By Violette Leduc

In her moment revealing memoir of literary Paris, Leduc stocks her insights right into a post-War Parisian scene ruled through the likes of Camus, Genet, Sartre, Cocteau, and Simone de Beauvoir, who grew to become her mentor for a time. unique.

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The summit of suc­ cess. within the night i used to be extra modest, because of the proofs of Rosa­ mond Lehmann's first novel. younger women fell in love, and a girl had dared to put in writing approximately it. a steady solar poured its melan­ choly mild over the tale, and one of many characters lent it a muscu­ lar power : Jennifer. That first identify haunted us. Do you love Jen­ nifer? Do you're keen on Jennifer greater than the others ? you discover her too daring ? Jennifer ? Ah no! Wild ? you discover Jennifer too wild ? you cannot be taking into consideration Jennifer. We stated her within the corridors, within the places of work, at the first flooring, at the moment flooring, and if Gabriel Marcel wandered throughout the construction along with his inevitable umbrella we gazed at him as young ones stare upon Santa Claus's sack. Dusty An­ sw�r, Jennifer, they have been his briefcase. outdated M. Bourdelle introduced a degree of calm to the feverish surroundings within the development together with his nice age, his white Franz-Josef mustaches and the solidity of his determine. The company was once his construction, yet by means of that point he had all started taking a again seat and turning in the reins to his son, Maurice Bourdelle. Maurice Bourdelle, along with his rakishness, his alacrity, his American movie star's face and skinny l::i rown m ustache; he unsettled the entire attractive younger women in his a part of the construction. And foolish outdated ones, homely outdated ones, could move there to attend for a few batch of papers or different, and prove watching for him. * at some point, after gossiping for your time with Chand's niece, with Elizabeth Zerfuss, with a strange, quite swarthy woman with a gravelly accessory who used to be a typist with the company, i discovered a notice expecting me from M. Poupet : "You are to learn the Memoirs of �iarshal Foch and search for attainable information goods. " I went into their workplace and walked over to his little desk at the correct. A Camel was once burning av. ·ay in his cigarette holder and that i picked it up. The weightlessness of the narrow black tube made me suppose suange. I leaned over to examine his paintings. The exposure assistant were d rawing. i'll feel his anxiousness, his torment, his fidelity from the best way he had began a similar younger man's face, mendacity at the ( 1 fifty seven related pillow, again and again. I went over to the window with one of many drawings. i used to be violating a private mystery, my middle used to be beating. I stifled a cry of shock, a cry of astonishment, a cry of pleasure. I famous the younger guy, I famous his fluid good looks, much more fluid during this pencil caricature. the wonderful thing about his face : the persist­ ence, the generosity of youth. I remembered his lips, fleshy with­ out being coarse, his a bit of flattened nostril, as ingenuous as his mouth. I remembered the lilac flowerets clustered on his l i playstation , certain, that and his gentle eyes, their astonishment and the ailment of his blond streaked hair. The face of a tender athlete stuck in a mist of candor. i used to be seeing the younger guy who had come unannounced i nto their workplace, the younger guy I had glimpsed throughout the part­ opened door of our place of work, not just at the sheet of paper earlier than me yet within the childlike reminiscence of the secretary.

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