Last night I planned to go to sleep early, but I ended up staying up until 4 reading Duras’s L’Amante Anglaise.
It was fine. Not the best Duras but interestingly done, one of her novels that could just as easily have been a play. I like how she is not quite comfortable with the smoothness of genre. My favorite Duras also happens to be the book she considered her best, The Vice-Consul.
Today I woke up, did not go to work, instead went to Spot Coffee and wrote in my diary, in which I have not written in two weeks. It is Saturday, and in the summer in Charlottesville there is the fantastic Saturday farmer’s market. I missed that. I missed Charlottesville. Sometimes I also miss the lover I had in Charlottesville, John. Of course I miss my friends, Michael’s (bar), the summer market, the wineries, the cicadas. But this morning I was thinking about the market and John.
The weather was more beautiful today than it could ever be in Virginia, as it is too hot there in the summer. I picked wildflowers along the curb as I walked back from Spot. I picked three kinds of flowers. I thought about the Swedish folk trick of putting seven kinds of flowers under your pillow on the Solstice and dreaming of your future husband. I did that three times, three different years. I always dreamed of the same person. He is not someone I would marry.
Whenever I read Duras I think about what an idiot Lacan was. Duras scholarship is generally owned by Lacanians. But her work could just as easily fit with Derrida or Deleuze. At least they, unlike Lacan, did not try to co-opt her. It is Duras and not Lacan or Derrida or Deleuze. L’Amante Anglaise is kind of like that too. It’s the story of a woman who murders her cousin. The story is told in a series of interviews. The interviewer is a man. The first two interviews are with men. The final interview is with the murderer. One sees that none of the men, not even the interviewer, has got her right.