Shame

by Annie Ernaux

It may be that narrative, any kind of narrative, lends normality to people’s deeds, including the most dramatic ones. But because this scene has remained frozen inside me, an image empty of speech—except for the sentence I told my lovers—the words which I have used to describe it seem strange, almost incongruous. It has become a scene destined for other people.

What had happened was not something that could be judged. My father, who loved me, had tried to kill my mother, who also loved me.

This can be said about shame: those who experience it feel that anything can happen to them, that the shame will never cease and that it will only be followed by more shame.

Now I knew there was another world—a huge place with a blazing sun, bedrooms and washbasins with hot water, and little girls talking to their father the way they do in novels. We were not part of it. That’s the way it was.

My shame was followed by more shame, only to be followed by more shame.