Prize-winning novels from France
Anita Brookner
The Prix Goncourt was awarded, as of right, to Jonathan Littell for Les Bienveillantes (Gallimard). Les Bienveillantes, the Kindly Ones, is the name usually given to the Furies. The narrator of this masterly novel, Max Aue, the director of a lace factory, is writing his account of the second world war, in which he served on the wrong, i.e. German side. Notable for his sane and reasonable tone of voice the narrator divulges, without much compunction, that he is a former Nazi, an SS officer who was present in all the main theatres of war, initially in Lithuania and the Ukraine, and latterly in a devastated Berlin.
He is also notable for his imperturbable sense of right and wrong, or rather his conviction that these terms are implausible. The gas chambers? On whom do we lay the blame? On the guard who releases the gas or the railwayman who switches the points so that the train travels in one direction rather than another? In the end no one is responsible. Thus Nazi Germany presents as a case of mass psychosis in which everyone was, or thought himself to be, innocent of wrongdoing.
This opinion, or delusion, is conveyed to the reader through 900 pages of close print, supplemented by a sizeable glossary of acronyms and abbreviations. The narrator, on leave as it were from his doctoral thesis, advances the theory that in similar circumstances all would behave in the same way. The novel is diabolically (and I use the word advisedly) clever. It is also impressive, not merely as an act of impersonation but perhaps above all for the fiendish diligence with which it is carried out.
Les Bienveillantes has been compared with War and Peace, except that there is no plot and few personal histories to alleviate its toll on the reader. The tone is unemotional, almost a business report. The prevailing situation, says Aue, was one of confusion in which only the most wily saw their advantage. The rationalisations, such as they are, are offered in the first section of the book, in which the narrator morally shrugs his shoulders. The following 800odd pages concern his long and detailed war and presuppose formidable research on the part of the author, who is American, educated in France and writing fluent, idiomatic and purposeful French. The narrator constantly equivocates: all, he reasons, are subject to Necessity, and even the most brutal may be family-loving husbands and sons. Herein lies the brilliance of the novel, the way in which it delineates the breakdown of judgment, the almost persuasive justifications. For instance if all are united in the concept of the Volk, and if Hitler is seen as the embodiment of the Volk, there can be no dereliction. In these circumstances normal codes of behaviour collapse into acquiescence.
The narrator’s war is inordinately complex. It is true that from time to time he feels a distant pity, as when he sees a Jewish child searching for her mother. But nothing less than total ethnic cleansing is envisaged. At one point he describes detainees, Jews, a few gypsies and homosexuals — ‘des mangeurs inutiles’ — being directed to three tables. On the first they are told to deposit their papers, on the second their valuables and house keys, and on the third their shoes and the clothes they stand up in. Then they are shot. The narrator starts to vomit after eating, a vexatious habit that persists into his comfortable postwar life, as if certain scenes have proved difficult to digest. The reader too may find the book difficult to digest, not least when Aue, under direct orders from Eichmann, oversees manoeuvres in Poland and later Hungary. These are tantamount to the successes of the war. It had been thought that there could be no failures.
When order finally breaks down it involves Aue in a vague torment which he cannot evaluate. He is overtaken by inanition, by dreams, fantasies, bouts of fever. He is only hazily aware that the direction of the war has changed, that the Russians are advancing. After apparently insurmountable hesitation he joins the retreat. The conclusion, which is not a conclusion, finds him separated from his former companions, isolated, and surrounded by the animals of a wrecked zoo. As he watches the creatures dying one by one he arrives at his ultimate realisation: ‘Les Bienveillantes m’ont trouvé.’ This tour de force, which not everyone will welcome, outclasses all other fictions and will continue to do so for some time to come. No summary can do it justice. It is worth mentioning that the author, who is the son of the novelist Robert Littell, was born in New York in 1967 and that this is his first published work. Independently of the Goncourt the novel was also awarded the Grand Prix du Roman de l’Académie Française.
In any other company this year’s novels would have received respectable, even respectful attention. As it was their authors acquitted themselves honourably if not memorably. The Prix Renaudot went to Alain Mabanckou for Mémoires de porcepic (Seuil) which I have not read, having put my money on Michel Schneider’s Marilyn, dernières séances (Grasset), a thorough, perhaps too thorough investigation into the troubled life and troubling death of Marilyn Monroe, focusing on her relations with her analyst Ralph Greenson. The verdict of suicide was always thought to be unsafe, although almost certainly correct. The case was closed abruptly, owing perhaps to the implication of the Kennedys. Greenson’s testimony was inconclusive.
In fact according to the author Greenson was the agent of her downfall, although she was always unstable, infantile and paranoid. Greenson, whom she saw seven days a week, sometimes twice in one day, attempted to rehabilitate her by welcoming her into his family. He was her only friend; she in turn became increasingly dependent, bringing no insight into the situation. He could see how she would end, an opinion he confided to Anna Freud. Many reputations had to be revised after she was found dead in bed, apparently from an overdose. Even at a distance of 40 years this is disturbing.
Since the few documents that exist are embargoed Schneider has had to rely on secondary sources and a great deal of imagination. He has made a thorough job of it, bringing into sharp relief the weakness of Greenson, his pity, his desire to protect and console, and thus his gross professional misconduct. This was a true folie à deux: even his actions on the night of her death are called into question. The matter remains unfinished. Monroe’s habitually transgressive behaviour called forth varying responses and may have induced transgression in others. Schneider’s account is both affecting and effective, an imaginative leap which leaves neither reputation intact.
The Prix Femina was awarded to Nancy Huston for Lignes de faille (Actes Sud), a clever, quirky novel for four voices, working backwards from American Sol in 2004 to his great-grandmother Krystina in 1948, and thus encompassing the history of the 20th century. Its novelty consists in the fact that all four protagonists are six years old: their accounts are thus both tragic and comic, imparting a much needed innocence to what is a fundamentally sombre history.
The Prix Médicis was awarded to Sorj Chalandon for Une promesse (Grasset), a strange and ultimately haunting novel in which seven friends pay homage to a couple from whom they received kindness at a critical point in their lives. Their commitment consists of paying regular visits to the couple’s house, for which each has a key. The house is empty, the owners are dead; in turn the seven friends draw the curtains, change the sheets, and leave a note for the next visitor. Sadness rises from these admittedly awkward pages, as apparently random objects reveal their associations. An unusual but justified award.
All in all a good year, with one outstanding contribution. Les Bienveillantes will be published in English next year. My sympathies go to the translator.
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