Magnus seizes the spade and fills the grave. The sweet smell of the balm mingles with the dank bitter smell of the humus.
He takes Brother Jean’s robe back to the abbey. But the habit is so worn, patched up all over, it is good for nothing but rags.
He attends the old monk’s memorial service. The abbot gives a brief summary of the career of Blaise Mauperthuis, who entered the monastery as a convert at a very young age, early in the century, becoming a monk a few years later, and eventually a hermit. But a hermit resembling those bees he so loved (to the extent of choosing to lie among them in the depths of the forest); one who was always gravitating towards the monastery, bringing his pots of honey and news of the trees, birds, and wild beasts to which he became closer than to his religious brothers. Brother Jean, an outlandish monk, who was said to have displayed in equal measure eccentricity and sensibility, ingenuousness and a refusal to forgo his independence. But the abbot bows before the mystery of every vocation, and he concludes by relating with some humour a few anecdotes about this bee-loving friar who as he grew older had acquired the habit of addressing all men, even his superior, with a joyful “Goodday to you, son!’ and all women with a ‘Goodday to you, daughter!’ He remembers the day when Brother Jean turned up at the abbey in a great state of agitation to report that someone had stolen the statue of the Virgin from the clearing where he had set up his beehives. At first this theft had upset him, then having thought about it he reached the conclusion that it was all right for the robbed niche to be empty, and he decided the absence of a statue would now celebrate Our Lady of the Empty Space. Delighted with this idea, he had asked the abbot if he would come and bless the non-existent statue. Everyone in the congregation bursts out laughing at the account of this incident that took place a few months ago, and Magnus joins in the hilarity that long resonates in the church.
He closes the door of the house. That of the barn remains ajar; the lock has been broken for ages and he has never seen any point in fixing it. The wind blowing in through the open door has completely effaced the name he wrote in the dust. Not that this matters any more. The name is written on the cortex of his heart. A name as light as a bird nesting on his shoulder. A name burning in the small of his back, urging him to be off.
He is not running away any more, he goes to meet his name, which always precedes him.
His bags will not be heavy, he is taking practically nothing with him.
He has buried Lothar’s death mask at the foot of the lime tree under which Brother Jean set up the table for lunch on the fifteenth of August. Lothar, and also May and Peggy, could have joined them at their table that day to share the glass filled in honour of the Angel of the Word. Such a glass is ever replenished, ever to be shared.
As for the teddy bear, left too long on a shelf in the wardrobe in his bedroom, there is nothing much left of him: the moths have been at the wool of his face, mice have nibbled his paws and ears, and filched the stuffing from his stomach. Magnus drops the tattered bear into the waters of the Trinquelin, a little stream that runs past the abbey. Magnus the bear drifts away, his buttercup eyes glinting with cold water and sunshine.
The only book he takes is the one that has opened inside him with the breathy sound of an oboe, playing in a constant undertone in his mind, his breast, his mouth. The pages of the book quiver in his hands, fall one by one under his feet.
To be gone, sings the book of marvels, the book of the unsuspected, to be gone…
To be gone.
Fragment?
Here begins the story of a man who…
But this story eludes all telling: it is a precipitate of life, suspended in reality, so dense that all words fragment on contact with it. And even if words resistant enough might be found, the telling of it, at a time removed, would be thought the wildest fantasy.
‘To be gone! To be gone! Cry of the living!…
To be gone! To be gone! Cry of the Prodigal!’
Saint-John Perse, Winds
Translator’s Afterword
When translation rights in Sylvie Germain’s first novel Livre des Nuits (The Book of Nights) were offered to British publishers in 1987, I was asked to write a report on it. Reading it was a thrilling experience: this wonderful book told an enthralling story with remarkable lyrical intensity and great imagination, and there was nothing like it in English, which made it an ideal candidate for translation.
Despite its obvious merits, to my amazement it was not immediately taken up by any British publisher. Certain that it must eventually be published in English, and hoping that I might at least offer myself as the translator, every now and again I would check with Gallimard whether the rights had been sold.
In early 1990 I learned they had been – to the American publisher David R. Godine, based in Boston; the translation was supposedly far advanced and publication imminent. When I contacted Godine, happily for me this turned out to be untrue. I submitted a sample and was contracted to do the translation, to which Godine allowed me to retain the British rights. In the end Dedalus bought these and when I completed the translation in 1992 Dedalus were able to publish first, Godine bringing out their edition in 1993. It is greatly to the credit of these two independent publishers that they have made the work of a writer of the stature of Sylvie Germain available in English.
Publication of her first novel has been followed up over the intervening years with a considerable literary output: eight further novels, all of which have been published by Dedalus, as well as numerous collections of essays – on literature, art, aesthetics, ethics – and spiritual meditations, a literary portrait of Krackow, a reflection on the life of Etty Hillesum, and even a children’s book. Sylvie Germain’s writing is now the subject of increasing academic interest, not only in France and the UK but in university departments worldwide, from Pretoria to Haifa and Texas to Genoa, with doctoral theses, critical studies, conference papers, and entire conferences – in 2005 the Biennial Conference of the Association Européene François Mauriac held at Exeter University, and in 2007 the Colloque Sylvie Germain held at Cerisy-la-Salle in Normandy – devoted to the myriad aspects of her work.
Tackling the theme of evil – in the barely conceivable horror of the Holocaust, in the inhumanity of torture and its dehumanizing effect on the perpetrator, in the mindless and gratuitous act of violence, and in the complicity of the bystander who does not intervene – spanning over a hundred years of turbulent, war-torn, French and European history, and peopled with dozens of characters whose genealogy is traced through several generations, The Book of Nights and its companion volume Night of Amber are hugely ambitious in scope. Thereafter, the author’s focus closes in, becomes more concentrated:Days of Anger (winner of the Prix Femina 1989) and The Medusa Child explore the drama of perverted desire within what becomes, from one novel to the next, an increasingly nuclear family.
Published between the latter two books is The Weeping Woman of Prague, more of a novella or extended prose poem, in which a narrator observes and reflects on not so much a character as a ghostly presence haunting what might be regarded as the cultural heart of Europe, the genius loci, an emanation of the streets of the city which had by this time become the author’s home (she moved there in 1986) and place of work (teaching philosophy at the French school), and which was to provide the setting for two subsequent novels.
Against the backdrop of the collapse of communism and the cynicism and moral bankruptcy of the new order, the protagonists of Infinite Possibilities (Immensités, 1993) and Invitation to a Journey (Éclats de Sel, 1996), both of them intellectuals, lead bleak and cheerless lives without direction or sense of purpose. The world seems to conspire against them, and they do not at the outset have Job’s faith to sustain them in their trials and tribulations. There is a somewhat more metaphysical, cerebral dimension to the texture of this writing, in which the author’s fertile imagination, surprising inventiveness, and talent for story-telling nevertheless continue to find expression.
Her next novel, The Book of Tobias (Tobie des Marais, 1998), which moves from a Jewish shtetl in Polish Galicia to the Poitevin Marais, on the west coast of France (Sylvie Germain herself returned to France around this time), is a reworking of the biblical story of Tobias and the angel, taking the essential structure of it, mythopoeically weaving into it more recent, twentieth-century history, and grafting on to it a narrative of sometimes gothic quality reminiscent of her first novel. She explores the by now familiar themes of perverted desire, the self-destructive power of hatred, the need for forgiveness and compassion.
For Sylvie Germain, these remain inexhaustible themes. Her novels inevitably come to an end, but they never come to a conclusion.
‘The last word does not exist. There is no last word, last cry.’ (The Book of Nights).
The author never takes up a fixed position, never settles into complacency, but embraces the challenge of the open question, the constant search, of remaining ever the nomad of inner geographies, just like Laudes-Marie Neigedaoût of The Song of False Lovers (Chanson des Mal-Aimants, 2002), which recounts the odyssey of the vagabond foundling whose whole life, ‘is but an approach, so zigzagging that sometimes I have gone backwards’ towards the blessing of a fleeting moment of enlightenment.
While Sylvie Germain has acknowledged that The Book of Nights perhaps contains in essence the seed of all her obsessions as a novelist, she has also described the writing of every novel as a totally new adventure, an experience that might be compared with embarking on a new love affair, and that if there were not that sense of adventure there would be no point in writing.
Each book begins with a mental image that by its very persistence begins to intrigue the author, and then goes through a long process of development, of maturation, with all kinds of feelings, emotions, thoughts, memories, ideas, personal experiences and external stimuli – things heard and seen and read, historical events, anecdotal stories – gradually crystallizing around it, defining it and making sense of it.
The image of Jacob wrestling with the angel was the germ from which The Book of Nights and Nuit-d’Ambre (Night of Amber) were brought into being, the story elaborated through this process unable to be contained within the confines of a single volume as the author strove to explain the origins of her character, and in so doing creating a sprawling, magic realist, dynastic saga, resonant with voices from the past.
With Magnus, the inspirational image is that of ‘a man, seen from behind, in a kind of impasse, in the dark’. The work of the novelist, dwelling on this image and seeking to give it substance, is reflected in the enterprise the main character himself must undertake, to create a history and an identity for himself, circumstances having contrived to rob him of both, while his tentative and patchy progress in this endeavour finds expression in the novel’s discontinuity and mosaic structure, composed of narrative fragments, quotations from other writers and eminent personalities – novelist, poet, dramatist, anthropologist, theologian or civil rights activist – snippets of social and historical commentary, potted biography.
‘Who’s there?’
In the first of her essays published under the title of Céphalophores, Sylvie Germain takes as her theme the opening words of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. ‘Who’s there?’ is the question that might be asked by any reader opening the pages of a book, but is also the challenge the author picks up in bringing out of the shadows the characters that people a text, writing being a way of satisfying a compelling curiosity, the desire to know more, to give texture and voice and movement to vague solicitous presences that intrude on the writer’s consciousness, claiming attention.
And just as Magnus, as a child scared of the dark, comforts himself by whispering fragments of stories into his teddy bear’s ear, ‘preferably the left ear, the one that has been injured and therefore needs special care’, so this novelist’s attention is caught by the plight of history’s victims, of those who suffer man’s inhumanity to man, and those who unwittingly perhaps do violence to themselves in seeking revenge for wrongs they have suffered – those who because of their injuries need special care.
In this novel, as in her previous works, Sylvie Germain celebrates as a palliative the power of story-telling, the forging of a text out of potentially inexhaustible material, access to which requires of the writer the excavational skills of an archaeologist and a kind of mystical self-effacement and receptiveness to the paradox of bringing expression out of silence, light out of darkness, and allowing dream to enter reality.
‘To write is to descend into the prompter’s box and learn to listen to the breathing of language in its silences, between words, around words, sometimes at the heart of words.’
(Magnus)
And of all words names are perhaps the most significant: it is of course no accident that Magnus’s adoptive family name is Dunkeltal, evoking the shadow of the valley of death, and the name Magnus itself, the author herself has pointed out, is in its sonority suggestive of elusiveness, of something that cannot be pinned down.
‘There is not one word that does not carry in its recesses eddies of light and volleys of echoes, and which does not quiver at the urgent plying of other words.’
(The Book of Nights)
While Sylvie Germain’s writing is steeped in the Catholic liturgy and biblical texts it is also informed by her reading of an extraordinary wide range of other writers from many different literatures – including Czech, Icelandic and Latin American, as well as English, French and German – whose work she often quotes directly in her own books. Her exploration of the themes of forgiveness, and of redemption and salvation through love – the overriding concern of all her books – reflects a profoundly spiritual sensibility, but there is nothing formal or static or immutable about her apprehension of the numinous. It rejoices in the fugitive, the precarious, the protean, in mystery and mutability. It is generous and accepting and inclusive.
Who is Magnus? Like all of us, an individual, seeking an identity for himself, a reconciliation with his existence, and hoping to find happiness.
COPYRIGHT
Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited,
24-26, St Judith’s Lane, Sawtry, Cambs, PE28 5XE
email: [email protected]
www.dedalusbooks.com
ISBN printed book 978 1 903517 62 8
ISBN ebook 978 1 910213 26 1
Dedalus is distributed in the USA & Canada by SCB Distributors,
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Dedalus is distributed in Australia by Peribo Pty Ltd.
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email: [email protected]
Publishing History
First published in Germany in 1983
First published in France in 2005
First published by Dedalus in 2008
First ebook edition in 2015
Magnus © copyright Albin Michel 2005
translation © copyright Christine Donougher 2008
The right of Sylvie Germain to be identified as the author of this work and Christine Donougher to be identified as the translator have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Printed in Finland by Bookwell Ltd
Typeset by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A C.I.P. listing for this book is available on request.
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