The Book of Emma Reyes: A Memoir - Couverture rigide

Reyes, Emma

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0143108689 ISBN 13 : 9780143108689

Editeur : Penguin Classics, 2017

A propos du livre

Revue de presse :

One of Library Journal’s 5 Best Memoirs of the Year
Finalist for the PEN Translation Prize

The New York Times
“Startling and astringently poetic . . . Powerful . . . Moving . . . Potent and, against all odds, even lovely . . . The most sophisticated aspect of this book . . . is just how meticulously Reyes maintains the perspective of a child throughout. . . . She has a similar gift [to Gabriel García Márquez] for relating extraordinary moments with a straight face, making them seem even more otherworldly.”

The New Yorker
“Vividly captur[es] poverty, abandonment, and a subsequent convent upbringing. A fine visual sensibility and an unusual generosity give even the darker passages a quality of delight.”

Susan Straight, Los Angeles Times
“I read or re-read more than 500 novels this year, to make an epic interactive map of our literary nation with regional fiction. . . . But the book that entranced me, one I carried around the country and recommended to people in every state, was a slim memoir not set in America, but Colombia: The Book of Emma Reyes. . . . Reyes’s voice is wondrous.”

The Wall Street Journal
“Humorous, full of wonder and un-self-pitying.”

NPR.org (Lily Meyer)
“Her writing is exceptional. Several times while reading, I gasped out loud at the beauty of her prose. It’s some of the best writing I’ve read in years.”

The Paris Review
“The book’s most startling element is Reyes’s clear-sighted, unsentimental remembrance of her difficult childhood. . . . Reyes is gloriously unceremonious in her telling: the memoir begins in a garbage heap and ends with a dog sniffing another’s behind.”

The Guardian
“Astonishing . . . Her early memories seem photographic—they are vivid and discrete, almost disconnected; charged with the child’s imagination and sense of drama. . . . A marvellous storyteller.”

The Observer (London)
“Both intimate and epic . . . The harrowing onset of [Emma Reyes’s] life journey as child and pubescent [is] described with such quirky grace and raw honesty, such a childlike eye for detail and disarming explanation of the inexplicable, that it is as poetic as it is horrific.”

HuffPost, “Top Picks of the Week”
“Why are we so fascinated by stories of brutal, difficult or just plain desperately poor childhoods? Think Angela’s Ashes or The Glass Castle or a million other titles. Many reasons, perhaps, but when they’re written so well as this, perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

BBC, “Ten Books to Read in August”
“Extraordinary . . . Reyes writes with captivating detail.”

Harvard Review
“Engrossing . . . Concise and powerful . . . It is difficult not to feel affection for the writer of this story. . . . Reyes’s writing is simple and straightforward, highly descriptive but never ornate. Her clear prose is laced with breathtaking truisms, expertly relayed in English by her translator.”

Artforum
“Fascinating . . . Harrowing . . . [A] revelatory autobiography of a self-determined woman who followed her dreams.”

ARTnews
“Captivating . . . Harrowing . . . Like a fairy tale . . . There are . . . villains, saints (of the earthly and mythical types), hypocritical clergy, disfigured and exaggerated Botero-esque figures. It’s all very visual. The hardships Reyes depicts are nearly unimaginable and medieval in character, and the ‘heroine’ survives through awesome ingenuity. . . . [It] calls to mind the picaresque adventures of Lazarillo de Tormes and, much later, Leonora Carrington.”

World Literature Today
“Arrestingly beautiful . . . Reyes’s simple prose unsentimentally and intuitively captures the poverty and trauma of her early life. Her painter’s eye for detail does the rest. We owe a great debt to the able translator, the novelist Daniel Alarcón, who has given an original voice the wider audience it deserves.”

New York Journal of Books
“An uncommon memoir . . . A book that’s a minor classic of Latin American literature and that offers a stunning portrait of the artist as a young woman . . . Unlike the Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez, Emma Reyes wasn’t a magical realist, but there’s something both magical and realistic about her book. . . . One can understand why Márquez raved about Reyes’s prose that seems artless but that must have been carefully crafted. As a storyteller, Reyes has an innate sense of pacing and suspense; as a kind of cultural historian she knows how to paint portraits not only of individuals but of a society as well. . . . A rich portrait of life among the poorest of the poor in Colombia in the early 20th century [in] a handsome Penguin Classics edition that will likely be read around the world.”

Sunday Express
“A mesmerising account of her early life, full of the most striking details . . . Her powers of recollection are extraordinary. . . . Reading her words pitches the reader head first into a wondrous, terrifying world.”

Complete Review
“Surprisingly charming, and a testament to childish resilience . . . There are many colorful—and often shocking—vignettes. . . . A remarkable picture of growing up in poverty and difficult circumstances, among adults and a Catholic Church little concerned with children's welfare, The Book of Emma Reyes is a fascinating little document, written in a rough but disarmingly open, charming style.”

Library Journal (starred review)
“[An] exceptional memoir . . . With a child’s innocence, Reyes narrates her experience with precise, direct prose that is interspersed with mature and thoughtful insights. . . . Alarcón’s translation is artful, as is his introduction.”

Kirkus Reviews
“An unsentimental and inspiring depiction of rising out of atrocious circumstances.”

Shelf Awareness
“Horrifying and enthralling . . . A memoir of extreme hardships told in a clear, restrained style, with an ending that leaves the reader wishing for more.”

Daniel Alarcón, from the Introduction
“Some works of art feel more unlikely, more miraculous than others, and Emma Reyes’s remarkable epistolary memoir is one of them. . . . I don’t think I’ve read many books of such power and grace, or that pack such an emotional wallop in so short a space. . . . There is no self-pity, only wonder, and that tone, so delicate and subtle, is perhaps the book’s greatest achievement. . . . The very fact that this book exists is extraordinary. Everything about it . . . is astonishing.”

Julia Alvarez, bestselling author of How the García Girls Lost Their Accents, In the Time of the Butterflies, and A Wedding in Haiti
“It’s not often we hear the voices of the voiceless, those deemed invisible, who survive on the trash heaps and margins of cultures. Emma Reyes is that voice—a storyteller with an eye for the details of a world devastating in its cruelty and indifference. Her voice is a triumph of hope and resilience and does what the best books do—expand our awareness and deepen our compassion. These are letters from the heart to the heart of those readers lucky enough to discover this gem of a book. Daniel Alarcón’s translation from the Spanish is effortless and seamless; one forgets it is a translation. It is that rare miracle that the Polish poet Wislawa Symborska spoke of, ‘when a translation stops being a translation and becomes . . . a second original.’ ”

Ana Castillo, author of So Far from God
“The Book of Emma Reyes is a diamond in the rough. It serves up, with the tastiness of street-vendor meats off a hot grill, the story of two sisters who grew up in unforgiving circumstances. If you are vegetarian, don’t worry: The spices, like the author’s exquisite memory for detail, will fill your imagination. For a while afterward you’ll wonder how it is that some children survive their childhood, and you’ll surely be thankful for your own.”

Edith Grossman, translator of Don Quixote and author of Why Translation Matters
“A compelling work that seems to hover along the frontier between autobiography and fiction. It’s a truly heroic account (in the most colloquial language) of a child surviving the worst that the adult world insists on throwing at her. There’s not a drop of sentimentality in it—just the kind of courage born of the most desperate adversity.”

Deborah Moggach, New York Times bestselling author of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
“What an astonishing book—I read it in a single gulp. Emma Reyes had a childhood of staggering deprivation, but her humor and resilience shine through, and suddenly we have a modern classic.”

Diana Athill, New York Times bestselling author of Somewhere Towards the End
“The moment I finished this memoir I read it again—one simply can’t abandon Emma. And I’ve been speculating ever since about how she made it once she’d escaped her terrible childhood. One is deeply grateful to know as a fact—an almost inconceivable fact—that she triumphed, but longs to know how. No other book I’ve ever read has left me so deeply involved with its author, and so grateful for that involvement.”

Suzanne Jill Levine, author of The Subversive Scribe and Manuel Puig and the Spider Woman
“The Book of Emma Reyes, in Daniel Alarcón’s adroit translation, is a must-read, a modest yet game-changing masterpiece in the memoir genre. An abandoned child who climbed out of poverty in extremis, raconteur-artist Emma Reyes miraculously broke through oppression and obscurity to captivate such devoted friends as Frida Kahlo, Sartre, and Pasolini. She is without a doubt the most original Colombian voice to come our way since the legendary Gabriel García Márquez, who was indeed among the first readers to admire her storytelling. Her epistolary memoir narrates with violent immediacy an unreal yet too real world; child and woman speak in fractured unison, with a style both visceral and effortless, hallucinatory and yet devastatingly lucid.”

Silvana Paternostro, author of My Colombian War and In the Land of God and Man
“A rare jewel that reminds us of the saving grace of storytelling and imagination in racist, classist, conservative, and cloistered Catholic Colombia. It hypnotized me from the first sentence, leaving images as difficult to erase as when I first read Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘The Little Match Girl’ and sobbed myself to sleep, terrified by the cruelty of the world of unhappy adults and stirred by the daring strength of one child. Daniel Alarcón’s respectful translation transmits the smells of Andean poverty as much as the unperturbed voice of funny, feisty, cross-eyed little Emma, whose ordeal is not a thing just of the past or of Latin America—millions of children walk alone today, fugitives from child labor, sexual abuse, hunger, and torture, often inflicted in the name of God’s charity. Read The Book of Emma Reyes: It offers a universal and timely window on the world of abandoned girls, and it will inspire indignation and action.”

Mariana Enriquez, author of Things We Lost in the Fire
“Worthy of a Dickens novel . . . So true and sincere that it is believable in every sentence, even in the most incredible ones . . . A book of extraordinary literary value.”

Louisa Young, author of My Dear I Wanted to Tell You
“Unadulteratedly good, interesting, and important. Emma’s letters remind me what reading and writing are for.”

Nina Stibbe, author of Love, Nina
“A jewel of a book. Emma is a mesmerizing storyteller, and her letters had me completely gripped from beginning to end.”

Extrait :

Letter Number 1

My dear Germán:

Today at noon General de Gaulle left Élysée, his only luggage the eleven million nine hundred forty-three thousand two hundred thirty-three NO votes cast by the Frenchmen who have repudiated him.

I had mixed feelings about this news, but curiously, it brought to mind my oldest childhood memory.

The house we lived in consisted of just one very small room with no windows, and a door that faced the street. This room was located on Carrera Séptima in a working-class neighborhood in Bogotá called San Cristóbal. The tram passed directly in front of our house and stopped a few meters ahead at a beer factory called Leona Pura and Leona Oscura. In that room lived my sister, Helena, another child whose name I didn't know whom we called Piojo, and a woman I remember only as an enormous tangle of black hair; it covered her completely, and when it was down I'd scream with fright and hide under the bed.

Our life took place in the streets. Every morning I would go to the garbage heap behind the beer factory to empty the bedpan we'd all used during the night. The bedpan was enormous and glazed with white enamel, little of which remained. Every day it was full to the very top, the odors that emerged from it so nauseating that I often threw up. There was no electric light or toilet in our room. Our toilet was that bedpan, where we did all our business. The trip to the garbage heap with that overflowing bedpan was the worst part of my day. I had to walk, scarcely breathing, eyes fixed on the shit, following its rhythm, possessed by terror that I might spill it, which would mean dreadful punishment. I gripped the bedpan firmly with both hands, as if I were carrying a precious object. The weight was also tremendous, a test of my strength. Because my sister was older, she had to go to the spigot to bring the water we needed for the day. As for Piojo, he had to go for coal and take out the ashes, so neither of them could ever help me carry the bedpan, since they went in the other direction. The best part of my day came once I'd emptied the bedpan on the garbage heap. That's where all the neighborhood kids hung out; playing, screaming, sliding down a mountain of clay, squabbling with each other, fighting. They rolled around the mud puddles and dug through the garbage looking for what we called treasures: cans of beer to make music, old shoes, pieces of wire or rubber, sticks, old dresses. Everything interested us; it was our game room. I couldn't play much because I was the smallest and the bigger kids didn't like me. My only friend was a boy we teased for his limp—we nicknamed him Cojo, even though he was also the biggest of the children. He'd lost one foot completely, sliced off by the tram one day when he was arranging Leona bottle tops on the rails so the tram might flatten them like coins. Like the rest of us, Cojo didn't wear shoes, and he helped himself along with a stick, his only foot executing extraordinary leaps. When he started to run, no one could catch him.

Cojo was always waiting for me at the entrance to the dump. I emptied the bedpan, cleaned it quickly with weeds or old papers, and hid it in a hole, always the same one, behind a eucalyptus tree. One day Cojo didn't want to play because he had a stomachache, and we sat beneath the slide to watch the others play. The clay was wet, and I began to make a tiny figurine from it. Cojo always wore the same pair of pants, his only pair, three times his size, tied with a piece of rope around his waist. He hid everything in the pockets of those pants: rocks, spinning tops, pieces of glass, and a knife blade with its handle missing. When I finished the clay figurine, he took his half-knife and used the tip to make two holes for the eyes and another slightly bigger one for the mouth. But when he finished he said, "This doll is very small. Let's make it bigger."

And we made it bigger, adding mud to it.

The next day we returned, and it was lying where we'd left it. Cojo said, "We're going to make it bigger."

And the others came and said: "We're going to make it bigger."

One of them found an old, very large board, and we decided we'd make the figurine grow until he was that size, and then, atop that board, we could carry him around, marching. For many days we added more and more mud to the figurine until he was as big as the board. Then we decided to give him a name: General Rebollo. I don't know why we chose that name, but it doesn't matter: General Rebollo became our God. We dressed him in whatever we found in the garbage heap; the races came to an end, the fighting, the leaping. Now everything revolved around General Rebollo, the central character in all our games. For days and days we lived around his board. Sometimes we made him seem good, sometimes evil; most of the time he was magical, possessed of superpowers. That's how many days passed, and many Sundays, which, for me, were the worst days of the week. From noon until the evening on Sundays, I was left alone, locked in our only room. There was no light other than what came through the cracks and the large keyhole, and I spent hours with my eye pressed to the hole to see what was happening in the street and to forget that I was afraid. Often, when the woman with long tangled hair and Helena and Piojo returned, they'd find me asleep against the door, exhausted from so much looking out, and so much dreaming of General Rebollo.

But after inspiring a thousand and one games, General Rebollo's heroism began to wane. Our tiny imaginations could find no more joy in his presence, and each day fewer and fewer of us wanted to play with him. General Rebollo began to spend long hours alone, no one taking care of the decorations that adorned him. Until one day, Cojo, who was still the most loyal, climbed atop an old bureau and pounded his improvised cane three times. His sharp voice cracking with emotion, he shouted: "General Rebollo is dead!"

In circumstances like the ones in which we lived, one is born knowing what hunger, cold, and death mean. With our heads bowed and our eyes filled with tears, we slowly gathered around General Rebollo.

Once again, Cojo shouted, "On your knees!"

We all bent a knee, drowning in tears, no one daring to say a word. The son of the coalman was older than we were, and he always sat on a rock reading pages from the newspaper he found in the trash. He came toward us, still holding the newspaper, and said, "Idiot kids, if your General has died, then bury him."

Then he left.

We all stood. Together we lifted the board with the General, and decided to bury him in the garbage heap, but all our efforts were useless: we couldn't even move the board. So we decided to bury him in pieces. We broke each leg in three parts, did the same with the arms. Cojo said the head had to be buried whole. An old can was found, and we placed the head inside; four of the kids, the oldest ones, carried it first. We all followed behind, crying like orphans. The same ceremony was repeated with each of the pieces of the legs and the arms, until all that was left was his torso, which we broke into many pieces. We made many tiny mud balls from it, and when there was nothing left of General Rebollo's torso, we played war with them.

Emma Reyes

Paris, April 28, 1969

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Penguin Classics
• Date d'édition: 2017
• ISBN 10: 0143108689
• ISBN 13: 9780143108689
• Reliure: Relié
• Nombre de pages: 192