In the Absence of Men

Review

I picked this up on-sight, recognizing Besson’s name. I adored “Lie With Me,” I mean I was simply gripped the whole time, could not put it down. That book was translated by Molly Ringwald, of Molly Ringwald fame, and it was her first published translated work. Frank Wynne translated this book, who seems to have translated quite a few works, including (after this, from what I can tell), other works from Besson.

I spent the first third of the book wondering why I struggled with it. I kept bumping against the translation, or what I thought might be the translation. The book is written in first person, and for one section via letters, but the dialogue is offset by “You said:” or “I say:” and such. I found this really bizarre, and after finishing had to go back to “Lie With Me” to see if anything similar happens (it does, though a little more naturally as it is typically via name).

I left the first section of this book a little unimpressed. I felt it was hard to focus on, hard to get interested in, and I felt I had an idea of what might happen. Part of this was confirmed when a character is sent to Verdun, a well known and deadly WWI battle.

Overall, I enjoyed the book once we got to the epistolary section, and I can appreciate why the first portion of the story is needed. Nonetheless, it did not work nearly as well for me as “Lie With Me,” which blew me away. I found this a collection of sometimes beautiful phrases, but with a story that I did not find surprising.

Some parts that I quite liked (very light spoilers):

Notes

p74-75 - I am a man without ancestors, without siblings, without descendants. I am of this world, but with no ties to this world. I am someone who does not know where he comes from, who has no one with whom to share his journey, who will leave no trace behind. When I die, my name will not be all that dies with me, my whole existence will be obliterated, consigned to oblivion. No one will remember me. … will you be the one who will remember me?

p86 - Taking leave of my mother is first and foremost a physical act. Arms must give up their embrace of the other’s body, hands must uncouple, the touch of skin on skin must end, eyes must free themselves form the other’s gaze. One must withdraw, and as one withdraws, everything crumbles, as though one can live only through the other, as though one cannot live without the other. It is a physical loss, a life fading, something bleeding away, a force that cannot be contained.

p115 - And is not my suffering itself astounding? The pain of being separated from him. He was hardly mine when he was taken from me again. And no one can tell me when he will be given back to me. You know, it takes great love to weather such pain. Great love. If I try to control my emotions, the pain will overwhelm me, it will sweep me aside. You must understand that I do not wish to control anything, on the contrary, I wish to give myself up to this flux.

p124 - I have come to the conviction that those who love and those who are happy are not the same. I believe in fact—forgive me—the love is unavoidably the root of unhappiness.

p136 - I want to say that it is perhaps best if you forget me, that it is better for you to turn toward the future, because you have your whole life ahead of you; that you find new loves who will not make you suffer needlessly. … To love someone is, above all, to protect him from blows that might mortally wound him. To be loved is to be able to expect the loved one to save himself before it is too late, to cut off his infected arm so that the gangrene does not spread and kill him. … I will love you to my last breath.