dream on a stifling hot summer night. A dream steeped in melancholy and half memories and you wake up choking. Is it Duras' writing style or the translation that creates the sparse atmosphere, the jumping around from present to memory to thoughts to...I'm not sure exactly what. But it worked so beautifully, so tragically.Early in the book Duras writes about her mother in a way that did something to me. I found myself tearing up, my heart beating a little faster. I put the book aside, picked it up again, re-read, left the room, came back. This book unsettled me. It haunted me. If you've lost your mother, if you never had a relationship with her, if she was troubled or cold or failed to love you....the first thirty pages of this book will slay you.And then we meet the lover. And his hands. And his mouth.You need pauses to breathe during this book. It plows into your gut and you're there, right there, in the jungle, in the heat, in the darkness and you can barely see through the fog. You can just make out the shadows and shapes of the story but you're never entirely sure what's going on. You feel the lover's breath on your flesh and you should be squirming, because this is after all another Lolita, but you're not squirming. You're not. You're hypnotised and depressed and lost and, just like the narrative, you're broken into pieces.
—Mary
