Read Online The Deadly Space Between by Patricia Duncker - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Duncker
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Roehm said he hadn’t read that.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Roehm.
‘The manuscript was with him in the car crash when he was killed in 1960. It wasn’t published until 1994. I saw his daughter, Catherine Camus, speaking about the book on French television. When we were in the Alps. My mother has friends who have a chalet above Chamonix. She was painting those great white canvases that you bought. Just the small-scale versions. She works them up to the bigger scale later. When she’s home. Of course the publication of a new, unknown novel by Camus would be a big thing, a major literary event. But the interviewer didn’t really want to talk about literature. He asked the daughter what the great man was like in private life. She looked puzzled and confused and said, ‘I don’t know how to answer that. He was my father. C’était mon papa .’ I found her simplicity electrifying. She said that Camus’s emotional feelings were perhaps more present in this book than any other. She’s right. I thought that Camus was, I don’t know, a cold writer. He had a ruthless, chilly sort of intellect. Which is always evident in all his books. Even as terrifying a book as La Peste . You say you like that one best. I’m surprised. It’s a heroic book. And you don’t strike me as the sort of person who would go in for heroism.’
Roehm laughed. I pounded on, astounded by my own loquacity.
‘I want to read books that make me think, pull me up short, put my life in question. Camus made me think, but he wasn’t moving. You don’t feel his books. You think about them. But this one made me so sad. Really sad. Sad enough to cry. Le Premier Homme is about his childhood in Algeria, his mother, his poor neighbourhood, the life of those times. Like a lost world. There are so many worlds you can never get back. Some worlds you can only find again in memories. He was like me, he was brought up by women in a woman’s household. And so he was closer to women. He never had a father, and I didn’t either. At least Catherine Camus could remember him. Some of the scenes are so vivid, that I can taste them now: killing the hen for Christmas, the children mixing poisons, the old Arabs in their cafes. They’re just ordinary poor lives. But he describes them with such passion. I revised my opinion of Camus as a result of reading that book. I’ll read every other account of childhood and test it against what he wrote. It’s like a glimpse into his workshop. Or like watching her in the studio. All his notes, sketches, the illegible words in brackets – I loved all the loose ends, the rawness of an unfinished book. It was like touching how he thought, how he worked. Catherine Camus said that he would have edited out all these passionate, personal feelings because he was so private and reserved. Well, if he’d have done that, then I’m glad he never finished the book. As it stands, it’s finished. Read it. Tell me what you think.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roehm, ‘I will.’
He never interrupted me, nor patronized me. He had the listening gift. I gabbled on. Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything I had ever thought or ever known. I began telling him about my hideout in the library at school. About the way I had to hide my books to stop people ripping out the pages. About the thugs in my class who had menaced me because I liked reading, the teachers who were a mixed pack of wolves, some of them as violent as the students they attempted to educate. One of the sports masters was suspended for attacking a pupil. Everyone agreed that knocking that particular child unconscious was the best thing he could have done and at least the teacher was strong enough to protect himself. The parents were summoned, but they never came. My French mistress was very beautiful. She had been threatened by some of the older boys who were wearing Bobby Kennedy masks when they did it. It happened just outside the school. She was unlocking her car. They surrounded
‘Tell me about it,’ said Roehm.
‘The manuscript was with him in the car crash when he was killed in 1960. It wasn’t published until 1994. I saw his daughter, Catherine Camus, speaking about the book on French television. When we were in the Alps. My mother has friends who have a chalet above Chamonix. She was painting those great white canvases that you bought. Just the small-scale versions. She works them up to the bigger scale later. When she’s home. Of course the publication of a new, unknown novel by Camus would be a big thing, a major literary event. But the interviewer didn’t really want to talk about literature. He asked the daughter what the great man was like in private life. She looked puzzled and confused and said, ‘I don’t know how to answer that. He was my father. C’était mon papa .’ I found her simplicity electrifying. She said that Camus’s emotional feelings were perhaps more present in this book than any other. She’s right. I thought that Camus was, I don’t know, a cold writer. He had a ruthless, chilly sort of intellect. Which is always evident in all his books. Even as terrifying a book as La Peste . You say you like that one best. I’m surprised. It’s a heroic book. And you don’t strike me as the sort of person who would go in for heroism.’
Roehm laughed. I pounded on, astounded by my own loquacity.
‘I want to read books that make me think, pull me up short, put my life in question. Camus made me think, but he wasn’t moving. You don’t feel his books. You think about them. But this one made me so sad. Really sad. Sad enough to cry. Le Premier Homme is about his childhood in Algeria, his mother, his poor neighbourhood, the life of those times. Like a lost world. There are so many worlds you can never get back. Some worlds you can only find again in memories. He was like me, he was brought up by women in a woman’s household. And so he was closer to women. He never had a father, and I didn’t either. At least Catherine Camus could remember him. Some of the scenes are so vivid, that I can taste them now: killing the hen for Christmas, the children mixing poisons, the old Arabs in their cafes. They’re just ordinary poor lives. But he describes them with such passion. I revised my opinion of Camus as a result of reading that book. I’ll read every other account of childhood and test it against what he wrote. It’s like a glimpse into his workshop. Or like watching her in the studio. All his notes, sketches, the illegible words in brackets – I loved all the loose ends, the rawness of an unfinished book. It was like touching how he thought, how he worked. Catherine Camus said that he would have edited out all these passionate, personal feelings because he was so private and reserved. Well, if he’d have done that, then I’m glad he never finished the book. As it stands, it’s finished. Read it. Tell me what you think.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roehm, ‘I will.’
He never interrupted me, nor patronized me. He had the listening gift. I gabbled on. Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything I had ever thought or ever known. I began telling him about my hideout in the library at school. About the way I had to hide my books to stop people ripping out the pages. About the thugs in my class who had menaced me because I liked reading, the teachers who were a mixed pack of wolves, some of them as violent as the students they attempted to educate. One of the sports masters was suspended for attacking a pupil. Everyone agreed that knocking that particular child unconscious was the best thing he could have done and at least the teacher was strong enough to protect himself. The parents were summoned, but they never came. My French mistress was very beautiful. She had been threatened by some of the older boys who were wearing Bobby Kennedy masks when they did it. It happened just outside the school. She was unlocking her car. They surrounded
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