This morning I finished reading Marcel Pagnol's Le Chateau de ma Mere (My Mother's Castle). It took three months and lots of help from Google Translate, but I finally made it.
Le Chateau is the second book in a series of four Pagnol wrote about his childhood summer adventures in the hills of Provence.
Le Gloire de mon Pere (My Father's Glory)
Le Chateau de ma Mere (My Mother's Castle)
Le Temps des Secrets (A Time of Secrets)
Les Temps des Amours (A Time of Love)
In April I'm going on a school trip to Aix en Provence, near La Treille, where Pagnol's adventures took place. One afternoon I'd love to find my way into the landscape he so lovingly portrays.
Not up for reading French? They are translated into English, and if you don't mind subtitles the first two were made into movies back in the 90s. I own them both, so if you'd like to borrow, let me know.
I gave the book a 5 on Goodreads:
My favorite passage describes the death of the main character's best friend Lili:
"En 1917, dans une noire foret du Nord, une balle en plein front avait tranche sa jeune vie, et il etait tombe sous la pluie, sur des touffes de plantes froides dont il ne savait pas les noms. . ." (214)
Roughly:
"In 1917, in a dark forest in the north, a bullet to the forehead cut short his young life, and he fell, in the rain, onto the leaves of cold plants whose names he did not know."
Pagnol's lines give me a debilitating cocktail of heartbreak and ecstatic beauty.
Lili who earlier in the narrative, wanders the hills, the sun on his face, with an intimate knowledge of every rock, plant, animal and weather pattern, falls dead in a dark unknown forest.
My gut reaction is to run home and never leave the familiar because of the possibility of disappointment and, well, death.
But Pagnol didn't stay home. He moved to Paris where he became a famous writer and film director, and returned to Provence after he made his name and fortune.
To leave? To stay? Yes. I suppose I will.
Devastating, and beautiful.
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