A review by nealadolph
Destroy, She Said by Marguerite Duras
4.0
A couple years ago I was living in a basement suite, a bachelor pad, a single room with a half wall that divided the kitchen from the living and sleeping room and then a full wall that separated the kitchen from the bathroom, which was given the dignity of having its own door. It was a good place to live, despite its size and the lack of light, and in spite of the settling airs which held back escaping smells of the kitchen. I avoided making curries. In the kitchen were my four bookshelves, full and beautiful, displaying a wealth of adventures. I read a lot; I should have read more.
It was in that space, on an old chair, the only one I had, that I discovered Marguerite Duras in The Lover. I think most people come to Duras through The Lover. I wrote a review of that book which, if you are interested, you can read here . I liked it without being astonished by it; I thought it had a good deal more to say, I thought I needed to read it again when I had a bit more maturity. I wonder if now I have a bit more maturity. After all, here I am, no longer living alone but instead loafing around in my parents’ house, in my old bedroom, looking for jobs in another city, hoping the right thing will pop up so that I can go and not be here. Surely I have matured. But I ask about my impending maturity as it develops because this book, Destroy, She Said, has made it clear to me that Duras knows what she is doing, and is far better at it, far more intricate, far more precise, than I appreciated back then in that chair hidden away from the sun.
Now I do not think that I know what Destroy, She Said is about. I might even understand it less after having read the collection of interview shambles that were included at the back of the novella. But I think I have a sense of something that it was, something that it was trying to be, something that it succeeded at with all of its slight pages and broken, incomplete, beautiful sentences. And, I think I have a sense that it, like The Lover, is worthy of a second or third or fourth reading; maybe one or two or three more which should be afforded to it soon. I know, after putting it down, I thought immediately of picking it up again for another whirlwind tour of its form and relationships and its soul.
What impressed me most about this book is perhaps the thing I tried to share in an instagram post I wrote about it earlier this week. This novella, which Duras was bold enough to call a novel, is not really a novel, and is perhaps closer to a book of poetry in many of its ways, but then is actually more like a piece of theater, at times looking and feeling and reading like it in your head, and then it transfers into the precise benign imagery of great mid-century film-making, black and white and grey-scaled, before the broken sentence structure and jilted and direct dialogue and fragmentary thinking reminds, once again, of poetry - which is to say that it fills you with all sorts of questions that you can’t form into a shape. It is something special.
At the end of the book are two pages of theater notes. Tonight I left my parents’ house, used my dad’s car and everything, to go downtown and see a musical that an acquaintance had invited me to. He was in it. I don’t know him well, but I think he likes reading. I know I mentioned this book to him, said he might be into it given his background in theater and all that, and he told me that he had a copy of The Lover on his shelf. I wanted to give it to him. Before the musical I was planning to say something like “if you don’t love this book after reading it then I want it back. But if it is going to help you make something beautiful and meaningful and something that captures the spirit of this book, then I want you to keep it.” But after seeing the musical, this silly romp about breaking up with boyfriends and using all sorts of famous music from the 60s and 70s to help the women navigate the breakup, I doubted that it was the book for him. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t judge an actor for the work that he takes on to keep food on his table. But I carried my copy with me to the show, excited to share it and bond a bit more over art, and afterwards I hid it under my scarf while waiting for him and then chatting with him in the lobby. He is a nice chap, and it may be that after talking to him a bit more I will decide to send it his way for a while, maybe forever, for the sake of art and its progression, but I couldn’t give it to him in full confidence. That is a confidence I feel I need; this is something special, and I want it to be admired by the hands that hold it.
Destroy, She Said is a marvellous book. I’m glad it has brought me back to Duras with a profound respect. Recommended for all sorts of mysterious reasons that I can’t explain.
It was in that space, on an old chair, the only one I had, that I discovered Marguerite Duras in The Lover. I think most people come to Duras through The Lover. I wrote a review of that book which, if you are interested, you can read here . I liked it without being astonished by it; I thought it had a good deal more to say, I thought I needed to read it again when I had a bit more maturity. I wonder if now I have a bit more maturity. After all, here I am, no longer living alone but instead loafing around in my parents’ house, in my old bedroom, looking for jobs in another city, hoping the right thing will pop up so that I can go and not be here. Surely I have matured. But I ask about my impending maturity as it develops because this book, Destroy, She Said, has made it clear to me that Duras knows what she is doing, and is far better at it, far more intricate, far more precise, than I appreciated back then in that chair hidden away from the sun.
Now I do not think that I know what Destroy, She Said is about. I might even understand it less after having read the collection of interview shambles that were included at the back of the novella. But I think I have a sense of something that it was, something that it was trying to be, something that it succeeded at with all of its slight pages and broken, incomplete, beautiful sentences. And, I think I have a sense that it, like The Lover, is worthy of a second or third or fourth reading; maybe one or two or three more which should be afforded to it soon. I know, after putting it down, I thought immediately of picking it up again for another whirlwind tour of its form and relationships and its soul.
What impressed me most about this book is perhaps the thing I tried to share in an instagram post I wrote about it earlier this week. This novella, which Duras was bold enough to call a novel, is not really a novel, and is perhaps closer to a book of poetry in many of its ways, but then is actually more like a piece of theater, at times looking and feeling and reading like it in your head, and then it transfers into the precise benign imagery of great mid-century film-making, black and white and grey-scaled, before the broken sentence structure and jilted and direct dialogue and fragmentary thinking reminds, once again, of poetry - which is to say that it fills you with all sorts of questions that you can’t form into a shape. It is something special.
At the end of the book are two pages of theater notes. Tonight I left my parents’ house, used my dad’s car and everything, to go downtown and see a musical that an acquaintance had invited me to. He was in it. I don’t know him well, but I think he likes reading. I know I mentioned this book to him, said he might be into it given his background in theater and all that, and he told me that he had a copy of The Lover on his shelf. I wanted to give it to him. Before the musical I was planning to say something like “if you don’t love this book after reading it then I want it back. But if it is going to help you make something beautiful and meaningful and something that captures the spirit of this book, then I want you to keep it.” But after seeing the musical, this silly romp about breaking up with boyfriends and using all sorts of famous music from the 60s and 70s to help the women navigate the breakup, I doubted that it was the book for him. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t judge an actor for the work that he takes on to keep food on his table. But I carried my copy with me to the show, excited to share it and bond a bit more over art, and afterwards I hid it under my scarf while waiting for him and then chatting with him in the lobby. He is a nice chap, and it may be that after talking to him a bit more I will decide to send it his way for a while, maybe forever, for the sake of art and its progression, but I couldn’t give it to him in full confidence. That is a confidence I feel I need; this is something special, and I want it to be admired by the hands that hold it.
Destroy, She Said is a marvellous book. I’m glad it has brought me back to Duras with a profound respect. Recommended for all sorts of mysterious reasons that I can’t explain.