When I moved out of the house where my girls, their dad and I lived for the better part of their childhood, I thought perhaps I should live in downtown Madison. That trial run is well documented here, on Ocean. The year was 2005 and I was already writing daily posts. But eventually I moved away from work, students, football tailgates, Saturday brawls. Away from the university that so dominated the blocks I had chosen for my new home. I moved closer to two essentials: a grocery store and this was key: closer to a bookstore where I tended to spend a great chunk of my free time. To me, sitting with a milky coffee in the book shop cafe with a pile of books picked for browsing that day was nothing short of bliss. I'd eventually buy the books that really gripped me. Several of those random choices, picked off a shelf, stand out. They were written by people I'd never heard of before: Mary Oliver. Annie Ernaux.
That bookstore is long gone and I've given away most of the books I acquired over the years. Shelf upon shelf of books, packed and given over to libraries, Goodwill. I kept only several dozen. Books I could never give away because of the impact they once had on me. Ernaux's book, A Frozen Woman, is on that shelf of coveted life's favorites. (In those days, it was hard to find more titles by Ernaux. She wasn't fully translated and it was the rare store that had even one of her titles. I did find another -- Simple Passion, which also rests on my shelf of gold.)
I can't say that Ernaux's life was like mine. And I can't say that every emotion she expressed in that autobiographical novel was my own, but there were damn many. Never before and rarely after have I felt so... understood.
It is with something akin to enormous joy, to the point of tears of joy, that I read today that Annie Ernaux was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature.
I could never write with the same fiercely penetration precision that she does, but it is her voice, echoing now constantly in the recesses of my head, that prompted me to start in on Like a Swallow. LAS is a memoir, written in the style of one. Ernaux is, of course, in a different stratosphere of writing. Nonetheless, she'll be for me forever inspiring. Go boldly inside your head, don't hold back. Don't pretend it was like it should have been.
My very early morning today is spent leafing through Annie Ernaux's two books, remembering those years when they felt so deeply mine. Now, living as I do, retired, with Ed who has no intention of ever charting my life in any way, Ernaux books are simply literary gems, bringing out a smile of appreciation for her stories, rather than causing my heart to race.
I see pencil markings in the book. Made more than two dozen years ago. Some are obviously there because her words were like a thunderclap in my soul. Other markings must have simply reflected my love for her style of writing. And now, here she is -- with a Nobel Prize. Fantastic.
At some point I remember to feed the animals and to appreciate the last days of blooms.
And then I get to work. I finish weeding the bed that is suddenly so sunny that it begs for perennials. And I bake a rhubarb cake because we continue to have rhubarb growing right by the path to the farmhouse door.
And I make the decision which plants to bring in. Ten in all. They'll over-winter on our window sills.
In the later afternoon I pick up Snowdrop and we follow our very established routines.
And I take her back, and I visit with my daughter, then return to the farmhouse. With Ed, on the couch.
And so much love...
