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Yann Andréa Steiner

3.82 of 5 stars 3.82  ·  rating details  ·  165 ratings  ·  9 reviews
“Duras manages to combine the seemingly irreconcilable perspectives of confession and objectivity, of lyrical poetry and nouveau roman. The sentences lodge themselves slowly in the reader’s mind until they detonate with all the force of fused feeling and thought—the force of a metaphysical contemplation of the paradoxes of the human heart.”—The New York Times Book Review ( ...more
Paperback, 109 pages
Published July 1st 2006 by Archipelago Books (first published 1989)
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M.
Short, late Duras, packs a similar punch as another favorite of mine, The Malady of Death. But totally different. As everybody and their dog has noted, there are ostensibly three interrelated narratives here: the "love story" of the "I" that is ostensibly Duras herself with the titular man (whom I initially read as gay) Yann, there is the "love story" of an 18 year old counselor and and 8 year old orphan, and there is a parable delivered by the counselor to the orphan. I don't know, but the frag ...more
Rosa Ramôa
Marguerite Donnadieu escritora, argumentista e cineasta francesa nascida a 4.4.1914, na Indochina(Vietname), e falecida a 3.11.1996, em Paris.
Aos 17 anos mudou-se para França,onde estudou na Sorbonne, em Paris. Licenciou-se.
Adoptou o nome Duras(nome da localidade onde o pai tinha propriedades).
Manteve uma relação conturbada,habitada por Yann Andréa Steiner, 38 anos mais novo que ela e obcecado pelos seus livros.
Foram amantes.
Andréa escreveu sobre o período em que viveu com Duras,já ofuscada por
...more
Claire
Yann Andrea Steiner comes from Duras’ later works and accordingly, reflects back on her life as a writer through the context of her love with the young man, Yann Andrea Steiner. The book weaves between three stories, times and places. The initial story is that of Duras and her lover, Steiner, as he comes to stay with her, breaking her habitual solitude. The story moves as Duras and Steiner observe from their window a six-year-old camper and his eighteen-year-old counselor fall in love on the be ...more
metaphor
She told him she’d rather it remain this way between them. That she’d rather their story not move from this place, […]; that it remain in this desire, even if that meant she put herself to death. Not a real death, mind you, but a dead death, where you don’t hurt, where you’re never sad, you’re never punished, nothing.
Pam
you know sometimes you would watch some foreign art film and when it is over you're scratching your head?

yeh it is like that.
Heather
My friend lent me this book. She told me that there was a talking shark within its pages. It's true—there is; it's part of an imagined story within a story about the past within a story about the present that alludes to a story perhaps written in the future. Somehow this doesn't become confusing and instead the book seems simple yet recognizes the complicated matter of love.
Cheryl
The paralleled stories of love and hardship--part fiction, part memoir--are fragile yet consuming. I love the paradoxicalness that is Duras!!!
Natalie
This is my favourite piece by Duras, I have read it a dozen times and it is always beautiful and moving.
Parastoo
"And the kisses brought her back to life. Brought her back to life, through the forgetting of life."
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Marguerite Donnadieu, better known as Marguerite Duras (pronounced [maʀgəʁit dyˈʁas] in French) (April 4, 1914 – March 3, 1996) was a French writer and film director.

She was born at Gia-Dinh, near Saigon, French Indochina (now Vietnam), after her parents responded to a campaign by the French government encouraging people to work in the colony.

Marguerite's father fell ill soon after their arrival,
...more
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“We tell each other things that have no relation to the afternoon’s events or the coming night but that relate to God, to his absence that is so present, like the breasts of the young girl, so young before the immensity of what is to come.” 2 likes
“C’est après cette soirée que vous avez commencé à
m’écrire des lettres. Beaucoup de lettres. Quelquefois
une chaque jour. C’était des lettres très courtes, dessortes de billets, c’était, oui, des sortes d’appels criés
d’un lieu invivable, mortel, d’une sorte de désert. Ces
appels étaient d’une évidente beauté.
Je ne vous répondais pas.
Je gardais toutes les lettres.
Il y avait en haut des pages le nom de l’endroit où
elles avaient été écrites et l’heure ou le temps : Soleil ou
Pluie. Ou Froid. Ou : Seul.
Et puis une fois, vous êtes resté longtemps sans
écrire. Un mois peut-être, je ne sais plus pour ce
temps-là ce qu’il avait duré”
0 likes
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