Eerste deel van de autobiografie van de Franse schrijfster.

a lot I didn't know who she was taking about. ( )

"A feat of historical and literary imagination"
By sally tarbox on 30 September 2016
Format: Paperback
In this difficult-to-categorize work, French author Marguerite Yourcenar describes her family history.
Opening with her own birth in Brussels in 1903 - of which her mother died shortly afterwards - Yourcenar takes us back in time, giving us glimpses of her ancestors. From medieval gentry - where she uses her knowledge of contemporary history to help imagine their lives - she moves on to look predominantly at her mother's side of the family.

"Life gone by is a withered, cracked leaf, without sap or chlorophyll, riddled with holes, frayed and torn, which, when held up to the light, reveals at most the skeletal tracery of its slender, brittle veins. Certain efforts are required to give it once more the fleshy green appearance of a new leaf, to restore to events and incidents that fullness..."

Quite a lot of the book focuses on her mother's 'Uncle Octave' - the Belgian writer Octave Pirmez, something of a tortured soul, scarred by the suicide of his sensitive elder brother. Only the final chapter is dedicated solely to her late mother, her young life and marriage, and here through letters and conversations with her father she tries to recreate the personality of the woman she never met.
The cover of my edition (Virago) shows the author's old family photos, where the figures seem almost ghostly, and the reader feels these old names are brought to life by this work of scholarship, research and imagination:

"Let us try to conjure up that house as it must have been between 1856 and 1873, not merely to carry out the experiment (always valuable) that consists in reoccupying, so to speak, a corner of the past, but above all to attempt to distinguish in that gentleman in his frock coat and that lady in her hoopskirts, who are now scarcely more in our eyes than specimens of the humanity of their day, that which is different from us or that which, despite appearances, resembles us - the complicated play of causes whose effects we continue to feel."

An erudite work in which Yourcenar vividly brings to life her ancestors. ( )

Uma das melhores partes é quando Marguerite de Yourcenar fala do seu sonho aos vinte anos, os quatro ou cinco sonetos conhecidos apenas por iniciados, escritos por um pseudônimo do qual só se conhecem duas datas, uma das quais é controversa.
Adoro Octave Pirmez. Principalmente quando fala de seu irmão, Rémo, que montou o delicado aparato e deu um tiro no peito. Não deixou carta. Para quê? Ele não demonstrara, em cada conversa, o desgosto de estar vivo? ( )