ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Amoureuse
From my childhood we were two sides to the same coin. Flesh of my flesh, that slender body that made mine, that mind that shared my deepest secrets and desires; those shrewd eyes that saw everything and could not be deceived.
My bedtime stories were tales of her student days in Paris living with a penniless artist, who later became a world-renowned film-maker. But that was before the student riots when a young photographer captured her soul and became my father, until she cast him aside for a scandalous liaison with a night club chanteuse.
She was a bright star, shining with passion for culture and ideas. She held parties where impossibly intellectual people drank gin and smoked until dawn, and I sat at their feet to devour the crumbs of their conversation and worshipped with the others at the altar of her beauty. She had no time for housekeeping and once moved the whole family into an hotel while a team of cleaners made our house habitable again; only to decide on our return that she couldn't bear the tidiness and we spent a happy day "distressing" the place to her satisfaction.
We discussed everything in front of the blazing 3-bar electric fire (she had to be warm). Impossible, circular, metaphysical ponderings. She had studied under Derrida. What is existence? How should we define a life well lived? And we shared our hopes for the future and our fears. After a life of defiant hedonism, of always being sure, never questioning, the thing she dreaded most was a loss of control. It was the thing which caused her smile to falter, caused her to pause and turn inward. When our conversations came to this, which they did more and more frequently, she would snatch up the gin bottle and light each new cigarette from the stub of the last and insist that I accompany her whilst she sang Jacques Brel chansons in her beautiful, melancholy contralto.
I first realised there was something amiss when she called me by my sister's name. Small enough a slip to be of no consequence, but obscenely revelatory from her.
She retreated from me. The inconsequential details and bit-part players of her life stole the spotlight of her mind's focus away. Things that happened at the Sorbonne became folded neatly into contemporary events. In the quantum chaos of her mind each of us shared the stage with equal billing; her lovers, her children, her tutors, De Gaulle.
At first, it was I who was unhappy. I tried to tell myself she was suffering, losing herself. But then I had to admit that she was not. Whatever internal theatre she followed whilst I sat with her in the sterile sanatorium captivated her. I no longer had a rôle in her life.
Gradually, though, she came back to me. More and more often, she would suddenly focus upon the real, mundane world where we sat among formal English gardens or returned through corridors stinking of cabbage and piss. Confusion would crease her features until I stopped and took her hand. She looked at me then with absolute clarity – and absolute terror.
And so we walk, though the sun is below the horizon and the evening is brisk with the promise of an early frost. She, borne along like a lady, a pink summer shawl covering her nightdress, hair loose and lifted by the motion of the wheelchair, I striding briskly, singing loud enough for both of us.
« J'arrive, j'arrive!
Mais qu'est-ce que j'aurais bien aimé
Encore une fois prendre un amour
Comme on prend le train pour plus être seul
Pour être ailleurs, pour être bien. »
I am coming, I am coming!
But I would have liked
Once more to take a lover.
As we take the train to be more alone
To be elsewhere, to be well.
- Jacques Brel, J'Arrive
From my childhood we were two sides to the same coin. Flesh of my flesh, that slender body that made mine, that mind that shared my deepest secrets and desires; those shrewd eyes that saw everything and could not be deceived.
My bedtime stories were tales of her student days in Paris living with a penniless artist, who later became a world-renowned film-maker. But that was before the student riots when a young photographer captured her soul and became my father, until she cast him aside for a scandalous liaison with a night club chanteuse.
She was a bright star, shining with passion for culture and ideas. She held parties where impossibly intellectual people drank gin and smoked until dawn, and I sat at their feet to devour the crumbs of their conversation and worshipped with the others at the altar of her beauty. She had no time for housekeeping and once moved the whole family into an hotel while a team of cleaners made our house habitable again; only to decide on our return that she couldn't bear the tidiness and we spent a happy day "distressing" the place to her satisfaction.
We discussed everything in front of the blazing 3-bar electric fire (she had to be warm). Impossible, circular, metaphysical ponderings. She had studied under Derrida. What is existence? How should we define a life well lived? And we shared our hopes for the future and our fears. After a life of defiant hedonism, of always being sure, never questioning, the thing she dreaded most was a loss of control. It was the thing which caused her smile to falter, caused her to pause and turn inward. When our conversations came to this, which they did more and more frequently, she would snatch up the gin bottle and light each new cigarette from the stub of the last and insist that I accompany her whilst she sang Jacques Brel chansons in her beautiful, melancholy contralto.
I first realised there was something amiss when she called me by my sister's name. Small enough a slip to be of no consequence, but obscenely revelatory from her.
She retreated from me. The inconsequential details and bit-part players of her life stole the spotlight of her mind's focus away. Things that happened at the Sorbonne became folded neatly into contemporary events. In the quantum chaos of her mind each of us shared the stage with equal billing; her lovers, her children, her tutors, De Gaulle.
At first, it was I who was unhappy. I tried to tell myself she was suffering, losing herself. But then I had to admit that she was not. Whatever internal theatre she followed whilst I sat with her in the sterile sanatorium captivated her. I no longer had a rôle in her life.
Gradually, though, she came back to me. More and more often, she would suddenly focus upon the real, mundane world where we sat among formal English gardens or returned through corridors stinking of cabbage and piss. Confusion would crease her features until I stopped and took her hand. She looked at me then with absolute clarity – and absolute terror.
And so we walk, though the sun is below the horizon and the evening is brisk with the promise of an early frost. She, borne along like a lady, a pink summer shawl covering her nightdress, hair loose and lifted by the motion of the wheelchair, I striding briskly, singing loud enough for both of us.
« J'arrive, j'arrive!
Mais qu'est-ce que j'aurais bien aimé
Encore une fois prendre un amour
Comme on prend le train pour plus être seul
Pour être ailleurs, pour être bien. »
I am coming, I am coming!
But I would have liked
Once more to take a lover.
As we take the train to be more alone
To be elsewhere, to be well.
- Jacques Brel, J'Arrive
Suggested Collections
She had studied under Derrida. What is existence? How should we define a life well lived? ... I first realised there was something amiss when she called me by my sister’s name. Small enough a slip to be of no consequence, but obscenely revelatory from her.
Comments5
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
“Flesh of my flesh[;] [the] slender body that made mine[;] that mind that shared my deepest secrets and desires; those shrewd eyes that saw everything and could not be deceived.” I think this would work better as a list of descriptions separated by semi-colons. I’ve also changed the first ‘that’ to ‘the’ to make it a bit more impactful, and to reduce the repetition of the ‘that’ starting the second clause. This is a personal taste kind of change though, so it’s up to you to decide whether you think it works.
“But that was before the student riots when a young photographer captured her soul and became my father, until she cast him aside for a scandalous liaison with a night club chanteuse.” I feel you’re trying to cram too much information into this one sentence. There’s a whole lot of history there to explore, so you might think about trying to see how you might break it up into two or three. You can add a few more details if you do so, as well.
“How should we define a life well[-]lived?” “In the quantum chaos of her mind each of us shared the stage with equal billing[:] her lovers, her children, her tutors, De Gaulle.” I believe this should be a colon, as it precedes a list.
I’m no foreign language expert, but does rôle need the accent? General thoughts: I think this is a really well-delivered account of a daughter’s (I assumed the narrator was female) observations of her mother. There isn’t too much I would change, given the nature of the piece: it’s obvious that this is intended as a glimpse/vignette only, so there are no criticisms of story arc that I might have had if it were presented as a more fully-formed short story. Well done on a nice piece of writing. (: