In language and tone, I find Andre Gide’s The Immoralist reminding me much of the work of J.M. Coetzee, specifically Disgrace. Both authors use a very pared. There is an oft-cited sentence in André Gide’s journal entry for March 28, , in which Rereading Gide’s The Immoralist () recently that is indeed how I. Gide, Andre: The Immoralist (new tr by Richard Howard).
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With what loving violence she managed to get me away from Sousse! But this is not what Gide intended us to cherish, there is more to it. Most of the time you are wondering what he immoraoist means. The goatherd who played the flute was there. I was breathing more easily too, and so I walked more lightly; and yet at the first bench I sat down, but it was because I was excited — dazzled — rather than tired.
Reading group: A slap in the face from André Gide’s The Immoralist | Books | The Guardian
Important points of Michel’s story are his recovery from tuberculosis; his attraction to a We had some sort of uneatable hash, and then a bit of roast meat which was absurdly overdone.
The important thing was that she should not interfere with my renascent life, and to keep it from her eyes, I had to dissemble. An active host of ene- mies was living within me. And a few days later the weather changed. I had four horses and ten cows — quite enough to be a considerable worry to me. The apple-trees, planted in order on the sunniest slopes of the hill-sides, gave hopes this summer of a magnificent crop. Her tender- ness was so touching that the little fellow went off warm and comforted.
The apartment, which had been found for us by one of Marceline’s brothers, and which we had visited when we had last passed through Paris, was much bigger than the one my father had left me, and Marceline was a little un- easy, not only at the increased rent, but at all the other expenses we should certainly be led into. We used to go and sit near the wood, on a bench where in old days I had been used to sit with my mother; there, each moment brought us a richer pleasure, each hour passed with a smoother flow.
Every thought of the festivals of antiquity made me grieve over the death of the ruin that was left stand- ing in their place; and I had a horror of death. I seriously do not believe anyone else could have written a more plausible, eloquent and lyrical account of sexual awakening.
The enforced leisure on board ship at last enabled me imoralist reflect. A kind of pact was concluded between us four — at the first summons of any one of us the other three were to hasten.
Indeed, thanks to con- stant attention, to pure air, to better food, I soon began to improve. He ande me so quickly that I only just had time to get out of the way and my shouts failed to make him stop. So why is this not a journey of self discovery? I walked on in a sort of ecstasy, of silent joy, of elation of the senses and the flesh.
He was sitting, almost naked, on the trunk of a fallen palm-tree, watching a herd of goats; our coming did not disturb him; he did not move — stopped playing only for a moment. We were almost alone in the garden path; I walked slowly, sometimes sat down for a moment, then started off again. Had I ever enjoyed before such rest, such happiness? She felt I was looking at her and immodalist toward me.
We went into a room whose walls and floor were made of mud and in which stood two wretched beds.
I was afraid that too hasty an investigation might disturb the mystery of my slow transformation. I am left scratching my head, not too sure what to make of it, was it really that good?
My dissimulation if that expres- sion can be applied to the need I felt of protecting my thoughts from her judgmentmy very dis- simulation increased that love. I shall speak of it so much you will think at first I have forgotten my soul.
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Reading group: A slap in the face from André Gide’s The Immoralist
In the ardor of amdre sport, we barely exchanged a shout or two, a word or two; but at the end of the day, I became aware I was saying ‘thou’ to Charles, without hav- ing any clear idea when I had begun. Marceline was very fond of this boy; immorakist I do not think it was the fear of grieving her that made me, rather than denounce Moktir, invent some story or other to explain the loss of her scissors.
I was not able to. Men’s finest works bear the persistent marks of pain.