«Peu de temps après le jour V, je passai une nuit très gaie avec Camus, Chauffard, Loleh Bellon, Vitold, et une ravissante Portugaise qui s'appelait Viola. D'un bar de Montparnasse qui venait de fermer, nous descendîmes vers l'hôtel de la Louisiane ; Loleh marchait pieds nus sur l'asphalte, elle disait : "C'est mon anniversaire, j'ai vingt ans." Nous avons acheté des boute
«Peu de temps après le jour V, je passai une nuit très gaie avec Camus, Chauffard, Loleh Bellon, Vitold, et une ravissante Portugaise qui s'appelait Viola. D'un bar de Montparnasse qui venait de fermer, nous descendîmes vers l'hôtel de la Louisiane ; Loleh marchait pieds nus sur l'asphalte, elle disait : "C'est mon anniversaire, j'ai vingt ans." Nous avons acheté des bouteilles et nous les avons bues dans la chambre ronde ; la fenêtre était ouverte sur la douceur de mai et des noctambules nous criaient des mots d'amitié ; pour eux aussi, c'était le premier printemps de paix.» Simone de Beauvoir, née en 1908 à Paris, a raconté son enfance et son adolescence dans Mémoires d’une jeune fille rangée, sa vie à Paris, ses débuts d’écrivain, la guerre et l’Occupation dans La force de l’âge. La troisième partie de ses souvenirs, La force des choses, commence dans le Paris de la Libération.
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While Memories of a Dutiful Daughter is the most beautiful example of the autobiographical form I have read, I had zero illusions that the author could possibly maintain such a feat through five volumes. And volume three appears to be the drop off. It is still worthwhile for her description of the hardships of Paris after the liberation and the slow transformation of post WW II hopes into cold war fears. The carefree traveler in volume 2, who slept on park benches and takes off for weeklong moun
While Memories of a Dutiful Daughter is the most beautiful example of the autobiographical form I have read, I had zero illusions that the author could possibly maintain such a feat through five volumes. And volume three appears to be the drop off. It is still worthwhile for her description of the hardships of Paris after the liberation and the slow transformation of post WW II hopes into cold war fears. The carefree traveler in volume 2, who slept on park benches and takes off for weeklong mountain hikes with no destination in mind, with age, has become a somewhat less adventurous, more ordinary traveler, although her trips to Africa in particular are still exciting. And how much do I love her far too brief accounts of her time on Lake Michigan. Yet there is the unavoidable: the enthusiasm of youth replaced by the contemplation of passed time and aging.
Still, if volume three is a bit of a letdown, perhaps that has more to do with what type of lack of honesty I’m willing to excuse? My friend and I always argue over autobiographies, she hates them. She has this crazy idea that authors should tell the truth. I never expect the truth, just tell me your side of the story, which in its own way is just as true as mere ‘facts’. And I completely accept that most of the time your side of the story may include cavalier dismissals of preternatural behavior with underage girls, fine, but where I break down is her description of her relationship with Algren, which can almost read like nothing else but a direct reaction to Sartre’s relationship with M. Now after two plus volumes I am squarely on her side but that all the more makes me what to shake the crap out of her “girlfriend you don’t need that shit.” Such is the danger of trying to rationalize the irrational. And this is her failing not only in love but in life. It is a fantasy that you will ever reconcile your own personal philosophy with your actual existence. You can have rational, well thought out ideals, but if you think you can really live them, by sheer force of will, you are mistaken. And that is my problem with the author, she does not factor into the equation that human beings are emotional irrational animals and to say otherwise is to lie to yourself. Lie to me the reader, sure, I expect that, but it seems like there is a fair bit of lying to herself going on, and at times it can be almost painful.
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Saw you was reading
La force de choses
, wotcher fink? 'Er and that Nelson Algren, right guv? Nah, 'aven't read it meself, more of a Marguerite Duras man, know what I mean? Saw that article in
Paris-Match
though. Them pictures, phwoar. Wouldn't mind a bit of that if I saw it on order, know what I mean? That Sartre musta bin plumb off 'is rocker, right guv? Shoulda strung 'im up, it's the only language them 'egelian phenomenologists understand.
I 'ad that Iris Murdoch in the bac
A Taxi-Driver Writes
Saw you was reading
La force de choses
, wotcher fink? 'Er and that Nelson Algren, right guv? Nah, 'aven't read it meself, more of a Marguerite Duras man, know what I mean? Saw that article in
Paris-Match
though. Them pictures, phwoar. Wouldn't mind a bit of that if I saw it on order, know what I mean? That Sartre musta bin plumb off 'is rocker, right guv? Shoulda strung 'im up, it's the only language them 'egelian phenomenologists understand.
I 'ad that Iris Murdoch in the back once. Very interesting lady.
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I'm not usually a huge memoir fan, but Beauvoir's memoirs are a notable exception. The narrative is part slice-of-history, part doomed love story, part existential philosophy. She reflects upon her life in France after the war, her travels, and her affair with the American writer Nelson Algren, all the while also reflecting upon what it means to be self-reflective. Her musings on gender and identity are perhaps the best aspect of this memoir; since "The Second Sex" was written and published duri
I'm not usually a huge memoir fan, but Beauvoir's memoirs are a notable exception. The narrative is part slice-of-history, part doomed love story, part existential philosophy. She reflects upon her life in France after the war, her travels, and her affair with the American writer Nelson Algren, all the while also reflecting upon what it means to be self-reflective. Her musings on gender and identity are perhaps the best aspect of this memoir; since "The Second Sex" was written and published during the time period captured in the book, she never explicitly thematizes gender as a philosophical question, and yet in a sense that is exactly what the book is about. She wonders about what it means to love and be independent at the same time; questions her commitment to everything from communism to long-time partner Jean-Paul Sartre; worries that aging brings with it the death of eros. In the process, Beauvoir gives us a polished yet personal glimpse into the difficulties and joys of living an unconventional kind of life.
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"Happiness exists, and it's important; why refuse it? You don't make other people's unhappiness any worse by accepting it; it even helps you fight for them. Yes, I find it sad the way everyone seems to be ashamed of feeling happy nowadays." -- Camus (173)
"I don't regret that it existed. It brought us more than it tore from us." -- de Beauvoir on Algren. (171)
Sections were the typical "who I saw," "where I was," "what I did" of any biographical piece (especially autobiography), which can contaminate and belittle a good work (as in Charlie Chaplin's autobiography) but the sections of this book that did not follow such a formula wholely redeem it. Simone is brilliant. More in love with her than ever. Hard to escape such a mind. Near the end, too much was made of the writing of the Mandarins, as if all of her experiences in this book (from the Liberatio
Sections were the typical "who I saw," "where I was," "what I did" of any biographical piece (especially autobiography), which can contaminate and belittle a good work (as in Charlie Chaplin's autobiography) but the sections of this book that did not follow such a formula wholely redeem it. Simone is brilliant. More in love with her than ever. Hard to escape such a mind. Near the end, too much was made of the writing of the Mandarins, as if all of her experiences in this book (from the Liberation to the early fifites) were just grist for that mill, but the "break" engendering the end of this volume and the lead to the next wiped that discomfort away. Disgusing how fast the world moved from the elation of ending the horror of the war into the stupidities of ther cold war. Frightening to read it first hand. We scare me.
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Pakko vähitellen myöntää, että hyvän ensimmäisen osan jälkeen Beauvoirin muistelmat ovat olleet pettymys. Onhan niissä mielenkiintoista asiaa, mutta pyrkimys tehdä tekstistä elämänmakuista dokumentoimalla joka ikinen matka ja elokuvissakäynti tekee sen elämälle vieraaksi luetteloksi. Ehkä oon liian yhteiskuntatieteilijä, mutta toivoisin Beauvoirilta enemmän analyysia ja reflektiota niistä maailman (ja miksei myös oman elämänsä) muutoksista, joita hän kuvaa.
Ah, this journal by Simone De Beauvoir is great. It covers a period of time that was very important to France and its arts. I bought the book to research Boris Vian, who was a friend of DeBearvoir - and in fact he went out shopping with her to buy a turntable as well as some recordings. It is these little life details that makes this book essential.
"Simone de Beauvoir was a French author and philosopher. She wrote novels, monographs on philosophy, politics, and social issues, essays, biographies, and an autobiography. She is now best known for her metaphysical novels, including
She Came to Stay
and
The Mandarins
, and for her 1949 treatise
The Second Sex
, a detailed analysis of women's oppression and a foundational tract of contemporary femin
"Simone de Beauvoir was a French author and philosopher. She wrote novels, monographs on philosophy, politics, and social issues, essays, biographies, and an autobiography. She is now best known for her metaphysical novels, including
She Came to Stay
and
The Mandarins
, and for her 1949 treatise
The Second Sex
, a detailed analysis of women's oppression and a foundational tract of contemporary feminism."
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“A life is such a strange object, at one moment translucent, at another utterly opaque, an object I make with my own hands, an object imposed on me, an object for which the world provides the raw material and then steals it from me again, pulverized by events, scattered, broken, scored yet retaining its unity; how heavy it is and how inconsistent: this contradiction breeds many misunderstandings.”
—
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