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Tender
The third and final installment of Ariana Harwicz's "Involuntary Trilogy" finds us on familiar, disquieting ground. Under the spell of a mother’s madness, the French countryside transforms into a dreamscape of interconnected imagery: animals, desire, the functions of the body. Most troublingly: the comfort of a teenage son. Scorning the bourgeois mores and conventionality of their small town, she withdraws him from school and the two embark on ever more antisocial and dangerous behavior. Hawicz is at her best here, building an interior world so robust, and so grotesque, that it eclipses our shared reality. Savage, and savagely funny, she leaves us singed, if not scorched.
75 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2015
About the author
Ariana Harwicz
15 books349 followersEspañol/English
~~~
Ariana Harwicz nació en Buenos Aires en 1977. Estudió guión cinematográfico en el ENERC (Escuela Nacional de Experimentación y Realización Cinematográfica), dramaturgia en el EAD (Escuela de Arte Dramático) y completó sus estudios con una licenciatura en Artes del espectáculo en la Universidad Paris VIII y un máster en Literatura comparada en La Sorbona. Matate, amor, es su primera novela.
~~~
Compared to Nathalie Sarraute, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, Ariana Harwicz is one of the most radical figures in contemporary Argentinian literature. Her prose is characterized by its violence, eroticism, irony and direct criticism to the clichés surrounding the notions of the family and conventional relationships. Born in Buenos Aires in 1977, Harwicz studied screenwriting and drama in Argentina, and earned a first degree in Performing Arts from the University of Paris VII as well as a Master’s degree in comparative literature from the Sorbonne. She has taught screenwriting and written two plays, which have been staged in Buenos Aires. She directed the documentary El día del Ceviche (Ceviche’s Day), which has been shown at festivals in Argentina, Brazil, Cuba and Venezuela. Her first novel, Die, My Love received rave reviews and was named best novel of 2012 by the Argentinian daily La Nación. It is currently being adapted for theatre in Buenos Aires and in Israel. She is considered to be at the forefront of the so-called new Argentinian fiction, together with other female writers such as Selva Almada, Samanta Schweblin, Mariana Enríquez and Gabriela Cabezón Cámara.
~~~
Ariana Harwicz nació en Buenos Aires en 1977. Estudió guión cinematográfico en el ENERC (Escuela Nacional de Experimentación y Realización Cinematográfica), dramaturgia en el EAD (Escuela de Arte Dramático) y completó sus estudios con una licenciatura en Artes del espectáculo en la Universidad Paris VIII y un máster en Literatura comparada en La Sorbona. Matate, amor, es su primera novela.
~~~
Compared to Nathalie Sarraute, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, Ariana Harwicz is one of the most radical figures in contemporary Argentinian literature. Her prose is characterized by its violence, eroticism, irony and direct criticism to the clichés surrounding the notions of the family and conventional relationships. Born in Buenos Aires in 1977, Harwicz studied screenwriting and drama in Argentina, and earned a first degree in Performing Arts from the University of Paris VII as well as a Master’s degree in comparative literature from the Sorbonne. She has taught screenwriting and written two plays, which have been staged in Buenos Aires. She directed the documentary El día del Ceviche (Ceviche’s Day), which has been shown at festivals in Argentina, Brazil, Cuba and Venezuela. Her first novel, Die, My Love received rave reviews and was named best novel of 2012 by the Argentinian daily La Nación. It is currently being adapted for theatre in Buenos Aires and in Israel. She is considered to be at the forefront of the so-called new Argentinian fiction, together with other female writers such as Selva Almada, Samanta Schweblin, Mariana Enríquez and Gabriela Cabezón Cámara.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 93 reviews
January 17, 2023
Tender is the third book in what’s been called Ariana Harwicz’s involuntary trilogy, a loose grouping of her works that share themes and styles rather than plot or characters. One of Harwicz’s primary occupations is a decoupling of womanhood from social expectations, particularly expectations around motherhood and the family. Each of Harwicz’s narrators dances along the line between sanity and madness, playing with our assumptions about what women “should” be doing or feeling. The lead in Tender is particularly transgressive. But the freedom from expectations we may have cheered in earlier books begins to look dangerously close to neglect here. When all bounds of propriety are deconstructed, what is left? If this book were simply an exploration of these themes in conventional form, my interest would wane rather quickly. Instead the prose is as feral as the protagonist, a virtuoso performance where narrative conventions are disregarded as thoroughly as thematic boundaries. Clocking in at a lean 75 pages, told without chapter breaks, this is an incestuous tour de force by Harwicz and translators Annie McDermott and Carolina Orloff. Brava.
March 10, 2022
Too bad the 1st novel from my new subscription to Charco was not a success.
The novel was not for me. Too transgressive, too strange, too incesty, the writing was too disjointed. At least it was short.
The novel was not for me. Too transgressive, too strange, too incesty, the writing was too disjointed. At least it was short.
January 29, 2023
I wake up gaping like a forced fed duck when they strip out its live to make foie-gras. My body is here, my mind over there and outside something thuds like a dry heave. It’s still dark and two birds flap violently out if my tree, collide in mid-air and fall dead.
Charco Press is an Edinburgh-based small UK press – they focus on “finding outstanding contemporary Latin American literature and bringing it to new readers in the English-speaking world”.
This is the first book of their sixth year of publication.
In 2017/18 I was a judge for the Republic of Consciousness Prize for small presses and was delighted when we shortlisted Ariana Harwicz’s “Die My Love”, translated by Sarah Moses and Carolina Orloff (the co-founder of Charco).
The book went on to be longlisted for the 2018 Man Booker International Prize – on the website of which at the time both translators made reference to the crucial role played by copyeditor Annie McDermott.
That book (originally published as “Mátate, amor”) was the first of what the author has described as an “involuntary trilogy” or “false trilogy” – because the books are not linked by plot (something in which anyway the author does not believe) but instead by style and by content.
The second of that trilogy – originally published as “La débil mental” was translated by Carolina Orloff and Annie McDermott and published by Charco in 2019 as “Feebleminded”.
And this, with the same translator team as the second book, is the third in that involuntary trilogy, originally published as “Precoz”.
All three books share similarities – all set in the (French) countryside, all feature fierce, often sexually explicit stream-of-consciousness style invective, narrated by an unnamed female (or females) who obsessively refuse to conform to conventional standards of behaviour or to perform within the externally-imposed parameters of family roles – and are prepared to destroy their own life and/or the lives of others to maintain that freedom from societal coercion.
Motherhood is key to all novels. Die, My Love had a depiction of a new mother (which had autobiographical roots); “Feebleminded” of an adult mother/daughter relationship and here we have a mother/son relationship – one which even turns increasingly inwards (and even incestuous) as she takes her son away from the interference of school, police and social services and herself away from her search for affection and sex from other men.
Plot however is not central to the books – the relationships between the characters and what is happening to them only emerging gradually (and then not always clearly) from the stream of consciousness.
The author’s style is very much about transgression – about breaking conventions and boundaries. She starts with language – Spanish (like French) is a partly regulated language with an externally imposed “correct” way to write it; and Harwicz deliberately sets out to write incorrect Spanish – something which she says leads to regular battles with her editors and of course makes the excellent translation into English even more impressive. This corruption of language then contaminates in turn her characters – who are equally transgressive and, as I commented above, striving to break through externally imposed boundaries and conventions.
I found all three novels a raw, searing, disturbing and unsettling read – this one more than its predecessors.
One clear difference between this and the other books though is the structure. The first two novels featured very short sections/chapters – this is one long chapter for the length of the book (only 75 pages).
After the publication of the second book I attended a reading with the author and publisher/translator and my notes of the evening (which I have also drawn on for the comments on transgression above) have the author commenting on her short chapters and saying that the length of the chapters is being inversely related to the intensity of the writing – which involves an emotional investment for both writer and reader which cannot be sustained for longer periods.
But in this case that correlation breaks down – if anything this book is even more intense and transgressive than the first two books (and with a narrator whose links to and cares for a conventional world are even less strong) and combined with the length I did find it very difficult as a result as I was not always able to cope with the sustained emotional investment required.
February 12, 2022
February 12, 2022 Update Some great lines at today's book release for Tender event hosted by Brookline Booksmith in Boston USA. The video should be posted shortly as well at Brookline Booksmith's YouTube channel.
Not so Tender is the Night
Review of the Charco Press paperback (February 15, 2022) translated by Annie McDermott from the Spanish language original Precoz (Precocious) (2015)
Tender is the English translation conclusion of Ariana Harwicz's "Trilogía de pasión mortal*" (Deadly Passion Trilogy), following Die, My Love (orig. 2012/trans. 2017) and Feebleminded (orig. 2014/trans. 2019). The Charco Press synopsis also describes it as an "Involuntary Trilogy." All three books are centred around themes of motherhood, but in unconventional ways that go far afield from standard nurturing into sometimes crazed and desperate feelings of depression, aversion and obsession.
Tender delves into an obsessive mother and son narrative which makes temporal jump-cuts that will disorient and confuse at times, but which is still compelling and immersive in such a way that you can't stop reading it. It draws you into its maelstrom of escape and evasion even if you may not fully comprehend the reasons for all the actions. It is a tour-de-force of writing and in this excellent translation.
Poster for the theatrical adaptation (September 2021) of "Precoz" (Precocious) the original Spanish language novel edition of "Tender". Image sourced from Twitter.
I read Tender through a Charco Press 2022 Bundle subscription, from which it was the first selection. I enjoyed several Charco Press releases from 2018 to 2021 through the Borderless Book Club and the Republic of Consciousness Book of the Month and my own selections. The 2022 Bundle was a convenient option to discover more.
Other Reviews [All are in the Spanish language, turn on web translator]
A Dark Prayer, Review at Eterna Cadencia, December 28, 2015
Precocious by Ariana Harwicz, Review & Interview in Panama Revista, February 16, 2016
Precocious, a Terror Born of Desire, Review at La Tinta, June 2021.
Trivia and Links
* Quote is from the author's Instagram page with a photo of the trilogy here.
Tender is scheduled for official release mid-February 2022. There is no online virtual release event yet scheduled, but watch for one to be announced at the Charco Press events page here.
I am an atheist, but I believe in translators. - Ariana Harwicz.
The author commits the crime, the translator is the one who helps drag the body away. - Ariana Harwicz.
Not so Tender is the Night
Review of the Charco Press paperback (February 15, 2022) translated by Annie McDermott from the Spanish language original Precoz (Precocious) (2015)
¿Qué es escribir para vos?
Escribir no puede ser otra cosa que eso de irse al fondo del océano para volver con los ojos ensangrentados.
[What is writing for you?
Writing cannot be anything other than going to the bottom of the ocean only to return with bloody eyes.] - Question to and answer by Ariana Harwicz. Excerpt from an interview at Panama Revista, Feb. 16, 2016 [link below]
Tender is the English translation conclusion of Ariana Harwicz's "Trilogía de pasión mortal*" (Deadly Passion Trilogy), following Die, My Love (orig. 2012/trans. 2017) and Feebleminded (orig. 2014/trans. 2019). The Charco Press synopsis also describes it as an "Involuntary Trilogy." All three books are centred around themes of motherhood, but in unconventional ways that go far afield from standard nurturing into sometimes crazed and desperate feelings of depression, aversion and obsession.
Tender delves into an obsessive mother and son narrative which makes temporal jump-cuts that will disorient and confuse at times, but which is still compelling and immersive in such a way that you can't stop reading it. It draws you into its maelstrom of escape and evasion even if you may not fully comprehend the reasons for all the actions. It is a tour-de-force of writing and in this excellent translation.
Poster for the theatrical adaptation (September 2021) of "Precoz" (Precocious) the original Spanish language novel edition of "Tender". Image sourced from Twitter.
I read Tender through a Charco Press 2022 Bundle subscription, from which it was the first selection. I enjoyed several Charco Press releases from 2018 to 2021 through the Borderless Book Club and the Republic of Consciousness Book of the Month and my own selections. The 2022 Bundle was a convenient option to discover more.
Other Reviews [All are in the Spanish language, turn on web translator]
A Dark Prayer, Review at Eterna Cadencia, December 28, 2015
Precocious by Ariana Harwicz, Review & Interview in Panama Revista, February 16, 2016
Precocious, a Terror Born of Desire, Review at La Tinta, June 2021.
Trivia and Links
* Quote is from the author's Instagram page with a photo of the trilogy here.
Tender is scheduled for official release mid-February 2022. There is no online virtual release event yet scheduled, but watch for one to be announced at the Charco Press events page here.
March 6, 2023
Okay, I’ve read this twice and that’s because I had no idea what I’d just read. Well, I still feel that way. This is thematically similar to the first two books in the “involuntary trilogy”: “Die, My Love” and “Feebleminded” (my fave in the trilogy), in that it’s about a mother’s complicated/stifling relationship with their child. Here, that relationship takes on an obsessive turn. And an incestuous. What happens when mother and child cannot live without one another?
With “Die, My Love” and “Feebleminded,” it took some time before i gathered my bearings. With this offering, i never did feel grounded. This took stream-of-consciousness to another level. If you tell me you fully understood everything that was going on, I’m going to call you a liar haha. Don’t be fooled by its 75-page length, this one is a challenging read. Probably best to just take it all in in one gloriously unsettling sitting.
Disturbing imagery that sometimes dips into the grotesque. One of those books you’ll probably need to let percolate in the brain before you fully appreciate its macabre beauty.
With “Die, My Love” and “Feebleminded,” it took some time before i gathered my bearings. With this offering, i never did feel grounded. This took stream-of-consciousness to another level. If you tell me you fully understood everything that was going on, I’m going to call you a liar haha. Don’t be fooled by its 75-page length, this one is a challenging read. Probably best to just take it all in in one gloriously unsettling sitting.
Disturbing imagery that sometimes dips into the grotesque. One of those books you’ll probably need to let percolate in the brain before you fully appreciate its macabre beauty.
October 8, 2021
Es difícil si se encara este libro queriendo entenderlo todo... qué es lo que pasa, de qué se trata, quién dice qué cosa. Todo sucede rápido, las escenas se mezclan y confunden. Hay que dejarse vencer por ese amasijo de palabras y es ahí cuando cobra sentido. Un sentido con lógica propia, parecida a las pesadillas.
Él querrá a las que no nacieron, besará un día primero retraído y después con la lengua adentro en esta sala y yo los voy a mirar, sentada en esta silla, trayéndoles algo de tomar o apagándoles la luz. (...) Pero ahora me besa y nos deshacemos, no madre e hijo, dos indocumentados que se cruzan en un paraje, dos aturdidos en la cima de un refugio, dos punks que atraviesan Europa comiendo de la basura pública.
February 5, 2022
Me despierto con la boca abierta como el pato cuando le sacan el hígado para el foie gras. Mi cuerpo está acá, mi cabeza más allá, afuera una cosa golpea como una arcada.
I wake up gaping like a forced fed duck when they strip out its live to make foie-gras. My body is here, my mind over there and outside something thuds like a dry heave.
Die, My Love , co-translated by Carolina Orloff and Sarah Moses and edited by Annie McDermott from Ariana Harwicz's Matate, amor (2012) was one of my highlights of 2017-8: I was proud to be part of the Republic of Consciousness Prize jury that shortlisted it and delighted to see it appear on the Man Booker International longlist: my review.
Die My Love was followed by Feebleminded, translated by Carolina Orloff and Annie McDermott from the Spanish original La débil mental (2014): my review.
La débil mental was Ariana Harwicz's 2nd novel and formed the the second instalment of what the author has referred to as 'an involuntary trilogy' with the first, Mátate, amor and third Precoz (2015).
Die My Love ws also the first book from Charco Press, co-founded by Carolina and her partner Sam McDowell. Tender, Carolina and Annie McDermott's translation of Precoz is their 30th. Reviews of all of them can be found on my Charco Press Shelf.
The three books form 'involuntary trilogy' as Harwicz did not originally conceive of the novels as related, and there is no continuity or overlap between them in terms of plot or characters, but the author explained in a book reading at Shakespeare and Company that she felt herself repeatedly drawn back, as did one of her key influences Ágota Kristóf, to the same themes and setting. Each of the three novels is set in a darkly-drawn and suffocating French countryside, each revolves around a mother - a mother with a new born baby in Die My Love, a mother and her now adult daughter in Feebleminded, and a mother and son, turning into an adult, in Precoz - but in each case experiencing what Harwicz has called an 'asphyxiated motherhood.' And each concerns an obsession, and a self-destructive journey towards that obsession.
In an interview in 2019 the author explained:
What do the novels have in common? To what extent are they in conversation with each other? They have a lot in common. The landscape. The themes: language; foreignness; the interconnection of eroticism, motherhood, and foreignness. It’s as though it were the same landscape, but the camera pans—first, second—the camera keeps panning. It’s like everything is taking place on the same day and is the same movie, but in episodes. I think they have the same atmosphere. So they’re like sisters, cousins. But they’re also independent, and you can start with Precoz, that’s not a problem. Also, each one is a bit more radical than the last. Die, My Love has chapters and lots of characters; Feebleminded has only two characters; and then Precoz is much more radical, because there are no chapters, it’s like one long poem. So they’re sisters, but each one is a bit more “punk.” The last one is the most rebellious.
Here that obsession is with the mother's son, one that crosses into the incestuous, as well as with her lovers. If Die My Love and Feebleminded were intense, this dials it up a notch with less than 100 pages of searing prose, set against a menacingly dystopian backdrop,best read in one breathless take and then immediately re-read.
Tomamos la merienda, leche chocolatada rociada con gotas de oporto, galletas de avena y las horas se adelantan lentas, como una seguidilla de ejecuciones. A cada simulacro de escuadrón el terror regresa. Mi hijo se duerme largo en mi regazo, su brazo sobre mis piernas desnudas cubiertas por un chal, por su cabeza pesada me doy cuenta por primera vez de que es un hombre. Yo sueño con un velero, el otro y yo turnándonos para el mando. Uno abajo abriendo la lata de sardinas, cambiando el combustible, limpiando herramientas. Llevamos un turbante. Y un día yo lo miro y lo amo tanto que le pido por favor que me espere en cubierta con los ojos cerrados. Busco en el bolso de aspillera debajo del camastro, la sorpresa, el revólver y le doy un tiro.
Me asusta despertarme un sábado por la noche y tener a mi hijo encima, dónde están los chicos de tu edad, qué hacen, de qué se ríen los chicos de tu edad, dónde salen, hacen cola en el boliche con pista de madera y bolas de colores, se quedan tocándose detrás de la colina, cómo hablan, con qué se visten, qué marca de cigarros fuman. Ya se le aparecen sarpullidos, ya llegaron las poluciones, pueden tener un ciclomotor, a qué hora les hacen volver sus progenitores. En la puerta de entrada su auto de techo transparente con las luces altas. El foco sobre musarañas que se mordisquean. Me lo saco y queda doblado en la silla. Me paro con calambres pero al salir el auto sale proyectado de la granja. Dentro de mí todo oscurece de tal forma que los pinos son listones apaleándose.
At the weekend we decamp to the lounge and the frozen garden. I play ping-pong on a table he assembled and painted but I can't coordinate my hand movements and my son swears at me every time I serve.You need glasses, you need a girdle, you need more practice. My little ray of sunshine. We stop for a snack, chocolate milk with a drizzle of port, oatmeal biscuits and the hours edge by like a string of executions. With each rifle drill, the terror returns. My son dozes off, stretched long in my lap, his arm over my bare legs, my shawl, the weight of his head my first indication that he's become a man. I dream of a sailing boat, him and me taking turns at the rudder. One of us down below opening the tin of sardines, changing the oil, polishing the tools. Both wearing turbans. And the day comes when I look at him and love him so much that I say wait for me on deck with your eyes shut. Then I reach under the bed for the sackcloth bag, the surprise, the gun and I shoot him.
It's a shock waking up on a Saturday night and finding my son on top of me. Where are the other kids our age, what do they do, what makes kids your age laugh, where do they go, do they queue outside the nightclub with the wooden floor and mirror balls, do they fiddle with themselves behind the hill. How do they talk, what do they wear, what cigarettes do they smoke. Have the breakouts started, the wet dreams, are they allowed mopeds, what time do their progenitors expect them home. At the front door, his car with the see-through roof, full beams on the shrews as they nibble each other and I push him off. He folds into the chair. I get up with cramp but when I step outside the car surges away from the farm. Inside me everything darkens until the pines are swishing like whips.
Recommended, particularly as part of the trilogy of novels. And I look forward to Charco Press hopefully bringing us a translation of Degenerado.
I wake up gaping like a forced fed duck when they strip out its live to make foie-gras. My body is here, my mind over there and outside something thuds like a dry heave.
Die, My Love , co-translated by Carolina Orloff and Sarah Moses and edited by Annie McDermott from Ariana Harwicz's Matate, amor (2012) was one of my highlights of 2017-8: I was proud to be part of the Republic of Consciousness Prize jury that shortlisted it and delighted to see it appear on the Man Booker International longlist: my review.
Die My Love was followed by Feebleminded, translated by Carolina Orloff and Annie McDermott from the Spanish original La débil mental (2014): my review.
La débil mental was Ariana Harwicz's 2nd novel and formed the the second instalment of what the author has referred to as 'an involuntary trilogy' with the first, Mátate, amor and third Precoz (2015).
Die My Love ws also the first book from Charco Press, co-founded by Carolina and her partner Sam McDowell. Tender, Carolina and Annie McDermott's translation of Precoz is their 30th. Reviews of all of them can be found on my Charco Press Shelf.
The three books form 'involuntary trilogy' as Harwicz did not originally conceive of the novels as related, and there is no continuity or overlap between them in terms of plot or characters, but the author explained in a book reading at Shakespeare and Company that she felt herself repeatedly drawn back, as did one of her key influences Ágota Kristóf, to the same themes and setting. Each of the three novels is set in a darkly-drawn and suffocating French countryside, each revolves around a mother - a mother with a new born baby in Die My Love, a mother and her now adult daughter in Feebleminded, and a mother and son, turning into an adult, in Precoz - but in each case experiencing what Harwicz has called an 'asphyxiated motherhood.' And each concerns an obsession, and a self-destructive journey towards that obsession.
In an interview in 2019 the author explained:
What do the novels have in common? To what extent are they in conversation with each other? They have a lot in common. The landscape. The themes: language; foreignness; the interconnection of eroticism, motherhood, and foreignness. It’s as though it were the same landscape, but the camera pans—first, second—the camera keeps panning. It’s like everything is taking place on the same day and is the same movie, but in episodes. I think they have the same atmosphere. So they’re like sisters, cousins. But they’re also independent, and you can start with Precoz, that’s not a problem. Also, each one is a bit more radical than the last. Die, My Love has chapters and lots of characters; Feebleminded has only two characters; and then Precoz is much more radical, because there are no chapters, it’s like one long poem. So they’re sisters, but each one is a bit more “punk.” The last one is the most rebellious.
Here that obsession is with the mother's son, one that crosses into the incestuous, as well as with her lovers. If Die My Love and Feebleminded were intense, this dials it up a notch with less than 100 pages of searing prose, set against a menacingly dystopian backdrop,best read in one breathless take and then immediately re-read.
Tomamos la merienda, leche chocolatada rociada con gotas de oporto, galletas de avena y las horas se adelantan lentas, como una seguidilla de ejecuciones. A cada simulacro de escuadrón el terror regresa. Mi hijo se duerme largo en mi regazo, su brazo sobre mis piernas desnudas cubiertas por un chal, por su cabeza pesada me doy cuenta por primera vez de que es un hombre. Yo sueño con un velero, el otro y yo turnándonos para el mando. Uno abajo abriendo la lata de sardinas, cambiando el combustible, limpiando herramientas. Llevamos un turbante. Y un día yo lo miro y lo amo tanto que le pido por favor que me espere en cubierta con los ojos cerrados. Busco en el bolso de aspillera debajo del camastro, la sorpresa, el revólver y le doy un tiro.
Me asusta despertarme un sábado por la noche y tener a mi hijo encima, dónde están los chicos de tu edad, qué hacen, de qué se ríen los chicos de tu edad, dónde salen, hacen cola en el boliche con pista de madera y bolas de colores, se quedan tocándose detrás de la colina, cómo hablan, con qué se visten, qué marca de cigarros fuman. Ya se le aparecen sarpullidos, ya llegaron las poluciones, pueden tener un ciclomotor, a qué hora les hacen volver sus progenitores. En la puerta de entrada su auto de techo transparente con las luces altas. El foco sobre musarañas que se mordisquean. Me lo saco y queda doblado en la silla. Me paro con calambres pero al salir el auto sale proyectado de la granja. Dentro de mí todo oscurece de tal forma que los pinos son listones apaleándose.
At the weekend we decamp to the lounge and the frozen garden. I play ping-pong on a table he assembled and painted but I can't coordinate my hand movements and my son swears at me every time I serve.You need glasses, you need a girdle, you need more practice. My little ray of sunshine. We stop for a snack, chocolate milk with a drizzle of port, oatmeal biscuits and the hours edge by like a string of executions. With each rifle drill, the terror returns. My son dozes off, stretched long in my lap, his arm over my bare legs, my shawl, the weight of his head my first indication that he's become a man. I dream of a sailing boat, him and me taking turns at the rudder. One of us down below opening the tin of sardines, changing the oil, polishing the tools. Both wearing turbans. And the day comes when I look at him and love him so much that I say wait for me on deck with your eyes shut. Then I reach under the bed for the sackcloth bag, the surprise, the gun and I shoot him.
It's a shock waking up on a Saturday night and finding my son on top of me. Where are the other kids our age, what do they do, what makes kids your age laugh, where do they go, do they queue outside the nightclub with the wooden floor and mirror balls, do they fiddle with themselves behind the hill. How do they talk, what do they wear, what cigarettes do they smoke. Have the breakouts started, the wet dreams, are they allowed mopeds, what time do their progenitors expect them home. At the front door, his car with the see-through roof, full beams on the shrews as they nibble each other and I push him off. He folds into the chair. I get up with cramp but when I step outside the car surges away from the farm. Inside me everything darkens until the pines are swishing like whips.
Recommended, particularly as part of the trilogy of novels. And I look forward to Charco Press hopefully bringing us a translation of Degenerado.
January 29, 2022
This book is the third book in what I have seen referred to as Harwicz’s “involuntary trilogy”. The first part was “Die, My Love” and the second “Feebleminded”. The set of books is not a trilogy in the conventional sense: it doesn’t have a plot (the individual books don’t really have plots and the author is not interested in plots) or recurring characters. The trilogy concept is concerned with the ideas presented in the books and with the style in which they are written. Structurally, this third book is actually quite different: it is presented to us as a single 75 page chapter (this is a short novella, almost a short story) instead of multiple brief chapters we see in the other books. As with the other two books, this one is told in a kind of stream-of-consciousness by an unnamed woman. It, like its predecessors, has motherhood as a key concept - here the key relationship is a mother and her son.
This book is intense. I think probably the best way to experience it is to set aside 1-1.5 hours, hide yourself away somewhere where you won’t be disturbed and just read it cover to cover. I did this. Then I had to do it again because I wasn’t really sure what I had read.
Imagine a poet watched a Quentin Tarantino movie and then wrote a prose poem about it. That’s a bit what it is like to read this book. It’s probably not doing Harwicz or Tarantino any justice to make that analogy, but it’s the best I can come up with. This one is, I think, more intense and unsettling than its two predecessors. It is probably deliberately a short book because I am not sure many readers would be able to cope with it if it were maintained over the conventional length of a novel.
Tender is a dark novella. In a lot of ways it is just my kind of book. It is poetic in its language, has no real plot but a huge amount of atmosphere and it is feverishly powerful. It is also a bit uncomfortable to read. I’ve recently been reading quite a bit of Denis Johnson and he is another author who could use language to make you almost feel the dirt and squalor, the general seediness of the world in which his characters live. Harwicz does a remarkable job of this here.
Well worth reading, but you might feel the need to wash your hands at the end.
PS I am intrigued by the cover. Charco Press books always have interesting covers. Normally, you can sit with them for a while and work out how they relate to the book. With this one, I haven't been able to do that yet. And, strangely, the cover shown here on Goodreads is subtly different to the cover of the actual book I read.
This book is intense. I think probably the best way to experience it is to set aside 1-1.5 hours, hide yourself away somewhere where you won’t be disturbed and just read it cover to cover. I did this. Then I had to do it again because I wasn’t really sure what I had read.
Imagine a poet watched a Quentin Tarantino movie and then wrote a prose poem about it. That’s a bit what it is like to read this book. It’s probably not doing Harwicz or Tarantino any justice to make that analogy, but it’s the best I can come up with. This one is, I think, more intense and unsettling than its two predecessors. It is probably deliberately a short book because I am not sure many readers would be able to cope with it if it were maintained over the conventional length of a novel.
Tender is a dark novella. In a lot of ways it is just my kind of book. It is poetic in its language, has no real plot but a huge amount of atmosphere and it is feverishly powerful. It is also a bit uncomfortable to read. I’ve recently been reading quite a bit of Denis Johnson and he is another author who could use language to make you almost feel the dirt and squalor, the general seediness of the world in which his characters live. Harwicz does a remarkable job of this here.
Well worth reading, but you might feel the need to wash your hands at the end.
PS I am intrigued by the cover. Charco Press books always have interesting covers. Normally, you can sit with them for a while and work out how they relate to the book. With this one, I haven't been able to do that yet. And, strangely, the cover shown here on Goodreads is subtly different to the cover of the actual book I read.
November 17, 2016
Muy buena novela. La voz narrativa de Precoz es extraordinaria. Harwicz escribe palabras que vienen desde un fondo oscuro en el que hay humanidad pero no hay palabras. Algunos registros generan reminiscencias que recuperan al Samuel Beckett maduro de la trilogía novelística, al Maurice Blanchot iluminado de la escritura del desastre, al Hermann Broch onírico de La Muerte de Virgilio. Esta lectura es tan densa que se necesita ajustarla a un modo nocturno, narcótico, inconsciente, para que sea factible. El relato se ubica en los márgenes de la sociedad actual, en su desnuda crueldad. La miseria, el hambre, la violencia, el incesto, la muerte. Una madre y un hijo. La Europa de hoy que se arrastra desde su ilustre historia hacia un presente inhumano, post-apocalíptico, incomprensible. El escalofriante siglo XX de Hobsbawm ha pasado, pero el siglo XXI también es macabro. Todo es confuso, horroroso. Pienso que la potencia narrativa de Harwicz es apabullante, dionisíaca. Quien narra en la escritura de Harwicz vive en un mundo que se lleva mal con el lenguaje, que no lo respeta porque intuye la obviedad de sus limitaciones. Pero el lenguaje toma revancha. Su venganza es implacable. La lectura se vuelve expulsiva cuando el lenguaje resulta vapuleado. Precoz es un gran desafío para el lector. Si la lectura sobrevive, la recompensa es una experiencia transformadora, una experiencia que se destroza a sí misma.
February 5, 2022
i wake up gaping like a force-fed duck when they strip its liver out to make foie gras. my body is here, my mind over there and outside something thuds like a dry heave.completing her sisterly triptych, tender (precoz) finds argentine author ariana harwicz at her feral, frenzied best. following die, my love and feebleminded, tender is the tautest and most untamed of the three. a tale of mother and son, harwicz's latest is a driving, unrelenting, and ultimately unsparing work, presented in a feverish stream-of-consciousness-like tangential surge. anger and resentment and desperation simmer and burble, with harwicz's impassioned prose and fertile imagery demanding wide-eyed attention and visceral response.
i'd have made a good mud wrestler, a good hunter, a lucha libre contender, waking up every day and getting my teeth into something, it must be fascinating living to destroy.
*translated from the spanish by annie mcdermott (almada, levrero, lozano, trías, et al.) & carolina orloff (charco press co-founder)
April 26, 2022
Me pasa con Ariana que a ratos se aleja tanto del canon que el resultado parece impostado. Escribe hermoso, en su prosa hay mucho de poesía y frases que se quedan clavadas en la cabeza luego de leerlas, pero el resultado final? No lo sé.
Hay mucha similitud entre sus libros: las temáticas tabú (a estas alturas un poco forzado), la prosa disgregada, las imágenes sueltas. Funciona pero cuando ya has leído todo lo de ella, se vuelve repetitivo y pareciera que cada libro nuevo es simplemente una continuación de lo ya escrito, no ofrece nada nuevo.
Es buena? sí
Volveré a leer algo de ella? Probablemente
Me gusta? Creía que sí, pero después de leer este libro ya no sé si me gusta tanto… se me hizo tan parecido a sus otros libros (con excepción de Degenerado, donde adopta otra voz) que me terminó aburriendo.
Hay mucha similitud entre sus libros: las temáticas tabú (a estas alturas un poco forzado), la prosa disgregada, las imágenes sueltas. Funciona pero cuando ya has leído todo lo de ella, se vuelve repetitivo y pareciera que cada libro nuevo es simplemente una continuación de lo ya escrito, no ofrece nada nuevo.
Es buena? sí
Volveré a leer algo de ella? Probablemente
Me gusta? Creía que sí, pero después de leer este libro ya no sé si me gusta tanto… se me hizo tan parecido a sus otros libros (con excepción de Degenerado, donde adopta otra voz) que me terminó aburriendo.
December 15, 2015
Insisto: lo que escribe Harwicz es adictivo.
March 10, 2022
2.5 rounded down
This was a big disappointment after the first two books in trilogy.
This was a big disappointment after the first two books in trilogy.
November 30, 2022
BACI ALL’INFERNO di Ariana Harwicz
Un romanzo che, con uno stile crudo e selvaggio, dà voce ai temi centrali del femminismo indagando il rapporto madre figlia, due donne spinte al limite dagli uomini della loro vita, sospese tra la girandola insensata della vita quotidiana. ❤ https://ilmondodichri.com/baci-allinf...
#baciallinferno #ponteallegrazie #arianaharwics
Un romanzo che, con uno stile crudo e selvaggio, dà voce ai temi centrali del femminismo indagando il rapporto madre figlia, due donne spinte al limite dagli uomini della loro vita, sospese tra la girandola insensata della vita quotidiana. ❤ https://ilmondodichri.com/baci-allinf...
#baciallinferno #ponteallegrazie #arianaharwics
January 16, 2023
All style over plot; if you like the style or it interests you then you won’t mind that, but if the opposite is the case then it has little appeal. Personally the plotless novel or novella already starts off on the back foot with me, a couple of goals down before the ball is even kicked. It needs to be fairly special to mount a comeback, meaning I’m open to the possibility and I’ve seen it happen, but in my experience, most don’t make it.
The style here is something of an intense, disturbing, transgressive prose poetry. Personally speaking again, when one of the main if not the main selling points of a work is its “transgressiveness” (here that includes mother-son incest) it’s not likely to be of great appeal. Transgressiveness for its own sake, or with no apologies as a fan might rather describe it, to be fair, isn’t something that holds much literary interest for me.
Beyond that it’s a quick-cut deluge of scenes and stream of consciousness that come at the reader without pause, this novella being one long chapter. Some of the prose poetry lines I found very good, but they ultimately get buried in this chonk of text. Perhaps I like work that is more considered than breathless, as well.
The style here is something of an intense, disturbing, transgressive prose poetry. Personally speaking again, when one of the main if not the main selling points of a work is its “transgressiveness” (here that includes mother-son incest) it’s not likely to be of great appeal. Transgressiveness for its own sake, or with no apologies as a fan might rather describe it, to be fair, isn’t something that holds much literary interest for me.
Beyond that it’s a quick-cut deluge of scenes and stream of consciousness that come at the reader without pause, this novella being one long chapter. Some of the prose poetry lines I found very good, but they ultimately get buried in this chonk of text. Perhaps I like work that is more considered than breathless, as well.
September 25, 2017
Tengo la sensación de haber leído una versión de «La débil mental» o por lo menos una especie de secuela. Misma relación materno-filial tóxica, una familia pobre, sin padre, de mentes deterioradas e irresponsables, dependientes de un hombre casado que los repudia. Y también el mismo estilo narrativo embarrado, enredado, de párrafos larguísimos llenos de frases incongruentes sin conexión alguna con la historia. Pesado y difícil de leer en imágenes.
March 28, 2022
Another brutal sledgehammer blow of a novel by Ariana Harwicz. The third book in her "involuntary trilogy" along with Die, My Love and Feebleminded, all brought to the English speaking world by the wonderful Charco Press.
Of the three, I found this one to be the most challenging in terms of subject matter, style, and format, despite it being the shortest of the three books.
Of the three, I found this one to be the most challenging in terms of subject matter, style, and format, despite it being the shortest of the three books.
April 27, 2022
Phew. This writer just lets rip and fuck the consequences. The story is of a woman who lives in the French countryside and who follows her worse impulses down whatever destructive path they lead. She's racist, lustful and couldn't care less, probably having sex with her teenage son (it's difficult to tell), throwing stones at her lover's house, driving with her eyes closed, laughing at her son's teachers and later getting him drunk, living for days in the woods. The prose although lucid darts about from one incident to the next, and jumps from first to second to third person at will. It was as exhausting and exhilarating as the first of hers I read (Die, My Love). I immediately ordered her third book (only three available in translation), Feebleminded.
July 5, 2021
Leer Precoz fue una experiencia que me resulta difícil de describir pero que amé.
Disfruté su prosa. A veces no entendía nada de lo que estaba pasando. De hecho, terminé de leer y pensé: ¿Qué carajos pasó?
Eran como flashes de escenas perturbadoras. Poesía de terror. Una película dirigida por Lynch y Gaspar Noe.
Disfruté su prosa. A veces no entendía nada de lo que estaba pasando. De hecho, terminé de leer y pensé: ¿Qué carajos pasó?
Eran como flashes de escenas perturbadoras. Poesía de terror. Una película dirigida por Lynch y Gaspar Noe.
January 17, 2022
La escritura de Ariana tiene esa mezcla perfecta entre poesía y violencia.
August 16, 2024
The final book in Harwicz's Involuntary Trilogy, this novel follows a mother and her pre-teen son as they both seem to reach the brink of a breaking point in their relationship. Like the other books in this trilogy, the writing has undertones of violence sprinkled all the way through it which completely keep you off guard. The mother imagines her son killing and hurting girls when he gets older and she is constantly plagued by images of destruction in her head. I love the intensity of this book and how each one feels like you can't escape the trauma that is spilling out of the narrator's psyche. I think it would be amazing to analyse these from a psychoanalytic critical perspective as that would be super fun and I think would unpack some of the hidden depths and meanings to the book. I love the way Harwicz explores normal familial relationships but makes them completely twisted and grotesque by looking at them from the worst angle possible and from people who are sick in the head. Just brilliant. Highly recommend all three books in this trilogy.
March 21, 2022
I picked this up to read pretty much in the same movement that I put down the completed Feebleminded by the same author. I’m not sure that was ideal, because the images from one are bound to roll into the other.
As a result I am undecided if there are any clues in this book as to whether the narrator here is definitely the same daughter as in Feebleminded. The images I had constructed in my head of a crumbling farmstead in rural France simply transferred from one book to the next. Feebleminded ended in a car crash in a stolen car with the body of the owner under a newly dug vegetable patch. Could the nearly-thirty-year-old daughter have got away with that and come back to the same house to live and have a son?
The structure of the writing is different to the last volume, no longer short discreet chapters, but an unbroken narrative of 75 pages. Speech is not punctuated in any way, so that dialogue exchanges can be hard to follow. Exactly who said that? Then at one point I was convinced that we changed the first-person narrator from mother to son:
Abruptly the voice cuts off mid-paragraph. And that spins my head because then I start wondering if there are really two people here or is there just one delusional one the whole way through?
The other stylistic feature which I noticed was a greater emphasis on smell, the flavours of the air. For example here:
There are these great flashes of dazzling prose, a sudden line or phrase, such as this at the end of a description of a lazy weekend just ahead of a new week starting:
So what does all that leave us with in this brief finale to the trilogy? There is something very animalistic about it all. A mother and son living together. Hints of inappropriate behaviour between the two of them. Hints at intimacy. A mother failing to care for her son, failing to get him to school when she should or to feed him proper meals, or even keep him out of danger. A mother with an obsession for a vineyard owner, who may or may not already be married, or who may even be the father of the boy. A desperate desire to flee from all the problems of life; debts, bills, taxes, responsibility, tidiness, pet welfare. She is not a good mother, but all the way through you cannot help but be caught up by the great love she has for her son. Behind every mis-step is a desperate desire to do the best, even if it never seems to turn out that way.
And then there is the last line. You can read it on the bottom of the blurb on the back cover. ‘So this is loving…’ I’ll leave the rest for you to discover and then wonder if it should be taken at face value.
As a result I am undecided if there are any clues in this book as to whether the narrator here is definitely the same daughter as in Feebleminded. The images I had constructed in my head of a crumbling farmstead in rural France simply transferred from one book to the next. Feebleminded ended in a car crash in a stolen car with the body of the owner under a newly dug vegetable patch. Could the nearly-thirty-year-old daughter have got away with that and come back to the same house to live and have a son?
The structure of the writing is different to the last volume, no longer short discreet chapters, but an unbroken narrative of 75 pages. Speech is not punctuated in any way, so that dialogue exchanges can be hard to follow. Exactly who said that? Then at one point I was convinced that we changed the first-person narrator from mother to son:
I have a wonderful mother, I know I do, you’re so wonderful Mum, I was thinking it all the way home.
Abruptly the voice cuts off mid-paragraph. And that spins my head because then I start wondering if there are really two people here or is there just one delusional one the whole way through?
The other stylistic feature which I noticed was a greater emphasis on smell, the flavours of the air. For example here:
The bottle empty, we go for a stroll through his vineyards past blackcurrants and cherries and he tells him all about managing the winery, production, storage, quality control before moving on to bottling and sales. I drift behind them narcotic on the scent of leather, moss, game, and beyond that incense, camphor, resin, pine, toast, smoked coffee. We walk straight into a wine-tasting festival, wander the clammy stone passageways with tasting notes on the walls.
There are these great flashes of dazzling prose, a sudden line or phrase, such as this at the end of a description of a lazy weekend just ahead of a new week starting:
…the hours edge by like a string of executions. With each rifle drill, the terror returns.
Or this: I stand up and walk through the house, still not dressed. I am no more than the sound of an insect’s wing. Old age is a shipwreck.
So what does all that leave us with in this brief finale to the trilogy? There is something very animalistic about it all. A mother and son living together. Hints of inappropriate behaviour between the two of them. Hints at intimacy. A mother failing to care for her son, failing to get him to school when she should or to feed him proper meals, or even keep him out of danger. A mother with an obsession for a vineyard owner, who may or may not already be married, or who may even be the father of the boy. A desperate desire to flee from all the problems of life; debts, bills, taxes, responsibility, tidiness, pet welfare. She is not a good mother, but all the way through you cannot help but be caught up by the great love she has for her son. Behind every mis-step is a desperate desire to do the best, even if it never seems to turn out that way.
And then there is the last line. You can read it on the bottom of the blurb on the back cover. ‘So this is loving…’ I’ll leave the rest for you to discover and then wonder if it should be taken at face value.
September 6, 2023
2.5
Lo terminé hace unos días, pero las cuatro últimas líneas me obligaron a espaciar unos días el comentario. ¡Qué sintaxis para más horrible, y sin embargo, qué lasciva, qué tóxica! No es el relato más intenso de Harwicz, ni el más corrosivo, pero como en las otras novelas de su trilogía, Harwicz se encarga de aprovisionarse de todos los elementos posibles para descargar en el lector el peso incómodo de la responsabilidad apreciativa: que el lector decida, que sea él o ella quien juzguen lo que quieran, si cumple o no, si adscribe a algo o no, que sean ellos, desde su frívola placidez lectora, quienes lidien con el peso de dictaminar, sentenciar o corregir a su antojo. Que sea el lector, y no la autora, quien ejecute sobre el texto la gramática hegemónica (y contrahegemónica), la contradicción coyuntural, la moda, el cliché, el trend.
Que sea el lector, en fin, el que transporte la estrategia publicitaria del mercado a la estética de lo que ha leído. Que sea él, y no la autora, quien compare, quien sufra, quien oscile entre el mainstream digerible, interpretable, y la dificultad de aprehender la sintaxis de lo que está leyendo. Que sea el lector, y no la autora, quien busque trucos para forzar el texto al molde, el relato al andamiaje, que se compre ese pleito, que asuma esa responsabilidad, que digiera él, y no la autora, todo lo que aquí está escrito.
Y en ese sentido, bajo esa demanda irrenunciable, esa trampa sin salida, cualquier valoración final de esta historia siempre incorporará, en su origen, la sospecha del sesgo y la imprecisión, que no es otra cosa que la sospecha de no haber llegado a ver sus claroscuros ni a entender su espíritu.
Así, ya desde la sintaxis, desde la superficie misma del texto, Harwicz plantea un órdago insuperable, un anzuelo venenoso: elogiar lo escrito sin ningún matiz crítico supondría exhibir la frivolidad del que ha leído de forma automática; juzgarlo sin rescatar nada equivaldría a develar la facilidad para imponer los propios malentendidos. En la sintaxis de Harwicz no sólo hay una propuesta estética: también hay una exigencia ética. Una llamada de atención al lector para que asuma lo que le toca en este proceso. No todo lo va a hacer el escritor, pareciera decirnos Harwicz. O ya no.
Y desde esa rebeldía, organiza una escritura completamente escindida del tópico, que rehúye hasta lo posible del tema o la etiqueta, que adjura de ser aprehendida, apropiada, resumida, filtrada. Una escritura, un texto, que no se deja, que interfiere en la lectura, que obstruye el acto mismo de descifrar lo que dijo, forcejeando con el lector cada página, cada párrafo, evadiendo la circunstancia de negociar con él los términos de su propia estética, luchando con el que lee, tensionando el vínculo, disputándose el poder, el control, la rienda del relato, del tono, del ritmo, del discurrir sintáctico y hasta de la semántica.
El resultado es una tensión omnipresente, asfixiante, que recorre todas las páginas y que cansa y desgasta. Un planteamiento constante, que nunca se acaba: seguir leyendo o dejarlo. No porque sea mala la historia ni porque sea demasiado intensa, sino porque en esa guerra con la sintaxis, es el ego del lector el afectado, el magullado, el que duda, el que se protege, el que no quiere perder.
Pero pierde. De eso se trata llegar a las últimas dos hojas del libro. De perder frente a la escritura planteada. De perder el control del ritmo, el tono, la semántica. De caer derrotado frente a lo escrito, y por ende, de cederle a la escritura de Harwicz el poder para imponer todos los términos, todos sus términos.
Y Harwicz, que durante todo ese tiempo estuvo lidiando con su propio drama, recubriendo con palabras la oscuridad maligna de su propio relato, frenándola sintácticamente para que no se desborde, zurciendo las grietas que su misma prosa iba dejando para mantener el cauce del tono y evitar el desembalse, como si quisiera primero terminar de contar lo que está contando, de pronto encuentra en esa última página, en esa escena final, la libertad o la oportunidad para rendirse, también, a su modo. Para perder y dejar que todo el magma oscuro, la vida tóxica, la contradicción de la muerte y el deseo, rompa los diques, estalle y fulmine desde dentro a la protagonista, a la historia, a la novela y, por supuesto, a quien lo lee.
La historia es relativamente sencilla: una joven inmigrante que vive con su hijo en algún pueblito francés, y que, mientras su hijo crece y deja de ser un niño, ella experimenta angustias morales, sociales y eróticas.
Pero lo que parece ser un típico relato de maternidad y deseo, es decir, de ternura y provocación, se convierte aquí en una pequeña muestra de autodestrucción y lascivia, de irresponsabilidad filial y sexo furtivo, de desorden y descontrol, de paranoia, de miedo a los otros inmigrantes, de frustrados intentos ntentos de adaptarse, de confusión y soledad. Un relato de huidas simultáneas: huida de las responsabilidades (legales, filiales, laborales, afectivas), huida de ser madre o inmigrante o amante o ama de casa, huida del tabú (el que sea, desde salir a la calle sin peinarse hasta desear no haber tenido hijos), huida del lugar en el que está, del momento en el que está, de ese mundo extranjero que oscila, siempre oscila, entre lo permitido, lo prohibido y lo tabú, entre la violencia que organiza sus rutinas, el poder ejercido en todos los ámbitos y bajo modos distintos, y el deseo, lo erótico, que los define y colorea.
Es ahí, en esa tensión entre esa violencia ordinaria y ese eros sádico, donde la narradora-protagonista oscila y se desplaza, ya sea ejerciéndola contra su hijo o involucrándose en situaciones donde la ejercen contra ella. Es ahí donde, finalmente, se hunde.
Y es ahí, en medio de tantas pulsiones tanáticas y eróticas, que alguien tan «precoz» como su hijo va hacia ella, salta, se moja, y nada. Nada con todas sus fuerzas, «viene a rescatarme con sus brazos fornidos», va por ella antes que sea demasiado tarde, antes que el sol se oculte, antes que la oscuridad estalle, antes que se acabe la novela.
Pero la novela se acaba.
Y ahí comienza en serio.
--
Léanla con un vaso de whisky puro 🥃 y escuchando, de vez en cuando, «Today» de The Smashing Pumpkins 🎶
✌🏽
Lo terminé hace unos días, pero las cuatro últimas líneas me obligaron a espaciar unos días el comentario. ¡Qué sintaxis para más horrible, y sin embargo, qué lasciva, qué tóxica! No es el relato más intenso de Harwicz, ni el más corrosivo, pero como en las otras novelas de su trilogía, Harwicz se encarga de aprovisionarse de todos los elementos posibles para descargar en el lector el peso incómodo de la responsabilidad apreciativa: que el lector decida, que sea él o ella quien juzguen lo que quieran, si cumple o no, si adscribe a algo o no, que sean ellos, desde su frívola placidez lectora, quienes lidien con el peso de dictaminar, sentenciar o corregir a su antojo. Que sea el lector, y no la autora, quien ejecute sobre el texto la gramática hegemónica (y contrahegemónica), la contradicción coyuntural, la moda, el cliché, el trend.
Que sea el lector, en fin, el que transporte la estrategia publicitaria del mercado a la estética de lo que ha leído. Que sea él, y no la autora, quien compare, quien sufra, quien oscile entre el mainstream digerible, interpretable, y la dificultad de aprehender la sintaxis de lo que está leyendo. Que sea el lector, y no la autora, quien busque trucos para forzar el texto al molde, el relato al andamiaje, que se compre ese pleito, que asuma esa responsabilidad, que digiera él, y no la autora, todo lo que aquí está escrito.
Y en ese sentido, bajo esa demanda irrenunciable, esa trampa sin salida, cualquier valoración final de esta historia siempre incorporará, en su origen, la sospecha del sesgo y la imprecisión, que no es otra cosa que la sospecha de no haber llegado a ver sus claroscuros ni a entender su espíritu.
Así, ya desde la sintaxis, desde la superficie misma del texto, Harwicz plantea un órdago insuperable, un anzuelo venenoso: elogiar lo escrito sin ningún matiz crítico supondría exhibir la frivolidad del que ha leído de forma automática; juzgarlo sin rescatar nada equivaldría a develar la facilidad para imponer los propios malentendidos. En la sintaxis de Harwicz no sólo hay una propuesta estética: también hay una exigencia ética. Una llamada de atención al lector para que asuma lo que le toca en este proceso. No todo lo va a hacer el escritor, pareciera decirnos Harwicz. O ya no.
Y desde esa rebeldía, organiza una escritura completamente escindida del tópico, que rehúye hasta lo posible del tema o la etiqueta, que adjura de ser aprehendida, apropiada, resumida, filtrada. Una escritura, un texto, que no se deja, que interfiere en la lectura, que obstruye el acto mismo de descifrar lo que dijo, forcejeando con el lector cada página, cada párrafo, evadiendo la circunstancia de negociar con él los términos de su propia estética, luchando con el que lee, tensionando el vínculo, disputándose el poder, el control, la rienda del relato, del tono, del ritmo, del discurrir sintáctico y hasta de la semántica.
El resultado es una tensión omnipresente, asfixiante, que recorre todas las páginas y que cansa y desgasta. Un planteamiento constante, que nunca se acaba: seguir leyendo o dejarlo. No porque sea mala la historia ni porque sea demasiado intensa, sino porque en esa guerra con la sintaxis, es el ego del lector el afectado, el magullado, el que duda, el que se protege, el que no quiere perder.
Pero pierde. De eso se trata llegar a las últimas dos hojas del libro. De perder frente a la escritura planteada. De perder el control del ritmo, el tono, la semántica. De caer derrotado frente a lo escrito, y por ende, de cederle a la escritura de Harwicz el poder para imponer todos los términos, todos sus términos.
Y Harwicz, que durante todo ese tiempo estuvo lidiando con su propio drama, recubriendo con palabras la oscuridad maligna de su propio relato, frenándola sintácticamente para que no se desborde, zurciendo las grietas que su misma prosa iba dejando para mantener el cauce del tono y evitar el desembalse, como si quisiera primero terminar de contar lo que está contando, de pronto encuentra en esa última página, en esa escena final, la libertad o la oportunidad para rendirse, también, a su modo. Para perder y dejar que todo el magma oscuro, la vida tóxica, la contradicción de la muerte y el deseo, rompa los diques, estalle y fulmine desde dentro a la protagonista, a la historia, a la novela y, por supuesto, a quien lo lee.
La historia es relativamente sencilla: una joven inmigrante que vive con su hijo en algún pueblito francés, y que, mientras su hijo crece y deja de ser un niño, ella experimenta angustias morales, sociales y eróticas.
Pero lo que parece ser un típico relato de maternidad y deseo, es decir, de ternura y provocación, se convierte aquí en una pequeña muestra de autodestrucción y lascivia, de irresponsabilidad filial y sexo furtivo, de desorden y descontrol, de paranoia, de miedo a los otros inmigrantes, de frustrados intentos ntentos de adaptarse, de confusión y soledad. Un relato de huidas simultáneas: huida de las responsabilidades (legales, filiales, laborales, afectivas), huida de ser madre o inmigrante o amante o ama de casa, huida del tabú (el que sea, desde salir a la calle sin peinarse hasta desear no haber tenido hijos), huida del lugar en el que está, del momento en el que está, de ese mundo extranjero que oscila, siempre oscila, entre lo permitido, lo prohibido y lo tabú, entre la violencia que organiza sus rutinas, el poder ejercido en todos los ámbitos y bajo modos distintos, y el deseo, lo erótico, que los define y colorea.
Es ahí, en esa tensión entre esa violencia ordinaria y ese eros sádico, donde la narradora-protagonista oscila y se desplaza, ya sea ejerciéndola contra su hijo o involucrándose en situaciones donde la ejercen contra ella. Es ahí donde, finalmente, se hunde.
Y es ahí, en medio de tantas pulsiones tanáticas y eróticas, que alguien tan «precoz» como su hijo va hacia ella, salta, se moja, y nada. Nada con todas sus fuerzas, «viene a rescatarme con sus brazos fornidos», va por ella antes que sea demasiado tarde, antes que el sol se oculte, antes que la oscuridad estalle, antes que se acabe la novela.
Pero la novela se acaba.
Y ahí comienza en serio.
--
Léanla con un vaso de whisky puro 🥃 y escuchando, de vez en cuando, «Today» de The Smashing Pumpkins 🎶
✌🏽
March 7, 2022
la narración es bastante peculiar tiene más sentido si lo lees sin parar
Muy intenso
Muy intenso
December 24, 2022
En otro tiempo hubiese sido un 5 estrellas para mí. Capaz en otro tiempo lo visito nuevamente y lo sea.
July 8, 2021
2/5
No sé cómo describir este libro, es tan extraño. En primer lugar, la forma en la que está narrado, sin separación, como una continuación extensa que no tiene corte, de principio a fin. Odié esa estructura, es tan incómodo de leer, pero lo peor no es eso, es la forma en la que narra los diálogos sin establecer la persona qué habla, cambiar de escenario sin aviso, etc. Es una deformación de la estructura normal de novela, y entiendo que es la intención de la autora, pero no me gustó nada.
La historia en sí es interesante, pero debido a la forma de narración, se pierde mucho tema de discución. La pobreza, la marginación, el incesto, la poca educación, todo lo que rodea a esta madre y su hijo daba para una historia espectacular, pero se perdió todo en esta narración incómoda y poco práctica.
No sé cómo describir este libro, es tan extraño. En primer lugar, la forma en la que está narrado, sin separación, como una continuación extensa que no tiene corte, de principio a fin. Odié esa estructura, es tan incómodo de leer, pero lo peor no es eso, es la forma en la que narra los diálogos sin establecer la persona qué habla, cambiar de escenario sin aviso, etc. Es una deformación de la estructura normal de novela, y entiendo que es la intención de la autora, pero no me gustó nada.
La historia en sí es interesante, pero debido a la forma de narración, se pierde mucho tema de discución. La pobreza, la marginación, el incesto, la poca educación, todo lo que rodea a esta madre y su hijo daba para una historia espectacular, pero se perdió todo en esta narración incómoda y poco práctica.
August 25, 2022
Too animalistic and incest. I’m afraid this one just not for me. One long chapter till the end with no paraphrase and paragraph break, and the switching between mother and son POV just confusing to be honest. Would like to revisit this someday and hoping I’ll love it better next time.
December 24, 2023
Te admiro, Ariana Harwicz.
February 2, 2024
"Virulent geluk, met een luchtbuks op een zwerm vogels schieten die te pletter vliegen tegen de ramen."
June 5, 2024
la decepción del año
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