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3.68 AVERAGE
3.68 AVERAGE
reflective
slow-paced
Shame, by Annie Ernaux.
no matter how I feel about Shame as a piece of literature, I’ll always be fond of Annie Ernaux’s writing. her style carries a rare intimacy — tender, yet unflinchingly raw. her sensitive way of observing the world and the most ordinary experiences, combined with her expertise in translating them into soulful and precise choices, as well as the careful placement, of words, leaves me in awe.
regarding her excursion to Lourdes: a moment that should have been delightful — exploring a new place — felt instead like an outing to a cage. both her and her dad couldn’t afford the pleasures of the place: the good meals, the exhibitions, the small luxuries. they were there, but partially, at a distance — present, but excluded. that deeply resonated with me and my recent voyage to England. I cherished the opportunity of being there. however, I sensed a feeling of alienation, unable to fully socialize and experience the city due to financial limits (though that feeling didn’t arise in Bath, likely because it was smaller and less intimidating than the capital).
in this work, memory stands at the core, particularly as something unreliable. Ernaux implies that memory isn't truly ours — it belongs to the objects and surroundings of that moment. she writes:
"the clothes, advertisements, songs and movies that come and go over a year or even a single season help us re-arrange our feelings and desires into some kind of chronological order. to be so sure, the black stretch belt marks the awakening of my desire to seduce men, of which I can find no trace before, just like the song Miami Beach Rhumba reflects my yearning for romance and faraway lands."
here, memory isn’t engraved within us — it’s shaped by external things, often distorted and untrustworthy. it resides in objects that once defined us. Ernaux even references Proust, noting:
“in his writings, Proust suggests that our memory is separate from us, residing in the ocean breeze or the smells of the early autumn — things linked to the earth that recur periodically, confirming the permanence of mankind.”
shame emerges after a defining moment — when Ernaux faces an scene that breaks the fragile illusion of a pure, protected childhood. afterward, the world feels raw and exposed. she even remarks that her school should have guarded her from the event, but it didn’t — and that absence of protection forced her into a new consciousness, not only of pain, but of class, hierarchy, and her place within it. shame, from then on, becomes something larger: tied not only to violence, but to the quiet cruelty of not belonging.
shame, in this memoir, transcends the personal — it becomes a reflection of larger societal structures. it emerges from systems that impose identities and marginalize those who deviate. following that pivotal moment, the idealization of childhood falls away, and Ernaux gains a clearer understanding of her shameful social position.
the dual perspective is poingnant and crucial. the child endures the trauma in silence, without grasping its meaning; the adult returns to it, equipped with language that try — but often fail — to contain it. the discrepancy between feeling and understanding sustains a quiet tension throughout, like watching someone investigate a mystery in which they are both witness and victim.
the child couldn’t name the experience; the adult still wrestles with it. this dual voice captures the deep challenge of transforming trauma into language — a core element of the book’s unsettling power. ultimately, shame goes beyond personal storytelling. it becomes a meditation on memory, identity, and the blurry edges of self. Ernaux remind us that writing can can be a weapon, but also a shield.
overall, I adored this memoir. it left me with lasting affection for Annie Ernaux intimate voice and gratitude for the chance to connect with her story.
overall, I adored this memoir. it left me with lasting affection for Annie Ernaux intimate voice and gratitude for the chance to connect with her story.
emotional
reflective
fast-paced
En este breve libro Annie nos habla del día en el que su padre intentó matar a su madre, pero también nos habla de las consecuencias que tiene la vergüenza, de la sociedad de clases, de unos padres distantes y del colegio católico al que fue. Como siempre, me ha gustado mucho leer a Annie de nuevo.
✍🏼 IRATXE
✍🏼 IRATXE
informative
reflective
medium-paced
Il punto di partenza di Ernaux in questo scritto è un evento tr4um4tico avvenuto nell'estate dei suoi 12 anni: il tentato om1c1di0 di sua madre da parte di suo padre. Partendo da questo avvenimento che si è fissato nella sua memoria di ragazzina ed è poi rimasto, seppur dai contorni sfumati, nella sua memoria di donna, riflette su ciò che durante la sua infanzia e prima giovinezza ha segnato i suoi confini identitari - riti, usi, costumi propri della sua famiglia, che si tramandavano di generazione in generazione garantendo un senso di appartenenza, delimitando il proprio paese, Y., rispetto agli altri (Rouen, Le Havre) - esprimendo sulla carta il senso di vergogna che nutriva in quegli anni verso la sua famiglia e il suo background culturale.
"È la città natale senza nome in cui, appena vi faccio ritorno, sono subito assalita da un torpore che mi sottrae ogni pensiero, pressoché ogni ricordo puntuale, come se fosse in procinto di inghiottirmi."
È stato il mio quinto scritto dell'autrice e man mano che leggevo sentivo che era di vitale importanza, come sempre, far tesoro dei suoi stati d'animo, di tutte quelle emozioni che ha provato per anni, che ha trattenuto dentro di sé incapace di dar loro un nome, finché poi non le ha espresse su carta permettendo a se stessa, ma anche a me, di conoscersi un po' di più. Leggendo un po' di pareri altrui ho notato che questo scritto è quello che probabilmente è piaciuto meno a tante persone che amano leggerla; a me invece è risuonato dentro in maniera veramente forte, mi ha fatta emozionare, mi ha fatto male, anche, a tratti, ha toccato tasti sensibili. In realtà, penso sia proprio questo, tra gli altri, uno dei motivi per cui ho scoperto di amare profondamente i testi autobiografici: qualcuno decide di affidare parti di sé alla carta - per se stesso, per capirsi di più - ma anche per permettere agli altrə, attraverso le sue parole, di conoscersi, di fare i conti con parti di sé forse scomode, forse dolorose, ma con le quali è necessario fare pace per star bene. Per me leggere Annie Ernaux è questo: fare pace con tutte le parti di me, trovare un equilibrio. Dunque, non posso che ringraziarla e consigliarvi di leggerla
"È la città natale senza nome in cui, appena vi faccio ritorno, sono subito assalita da un torpore che mi sottrae ogni pensiero, pressoché ogni ricordo puntuale, come se fosse in procinto di inghiottirmi."
È stato il mio quinto scritto dell'autrice e man mano che leggevo sentivo che era di vitale importanza, come sempre, far tesoro dei suoi stati d'animo, di tutte quelle emozioni che ha provato per anni, che ha trattenuto dentro di sé incapace di dar loro un nome, finché poi non le ha espresse su carta permettendo a se stessa, ma anche a me, di conoscersi un po' di più. Leggendo un po' di pareri altrui ho notato che questo scritto è quello che probabilmente è piaciuto meno a tante persone che amano leggerla; a me invece è risuonato dentro in maniera veramente forte, mi ha fatta emozionare, mi ha fatto male, anche, a tratti, ha toccato tasti sensibili. In realtà, penso sia proprio questo, tra gli altri, uno dei motivi per cui ho scoperto di amare profondamente i testi autobiografici: qualcuno decide di affidare parti di sé alla carta - per se stesso, per capirsi di più - ma anche per permettere agli altrə, attraverso le sue parole, di conoscersi, di fare i conti con parti di sé forse scomode, forse dolorose, ma con le quali è necessario fare pace per star bene. Per me leggere Annie Ernaux è questo: fare pace con tutte le parti di me, trovare un equilibrio. Dunque, non posso che ringraziarla e consigliarvi di leggerla
challenging
sad
slow-paced
This is...glaringly honest.
Ernaux writes with clarity and precision, and she is honest about the challenging emotions she has faced. She talks about the guilt she felt for being the one who saw the incident, the shame she felt as a youngster, and the worry she had for her mother. She also discusses the societal and cultural norms of the time—such as the expectations placed on women and the stigma associated with mental illness—that added to her embarrassment. She presents a distinct viewpoint on the sensation of guilt in her writing, which is honest and emotive. The work makes a significant contribution to the field of autofiction, and anybody who has ever felt embarrassed will be able to relate to it.
Ernaux writes with clarity and precision, and she is honest about the challenging emotions she has faced. She talks about the guilt she felt for being the one who saw the incident, the shame she felt as a youngster, and the worry she had for her mother. She also discusses the societal and cultural norms of the time—such as the expectations placed on women and the stigma associated with mental illness—that added to her embarrassment. She presents a distinct viewpoint on the sensation of guilt in her writing, which is honest and emotive. The work makes a significant contribution to the field of autofiction, and anybody who has ever felt embarrassed will be able to relate to it.
A few months ago for my small press book club we read <i>[book:The Years|145625252]</i>, also by Ernaux. I enjoyed it, and felt a strong pull to read it in the original French.
Yet, what puts Ernaux on my radar isn't necessarily that, it was that someone in that book club spoke so passionately about Ernaux (they were wearing a shirt that said "Annie Ernaux" on it, also). I can't remember what they said, but I remember the affection and admiration for the author's works. So, when I was on Fitzcarlando's website looking for an excuse to buy a pretty book, Ernaux was a perfect choice. Especially since the title is a thing I am fascinated by and feel often.
In <i>Shame</i>, Ernaux dissects an event from her childhood, the context around it, the scenes and smells and pressures and transformative effect of this event.
I could not help but think about my childhood, something <a href="https://tbindc.substack.com/p/to-be-good">I've written about elsewhere</a>, and the impacts a similar series of events had on me. The word "shame" only appears once in that essay. Reading this, I see so much more of it in myself. I begin to hear it in my thoughts and put a name to this feeling. Knowing that you feel shame, and identifying that feeling, are not exactly the same thing.
"The worst thing about shame is that we imagine we are the only ones to experience it."
In the closing pages, Ernaux says, "I have always wanted to write the sort of book that I find it impossible to talk about afterwards, the sort of book that makes it impossible for me to withstand the gaze of others. But what degree of shame could possibly be conveyed by the writing of a book which seeks to measure up to the events I experienced in my twelfth year."
I relate to this, I know the texture of the thought. It's as though you might excise those feelings from your heart and mind if you exposed them to everyone, if you made your confession of all your faults and errors and bad qualities and mistakes and embarrassments and blemishes. How vulnerable are you willing to be? I like this investigation. How much of yourself are you willing to show? Will it be enough to wash it all away?
"We stopped being decent people," Ernaux says of her family following the event. Shame and Goodness. Shame precludes one from feeling good about themselves, feeling that they <i>are or can be</i> good.
Another thought: shame and pride are close kin. Ernaux does not explore pride, not even the shame of pride. I think this is interesting.
Yet, what puts Ernaux on my radar isn't necessarily that, it was that someone in that book club spoke so passionately about Ernaux (they were wearing a shirt that said "Annie Ernaux" on it, also). I can't remember what they said, but I remember the affection and admiration for the author's works. So, when I was on Fitzcarlando's website looking for an excuse to buy a pretty book, Ernaux was a perfect choice. Especially since the title is a thing I am fascinated by and feel often.
In <i>Shame</i>, Ernaux dissects an event from her childhood, the context around it, the scenes and smells and pressures and transformative effect of this event.
I could not help but think about my childhood, something <a href="https://tbindc.substack.com/p/to-be-good">I've written about elsewhere</a>, and the impacts a similar series of events had on me. The word "shame" only appears once in that essay. Reading this, I see so much more of it in myself. I begin to hear it in my thoughts and put a name to this feeling. Knowing that you feel shame, and identifying that feeling, are not exactly the same thing.
"The worst thing about shame is that we imagine we are the only ones to experience it."
In the closing pages, Ernaux says, "I have always wanted to write the sort of book that I find it impossible to talk about afterwards, the sort of book that makes it impossible for me to withstand the gaze of others. But what degree of shame could possibly be conveyed by the writing of a book which seeks to measure up to the events I experienced in my twelfth year."
I relate to this, I know the texture of the thought. It's as though you might excise those feelings from your heart and mind if you exposed them to everyone, if you made your confession of all your faults and errors and bad qualities and mistakes and embarrassments and blemishes. How vulnerable are you willing to be? I like this investigation. How much of yourself are you willing to show? Will it be enough to wash it all away?
"We stopped being decent people," Ernaux says of her family following the event. Shame and Goodness. Shame precludes one from feeling good about themselves, feeling that they <i>are or can be</i> good.
Another thought: shame and pride are close kin. Ernaux does not explore pride, not even the shame of pride. I think this is interesting.
dnf at 36 pages i just am bored baby im so sorry
inspiring
reflective
slow-paced