'Marie Redonnet, one of France's leading progressive writers, has called called Samuel Beckett her literary "grandfather." But she said she had to abandon his literature of eternal death and never-quite-ending endings. Like Beckett, Franz Kafka, or the present-day literature of magic realism, Redonnet's stories are extremely vague. There is no way to tell where or when they are happening, or if the plot has any sort of historical significance at all. By slipping free of historical data, Redonnet's stories become parables, like Bible stories or Aesop's Fables. But, Redonnet has said, she's tired of writing parables, and hopes that Nevermore will be her last. Instead, she is interested in the beginnings that can result from endings. She said she hoped to find away to escape the entire cycle of beginnings and endings and eventually discover a more meaningful vision of truth.'-- The Daily Nebraskan
'HÔTEL SPLENDID is one of marie redonnet’s trilogy of death — the others are FOREVER VALLEY and ROSE MELLIE ROSE. i haven’t read the last, but like FOREVER VALLEY, HÔTEL SPLENDID is a thin book packed with modern anxiety in an oddly proto-modern setting. this time we’re in a rustic hotel set amidst a sucking, sulfuric swamp. less effective for me i think than FOREVER VALLEY (possibly because the hotel is a more familiar device and thus more in danger of being used as a cliche) HÔTEL SPLENDID was still impressive for its accumulative feeling of anxiety. its main character’s desperate attempt to keep up the rotting, leaking building as well as attend to her sisters ailments and hostilities, was perfect allegory for the burden of all our constant anxieties: bourgeois real estate phobias, hypochondria and contagion paranoia, and the melancholy in seeing the flesh’s various evidence of its encroaching age.
'redonnet’s work is particularly virtuosic with time. time contracts and leaps in her writing. within a paragraph, between sentences, we can oddly jump weeks and then linger for pages on a single incident only to pass through a night in a phrase’s brief flourish. the effect is somewhat like reading an irregular diary — quickpenned and intense during moments of drama but languishing for long trials or spurted into with a feverish insight. and yet also her writing undercuts this diary-like inconsistency with its repeating, inescapable and unchanging obsessions. maybe a better comparison than diary is the fever dream, which moves forward in jumpcuts and then traps you in over-hot, looping nightmare scenes.'-- Eugene Lim
'Each [novel] in Marie Redonnet's Hotel Splendid features a commanding female protagonist trapped in her place of origin, neither able nor wanting to escape from the home that gave her life but which now threatens to destroy her. The narrator of Hotel Splendid never questions her doomed quest to keep the establishment running, the girl in Forever Valley leaves only when dam construction forces her to, and Mellie turns down several job offers on the continent and submits to nature’s call to death. Redonnet’s prose reads like the barest of poetry, devoid of description, while still managing to paint vivid pictures of the rich landscapes that play a vital role in every story. Most impressively, these three tales represent an evolution of the feminine from the alienated, sexless martyr to the prostituted prepubescent on the verge of self-knowledge to the self-loving, self-determined Mellie, who dies to give her baby a chance at a better life. To her credit, Redonnet packs these jewels with much more: Highly personal images of utopia, the importance of heritage, the necessity of burying the dead to approach the future. Like traveling a very long, very dark tunnel into a blinding bright beautiful light.'-- Kirkus
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Further
Marie Redonnet Website
Marie Redonnet @ goodreads
Marie Redonnet @ Les Éditions de Minuit
Marie Redonnet @ Editions POL
Marie Redonnet's 'Ist and Irt'
MR's 'Understudies' reviewed @ Women Writers
'Check-out time at the Splendid Hôtel: Marie Redonnet's new mythological space'
'Separation and Permeability in Marie Redonnet's Triptych
'Marie Redonnet: resistance, barbarism, and self‐satisfied contemplation'
'Entre minimalisme et quête identitaire. Le corps dans l'oeuvre de Marie Redonnet'
MR texts set to music as art song or choral works
'Writing Otherwise: Atlan, Duras, Giraudon, Redonnet, and Wittig'
'Marie Redonnet's L'Accord de paix: The question of resistance and the turn-of-the-millennium novel'
'FILLING IN THE BLANK CANVAS: MEMORY, INHERITANCE AND IDENTITY IN MARIE REDONNET'S ROSE MÉLIE ROSE'
'Material Girl: Becoming and Unbecoming in Marie Redonnet's Forever Valley'
'Marie Redonnet Un monde à part'
Buy 'Hôtel Splendid'
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Extras
Gérard Pesson / Marie Redonnet - Projet Personnel
from a production of 'Seaside', a play by Marie Redonnet
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Interview
in German
Nach der Veröffentlichung eines Werkes ist die eigentliche „Arbeit“ des Autors getan, doch die Medien und auch viele Leser haben ein gesteigertes Interesse am Autor selbst gefunden. Dieser wird dann z.B. in Talkshows eingeladen, wo neben den persönlichen Fragen auch oft eine Art Interpretation seines Werkes erfragt/erwartet wird. Was halten Sie von dieser Neugier an der „Person hinter dem gedruckten Wort“ – kommt hier nicht das Werk an sich zu kurz?
Marie Redonnet: Der Autor müsste in der Tat seine Arbeit dann beendet haben, so jedenfalls begriff ich am Anfang meine Position als Autor. Aber es braucht einen Mittler zwischen Buch und Leser. Wenn diese Mittler ausschließlich die Medien sind, welche Art von Literatur wird da gefördert?
Man sollte also in alternative Räume investieren, in denen Leser und Autor gemeinsam über das Geschriebene nachdenken, die Diskussion neu erfinden, den Meinungsstreit, die Polemik, die Passion, den Wunsch für die zeitgenössische Literatur. Ein Buch ist geschrieben worden, um erörtert zu werden, um ein Gespräch, um unterschiedliche Überlegungen auszulösen. Es muss das soziale Leben ernähren, in einem Raum des Aufruhrs, der Unordnung, der Fragestellung und der Freiheit, die ihr eigen ist. Ein Buch ist erst durch die Leser lebendig, durch seine Weitergabe, durch seine Ver- wandlungen neuer Standpunkte, neuer Formulierungen…
Es gibt Leser, die die zeitgenössische Literatur als monoton empfinden, weil Themen wie die Identitätssuche von vielen Autoren in ähnlicher Art und mit ähnlichen Figuren und Stilen präsentiert werden. Somit kommt nicht selten der Vorwurf, die „alte Literatur“ würde mehr Gehalt und Vielfalt aufweisen. Was würden Sie hier erwidern?
MR: In den Jahren 2006-2007 leitete ich in der Abteilung franz. Literatur der Universität Colorado in Boulder ein Masterseminar über die zeitgenössische franz. Literatur. Wir lasen Jean Echenoz, Jean Philippe Toussaint, François Bon, Pierre Bergounioux, Pierre Michon, Marie Ndyae, Marie Redonnet, Michel Houellebecq, Eric Chevillard, Antoine Volodine, Hervé Guibert, Eugène Savitzkaïa. Ich war überrascht über die Vielfalt der Stile und Problemstellungen, die die Krisen, Unsicherheiten, Störungen und Zweifel widerspiegeln, die wir ausleben; zweifellos existiert diese mehrheitliche Literatur, sie gibt uns zu denken.
Die neue mit der alten Literatur zu vergleichen, um sich in die alte zu flüchten, die reicher, ausgearbeiteter, etc… ist, war immer ein Reflex und ein Alibi, um sich nicht in der Flucht und Unbequemlichkeit innerhalb des Neuen konfrontiert zu sehen. Die gleiche Reaktion sieht man bei der zeitgenössischen Kunst … Der zeitgenössische Leser muss auch gegen den Strom lesen, er muss zum Entdecker werden, sich nicht mit den Büchern zufrieden geben, von denen alle Welt spricht. Der Leser soll riskieren, sich eine neue Lesart aneignen, nicht das Alte im Neuen suchen, nicht das Bekannte im Unbekannten … Unsere Welt erlebt eine solche Bedrohung, einen solchen Wandel, so dass es notwendigerweise eine Fülle an Bücher gibt, die davon zu erzählen versuchen. Die Literatur ist mehr denn je an der Tagesordnung, unter der Bedingung dass es fähige Autoren, Herausgeber und Leser gibt, die das Risiko dieses Abenteuers auf sich nehmen, das nicht immer leicht auffindbar ist und das keine ausgetretenen Pfade benutzt.
In Ihren Romanen Splendid Hôtel, Forever Valley und Rose Mélie Rose spielt der Aspekt der Reduktion eine entscheidende Rolle. Die Figuren werden nur rudimentär beschrieben, die lokalen und temporalen Angaben sind vage und auch die Syntax besteht oft aus kurzen, unzusammenhängenden Sätzen, sich wiederholenden Phrasen, Kollektivierungen und Auslassungen. Das hat den Effekt, dass der Fokus auf die Sprache selbst fällt. Als Leser muss ich diese nun– linguistisch gesprochen – in ihre einzelnen Bauteil zerlegen und ihren Gehalt neu bestimmen. Ist das für Sie folglich auch eine der „Aufgaben“ des Lesers – Bedeutung zuzuordnen – und vermehrt auf das Medium Sprache zu achten, statt auf die Erzählung selbst?
MR: Was Sie den „Aspekt der Reduktion“ nennen, ist in der Tat die Schrift reduziert auf das Essentielle, die des rhetorischen Effektes beraubt ist, die mit der Tradition der französischen Sprache im schönen Stil bricht. Ich beschreibe sehr wenig, skizzenhaft. Es liegt am Leser sich anhand einiger vorgegebener Elemente [die Szenerie] vorzustellen. Die Lektüre fordert demnach die kreative Betätigung des Lesers, die Mobilisierung seines Vorstellungsvermögens, seines Denkens.
Die Zeitlichkeit meiner Romane hat sich klarer abgezeichnet und seit „Diego“ handelt sie ausschlies-slich von der Gegenwart, was die Schrift in einer unrealistischen Art zu ergreifen versucht. Der Raum ist oftmals fiktiv, doch nur um jenseits der bekannten Bilder unsere Welt darzustellen. Meine Bücher schlagen eine eigene Vision der Welt und der Gegenwart vor, erfindet Figuren jener Zeit.
Meine Syntax besteht, wie Sie sagen, aus kurzen und sehr einfachen Sätzen, doch denke ich nicht, dass sie unzusammenhängend sind. Sie erdichtet sich ihre Logik, ihre Ordnung. Ist es nicht das Essentielle einer Schrift, dass sie durch die Sprache eine andere Sprache erfindet, die zweitrangig, fremd, eigenartig eine andere Sicht und einen anderen Gedanken aufzeigt?
Der Leser, der meine Bücher liest, zwingt sich zu einer Erfahrung der zerrüttenden Sprache,was vielleicht auch zu einer ersten frustrierenden Lektüre führt, aber ich möchte, dass sie zu einer anderen Sicht führt, zu anderen Emotionen, einer anderen Subjektivität. Hingegen glaube ich, dass meine Erzählung in meinen Romanen sehr wichtig bleibt, oder vielmehr die Fiktion, weil das Gewöhnliche meiner erzählenden Texte durch meine Sparsamkeit charakterisiert wird: Beschreibung, psychische Analyse. Ich gehöre einer Literaturgeschichte an, ich habe nach einer großen Anzahl von radikalen literarischen Ereignissen zu schreiben begonnen (Surrealismus, Nouveau Roman, die Werke Kafkas, Céline, Michaux, Beckett, …) ich kann nicht schreiben, wie vor ihrer Zeit geschrieben wurde. Die gegenwärtige Tendenz, Romane zu schreiben, liegt darin, sich keine Fragen über die Literatur zu stellen, so als ob die Geschichte nie existiert hätte. Das gibt bestenfalls Bücher nach dem guten „klassischen“ Sinn, erfindet aber keine neue Vision der Welt, in der wir leben.
Ein wiederkehrendes Thema in Ihren Romanen ist der Um- bzw. Aufbruch. Sehen Sie diesen auch im übertragenen Sinne in der Literatur – die zeitgenössische Literatur sollte also die „Fesseln“ der Vergangenheit hinter sich lassen und ihre dadurch ihre eigene Stimme zu finden?
MR: Ja, das könnte ich so sagen: Sich von den Fesseln und des Reichtums der Vergangenheit befreien, um seine/ihre eigene Stimme/n zu finden, die nach dem Bild einer Welt im Umbruch notwendigerweise unterschiedlich ausfallen werden.
Es gibt Kritiker, die Ihren Romanen eine „stilistische Armut“ attestieren, weil ihre Satzabfolgen keine Psychologisierung zulassen. Statt also reichhaltige Wendungen auszumachen, findet der Leser in Ihren Werken eine quasi bis auf das Grundgerüst entkleidete Wortstruktur. Könnte man diese Sicht, diese Methode als „Urzustand“ der Sprache bezeichnen, deren eigentliche Aussagekraft die Nicht-Aussage des Konkreten ist?
MR: Zweifellos finden wir darin stilistische Armut im Verhältnis zu dem, was das „Goldene Zeitalter“ der französischen Literatur hätte sein können, die ich aber keineswegs zu erhalten oder verzweifelt wiederzubeleben versuche, da ich mit dieser im Widerspruch stehe. Was die Kunst und die Musik erfahren hat, ist auch in der Literatur erfolgt. Der Ausdruck „bis auf das Grundgerüst entkleidete Wortstruktur“ trifft es ziemlich genau.
Ich würde jetzt nicht von Urzustand der Sprache sprechen, ich verspüre überhaupt nicht diese Nostalgie, nicht den Wunsch nach dem Ursprung. Ich würde eher von einem zerstörten, verlorenen, unausgefüllten Bereich sprechen und mit diesen Grundmaterialien, also das was übrig bleibt, erfindet sich die Literatur in meinem Fall neu. Sie ergibt eine abstrakte Form, doch die konkreten Elemente sind nötig, um dem Text Leben einzuflößen.
Neben Ihren Romanen haben Sie auch eine Kurzgeschichten- und Gedichtsammlung, sowie Theaterstücke und auch eine mit Bildern von Matisse illustrierte Erzählung („Villa Rosa“) veröffentlicht. Wie wichtig ist Ihnen die Vielfalt und das Genre an sich? Sehen Sie diese Exkurse als Bereicherung, Abwechslung oder „Ausbruchsversuch“ an?
MR: Es kann sein, dass ich vor allem Romane geschrieben habe, weil meine Verleger (die auch am Markt gebunden sind) mich danach gefragt haben. Im Augenblick muss ich sie frustriert haben, weil meine Romane nicht so genau nach den Normen des Marktes verfasst wurden.
Ich liebe es sehr, für das Theater zu schreiben, dort fühle ich mich wohl. Geliebt habe ich auch die Erzählung, ausgehend der „Tafeln“ von Matisse, die eine Anfrage war. Ebenso die kurzen Texte. Auch fühle ich das Bedürfnis über das Nicht-Fiktive zu schreiben. Folglich ist der Durchmarsch durch die Genres etwas Wesentliches für mich. Ich bin keine Romanautorin, ich wage ein literarisches Experiment.
Welche Rolle spielt der (reale) Leser für Sie? Ist dieser während Ihrer Arbeit in Ihrem Hinterkopf zugegen oder ist er für Sie Teil einer anonymen Masse, die später lediglich Ihr Werk liest?
MR: Ich schreibe für den Leser, dem meine Bücher ansprechen. Aber ich mache ihm kein Zugeständnis, ich schreibe nicht, um ihm eine Freude zu machen, nicht um ihm das zu liefern, was er erwartet, also nicht für die „anonyme Masse“. Ich suche die Begegnung, den gegenseitigen Austausch.
Sind Sie als Schriftstellerin zugleich Ihre schärfste Kritikerin oder überlassen Sie diese Aufgabe professionellen Kritikern bzw. grundsätzlich anderen Leuten?
MR: Beides. Nur die Strenge erlaubt mir, über mich hinauszuwachsen. Ich benötige die Strenge der anderen, weil man vor sich selbst immer ein wenig entwaffnend dasteht, mit einem Mangel an kritischer Distanz, einer Faulheit auch, zumindest in meinem Fall.
Eine der unvermeidlichen Fragen in Interviews ist immer die nach der Inspirationsquelle. Sehen Sie uns bitte nach, dass auch wir so neugierig sind und gerne erfahren möchten, wie das Thema eines Romans bei Ihnen Schritt für Schritt Gestalt annimmt.
Die Literatur meiner Schreibanfänge hingen von einer mannigfaltigen Abstammung ab: Die Poesie, Kafka, Beckett, Duras. Dann Genet, über den ich eine These schrieb, die schließlich zum Essay wurde „Jean Genet, le poète travesti“ („Jean Genet, der verkleidete Poet“).
Doch auch das Kino, die Kinophantasie bewohnt mich und inspiriert mich womöglich mehr, als es die Bücher tun. Im Moment sind die Bilder der Welt und dem, was dort geschieht, meine Inspiration.
Können Sie während der Pause nach und vor einem neuen Werk tatsächlich gänzlich „nicht-schriftstellerisch“ agieren oder sind Sie unbewusst immer in Gedanken bei neuen Projekten und Ideen?
MR: Ich überquere lange Durststrecken. Aber ich bin immer mit der Frage beschäftigt, worüber ich schreiben könnte. Selbst wenn ich nicht weiß, was ich schreiben soll, bin ich doch immer auf der Suche. Die Suche ist beständig, der Fund ein Moment der Gnade, und anschließend Arbeit.
Sie wissen nun, wie es ist eine Schriftstellerin zu sein. Wenn Sie Ihr Schaffen beschreiben würden, ist es für Sie eher Beruf oder Berufung?
MR: Eine Notwendigkeit. Zum Teil Beruf.
Um das Werk eines Autors zu beschreiben, stellen viele Kritiker Vergleiche an. In Ihrem Fall werden z.B. Analogien zu Kafka oder Beckett hergestellt. Empfinden Sie derartige Vergleiche als Auszeichnung bzw. Ehre oder sehen Sie diese eher als unbewussten Druck, eine bestimmte Erwartungshaltung seitens der Kritiker und Leser erfüllen zu müssen?
MR: Eine Ehre vielleicht … doch weil ich nicht sie bin, und indem man mich mit ihnen vergleicht, kann ich nur enttäuschen …
Wie schon angesprochen, zeichnen sich Ihre Werke nicht durch impressionistische Bilder, Metaphern oder Aneinanderreihungen von deskriptiven Adjektiven aus, doch als Leser erhält man trotzdem ein sehr klares Bild von den Personen, Orten und Objekten. Es scheint, als ob es nicht die Worte selber sind, die zum Leser sprechen, sondern eine Aussagekraft, die hinter bzw. unter ihnen liegt und hervorleuchtet. Ist dieser Eindruck von Ihnen intendiert oder handelt es sich eher um die allzu verklärte Deutung eines Lesers?
MR: Ich finde ihre Analyse sehr zutreffend. Sie berührt mich gerade sehr. Meine sehr einfachen Wörter, meine Sätze sollen in der Tat von einer heimlichen Ausdruckskraft beseelt sein, damit der Text zu Literatur gemacht werden kann, ansonsten muss er als misslungen angesehen werden. In diesem Sinne ähnelt es einem poetischen Experiment. Ich gehe ein wenig über ein Seil, ein Schritt daneben und der Text kippt ins Nichts. Es ist ein riskantes Spiel.
Welchen Bezug haben Sie zu Ihren eigenen Werken? Auf der einen Seite sind Sie das Produkt Ihrer Fantasie, auf der anderen Seite kommentieren, kritisieren und interpretieren die Leser allerlei Aspekte in sie hinein. Wie viel Nähe bzw. Abstand haben Sie selbst zu Ihren „Kreationen“?
MR: Sie entfernen sich von mir und ich hoffe, dass sie stückweise zum Leser übergehen, die sie sich aneignen und sie mit Leben füllen. So ähnlich begreife ich die Beziehung zu meinen Büchern. Das einzige Buch, das mir wirklich nahe steht, ist jenes, an dem ich gerade arbeite.
Wenn Sie selbst lesen, wie lesen Sie – als „normale“ Leserin oder doch als Schriftstellerin, die über Stil, Inhalt und Figurenkonstellation nachdenkt bzw. diese vielleicht kritisiert?
MR: Ich bin nicht unbedingt eine große Leserin. Es gibt Autoren, die ich mag, doch nicht unbedingt weil ich mich an ihnen messen möchte, vielmehr weil sie mir eine starke ästhetische Emotion verschaffen. Also vielmehr die großen Autoren, die sich an einem radikalen Schreibexperiment gewagt haben. Sie treiben mich an, über mich selbst hinauszuwachsen, mir etwas zuzutrauen, zu etwas, das man als wahres Schreibexperiment ansehen könnte; sie sind die „Leuchttürme“ im Baudelair’schen Sinne.
Ich lese meine Zeitgenossen ohne mich ihnen immerzu nahe zu fühlen.
Sie dürfen ganz offen sein: Welche Frage (von Lesern bzw. in einem Interview) können Sie nicht mehr hören bzw. welche finden Sie besonders ärgerlich und/oder amüsant?
MR: Natürlich mag ich mit Lesern reden, die sich bemüht haben, meine Schreibversuche zu hinterfragen, als jene, die völlig abwegige Fragen stellen.
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Book
University of Nebraska Press
'These three short novels are the first works to appear in English by a remarkable contemporary French author, Marie Redonnet. Born in Paris in 1947, Redonnet taught for a number of years in a suburban lycée before deciding to pursue a writing career full time. Since her volume of poetry Le Mort & Cie appeared in 1985, she has published four novels, a novella, numerous short stories, and three dramatic works.
'In translator Jordan Stump's words, these three novels, "unmistakably fit together, although they have neither characters nor setting in common. Redonnet sees the three novels as a triptych: each panel stands alone, and yet all coalesce to form a whole." Each is narrated by a different woman. Hôtel Splendid recounts the daily life of three sisters who live in a decrepit hotel on the edge of a swamp; Forever Valley is about a sixteen-year-old girl who works in a dance-hall and looks for the dead; Rose Mellie Rose is the story of another adolescent girl who assembles a photographic and written record of her life in the dying town of Ôat.
'Redonnet's novels have been compared to those of Annie Ernaux, Alain Robbe-Grillet, and Samuel Beckett. She has since acknowledged the crucial influence which Beckett's work has had upon her literary work. And yet she is also notably different from the great master of modern literature. "Where Beckett's characters slide almost inevitably toward extinction, resignation, and silence," Stump points out, "Redonnet's display a force for life and creation that borders on the triumphant. . . . [They] retain even in the darkest situations a remarkable persistence, openness, and above all hope, a hope that may well be, however unspectacularly, repaid in the end."'-- University of Nebraska Press
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Excerpt
The Splendid is not what it used to be since grandmotherdied. The lavatories always need unblocking. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls because of the damp. The Hôtel Splendid is built over an underground lake. It's grandmother's fault. No one had ever built a hotel on the edge of the swamp. Having her own hotel had always been her dream. She wanted to do things properly. She had lavatories installed in all the rooms. There was not another like it in the region back then. She was proud of the Hôtel Splendid. There is a photo of her taken the day of the opening. She is standing very straight, with a cane. Her cane was for effect, because she always walked well, up until the end. The photo still makes an impression in the foyer. But the Splendid has lost its reputation. My sisters keep themselves up in spite of their isolation here. Adad yes her hair, and Adel's is still very black. Of the three of us, I am the youngest but I look the oldest. Ada spends hours making herself up. It makes her look healthy. You would never think she was so unwell. She has always been unwell. She faints often. Adel can't bear the sight of Ada when she has fainted. I am the one who helps her back to consciousness. Afterwards, it is as if she didn't know who I was. I have no will. She takes advantage of that. I do everything she asks. That amuses her, I am sure. She complains about the food. She has bruises all over her body because of her bad circulation. Her nightstand is covered with medicine and jars of makeup. She wants me to wash her. That's hard for me because she has an odor that makes me queasy. She has never worked. Mother used to support her, and now I do. I inherited the Hôtel Splendid. But in exchange, I owe an allowance to my sisters. They chose to come and live at the hotel instead of taking the allowance. Here they are housed, fed, and served. Maybe I should not have agreed to this arrangement. Ada and Adel left the hotel very young with mother. They never came back until mother died. I am the only one who never left the Hôtel Splendid. But now that they have settled in, they are not about to leave. They have made themselves at home. They have taken the two nicest rooms, but that does not prevent them from complaining about the Hôtel Splendid's poor condition and lack of comfort. I should not let them get the better of me. I keep them alive, thanks to my work and the hotel. But the Splendid brings in less and less. It needs repairs. I don't have the means. Grandmother left a great many debts when she died. She never finished paying her bills. Mother said it was up to me to pay them, since I was inheriting the Hôtel Splendid like grandmother wanted. She left me to get by on my own. She never took an interest in the hotel. The Splendid brought in a lot back then. But all the money I earned went to paying off grandmother's debts. Grandmother hoped the hotel would increase in value. She thought the railway would transform the region. But the railway is still under construction. That's bad for the hotel. The guests are not the same. It isn't a vacation hotel anymore. I had to lower the prices. What can I do? Grandmother should not have built the hotel so near the swamp. They warned her, but she was stubborn. The Splendid is harder and harder to keep up. The guests are careless. The lavatories are in bad condition. Little by little the Splendid is becoming unrecognizable. When you look at the photo in the foyer, you would never think it was the same hotel. It has kept only its name, Hôtel Splendid, which still shines at night when the neon lights are on. I do everything I can to run the hotel as well as grandmother did. I have no room of my own. I want all the rooms to be available for the guests. When there is an empty room, that is where I sleep. When the Splendid is full, I stay in grandmother's little office where I keep my belongings. The mattresses are bad in all the rooms. The bedding needs to be changed. The guests complain that they don't sleep well. You can hear everything through the walls. Grandmother was careless about the walls. They are much too thin, and hollow as well. The lavatories are noisier and noisier, especially the flush valves. I get up every night to make sure Ada doesn't need anything. She sleeps with her mouth open. She seems to have trouble breathing. She wakes up with a start every time. She gives me a resentful look as if I were disturbing her on purpose. But I am only there to remind her to take her medicine. Her kidneys do not work well. She says it's starting up again, like at the clinic. She has spent her life going from clinic to clinic. I open the window to get rid of the smell. She thinks I am trying to give her a chill. She is coughing louder than she used to. The hallway light is acting up. I run into things as I walk down the hall, and I have bruises like Ada. Back in my bed, I can't manage to fall asleep again. I think about Ada. Her cheeks are becoming hollow, in spite of all her eating. Nothing does her any good. Every morning, I unblock the lavatories in all the rooms. The drainage is worse and worse, in spite of my work. The guests are careless. It is because of them that everything is becoming blocked up little by little. The light is on all night in Adel's room. And yet I told her she must not waste light. What can she be doing all night with her light on? She cannot be rehearsing her lines at night. Even though she has retired to the Splendid, she has not given up on her theatrical career. She writes to theater directors to ask about parts. She doesn't have much of a voice for an actress. She has never played anything but small roles. She has never had the chance to play the big roles she rehearses in her room. She says she must not lose her talent no matter what. I know nothing about the theater. In her room, there used to be a suitcase full of her old costumes. I threw them away. They were moth-eaten and crawling with vermin, a real breeding ground for disease. Adel never goes to see Ada. She never asks after her. She can't complain about her room. It is the only room on the ground floor. She has plenty of privacy to rehearse her lines. She doesn't bother the guests. Her lavatory is like new. It was grandmother's room. It could have been my room when grandmother died. But I didn't want to live in it. I left it empty until Adel came, and never rented it. That's why the lavatory is in such good condition. It is the guests who damage them. Ada can't complain about her room either. She has the only room with two beds in the hotel, at the end of the hall. It was Ada and Adel's room when they were little, back when they lived at the Splendid. Mother left all of a sudden with my sisters, leaving me alone with grandmother. She never came back. When mother sensed she was dying, she wanted Ada to go back to her old room so she would not feel lost. But Ada says she no longer remembers the room. I am sorry she took it because it was the guests' favorite room. Ada sleeps in the same bed as when she was little. Now Ada and Adel live at opposite ends of the hotel. Adel's old bed is empty next to Ada's bed. Sometimes I sleep in it when Ada is worse and needs me to be with her all night. Ada is afraid at night. At the clinic, there was always a night nurse at her bedside. Mother insisted. She paid extra. According to grandmother, mother always put Ada in the most expensive clinics. Apparently she ruined herself for Ada, she killed herself working to pay for clinics that were beyond her means. Ada never got better. She always needs something. She is never happy. All she does is complain about the damp in the Hôtel Splendid. She says it's the Splendid that is making her unwell. But she doesn't know where she would go if she left the hotel. The Splendid is really very near the swamp. The heat is becoming unbearable. When you go into the garden, you can already smell the swamp. It spreads a little every year. In grandmother's day, it was full of hunters. During the season, they stayed at the hotel. The canal that runs along the far end of the garden leads to the swamp. The Splendid has direct access to the swamp thanks to the canal. Now the hunters have changed swamps. There are many swamps in the region. I never stop mending the mosquito nets. The nets are torn everywhere, and the guests complain about the mosquitoes. Ada says she was bitten on the eye. Her eye is all swollen. She can't see clearly. But it might not be because of a mosquito like she thinks. It might come from inside, like everything else. The nets keep out the mosquitoes less and less. This heat is bad for Ada. Her spells are more frequent. She also smells more strongly because of the sweat. She complains that her make up will not stay on. I put cold compresses on her forehead. Having the swamp so close makes her nervous, especially on these hot days. Ada hates the swamp. Mother used to criticize grandmother for not thinking things through before she bought this land. She thought it was grandmother's fault that Ada was unwell. But even away from the Hôtel Splendid, Ada never got better. So her sickness is not caused by the swamp like mother thought. You can see the swamp is spreading because the far end of the garden is becoming marshy. It was not that way in grandmother's day. The gardener used to put his prettiest flower beds at the far end of the garden. Grandmother's gardener has been dead for a long time. The garden is in an awful state. It isn't even a garden anymore. Grandmother knew the swamp well. I know it well too. I taught Adel about it. That made her happy. But she never forgets about the theater. She is waiting for answers to her letters. She has not given up on getting a part. She doesn't think her career is over, probably because her career never really began. She never had any training. Maybe that is why she never got any real parts. That's what Ada thinks. Ada is worried about Adel. She asks after her. She says mother was always very concerned about Adel. She really wanted her to have a wonderful career. Adel is developing a stoop. It is not good for an actress to be stooped. I don't like Adel's voice. It is not an actress's voice. How could she have had a career with a voice like that? Ada has a beautiful voice. She is the one who should play Adel's roles. There is a piano in the foyer. Grandmother knew how to play it. She always played the same songs. She tried to teach me to sing so I could accompany her. I never could learn. I don't have any kind of a voice. Adel knows how to play the piano. She plays the same songs as grandmother, the only ones she knows. But she doesn't like the piano. Her voice is on key. I like her voice better when she sings. She was angry when I told her she should sing instead of rehearsing her roles. She has not touched the piano since. She says it's worthless and out of tune. Grandmother always said it was an expensive piano and that it must be taken care of. It still makes a good impression in the foyer. It's a shame it is always closed. Grandmother used to say there should always be music in the Hôtel Splendid. That was why she played the piano, not because she loved music. The guests were happy. The hotel was lively back then, and busy. Now, none of the guests are unhappy to see the piano closed. The guests are not interested in music. It's a stroke of luck that they are building the railway. They say it will run along the edge of the swamp. All the guests come from the work site. They would rather stay at the hotel than sleep in the tents thecompany gives them. Even if they complain about the state of the lavatories, the Hôtel Splendid is a blessing for them. I do all I can to be pleasant towards them. I pay particular attention to the lavatories in their rooms. Especially with this heat, you have to make sure everything is flushed away. The workmen are grateful. I need them. It isn't like that with my sisters. I could do very well without their presence. I have never lived with them, and now here they are sharing my life. It was mother who asked them to come back to the Splendid, a little before she died. She never asked me what I thought. She wanted me to look after my sisters because she would not be there to look after them anymore. But I would rather look after the Splendid's guests than my sisters.
The hotel is full every night. It is becoming hotter and hotter. The workmen stay up late because of the heat. They talk in the garden in spite of the mosquitoes and the smell of the swamp. Adel keeps them company. She tells them about the theater. They have never been. It is a real break for Adel to have such an attentive audience. She puts on makeup and nice clothes as if she were going to a party. She wears very low-cut dresses. But she is not that young anymore, and her dresses don't do much for her. She is not afraid of showing herself. The workmen seem to appreciate her in spite of her flaws. She knows how to talk to them. The younger ones gather around her. Adel is making good use of this heat wave. She likes the long nights in the garden. She has even cleared the brush around the hotel to make the garden more pleasant. But the mosquitoes bite her. She is covered with spots. If I were her, I would not wear such low-cut dresses. I have never seen her like this before. The workmen drink a lot because of the heat. Their throats are dry. I serve them drinks until late at night. The money is coming in. I am not complaining. Ada's medicine is expensive. When I am not serving drinks, I go up and see Ada. She has trouble breathing because of the heat. The voices coming from the garden keep her awake. I fan her. As soon as I stop, she asks me to give her more air. It gives me cramps in my hands. Ada thinks it's natural that I should spend the night giving her air while Adel is enjoying herself in the garden. Adel is behaving strangely. She is the last one to leave the garden. It is as if she were waiting for something that never comes. In the daytime, when the hotel is empty, she seems lost. She comes and goes. When night falls, she shuts herself in her room to get ready. Her dresses hang loose on her. You can see her sagging breasts. She has no modesty. I can't help but look. That irritates her. When she goes to bed, there is always one of the workmen following her into her room. I should have known. It is not my concern what Adel does. I should not interfere. When the workmen talk to me, it is always to ask for a drink or to ask me to go and fix their lavatories. I am always busy with Ada. She can't bear to be left alone in her room while everyone is in the garden. Her body is clammy. I have to dry her off. She has slack, white skin. I do not like Ada's skin. I leave the door of her room open to let in the breeze. I am not like my sisters. Ada is always talking about Adel. Adel has begun performing in the garden for the workmen. They listen in silence, and then they applaud. Adel thinks she is in the theater when really she is in the Splendid. Ada also listens to Adel from her room. She isn't bored at night anymore. As soon as Adel is done, Ada has a coughing fit. It gives me a scare every time. The medicine is not helping her. I don't like the heat. There is nothing I can do about the heat or the way it brings out odors.
I have never left the Hôtel Splendid. My sisters did a lot of traveling with mother. Adel says mother never stayed in one place. She used to sing in hotels, accompanying herself on piano. The guests appreciated her. Adel is becoming more talkative. She needs to confide in someone. I don't know why grandmother never told me mother used to sing in hotels. She used to sing at the Splendid as well, before I was born. Grandmother accompanied her at the piano. Adel says mother would have liked to study voice, but grandmother was against it because she wanted her to devote herself to the Hôtel Splendid. Adel thinks mother had a pretty voice. She spent all her life with mother, much more than Ada who was ill too often to take part in their travels. Every day, mother wrote a letter to Ada. Adel is amazed that Ada is still alive while mother is dead. Now that mother is dead, Adel would like to devote herself to the theater. But she can't find any work. She is not discouraged, she still has hopes. All those letters she wrote trying to find a part. She thinks she will get an answer in the end. It is lucky for her the workmen like to listen to her perform. It gives her confidence. She perspires a great deal as she declaims. It is best not to see her too close up. She gesticulates too much as well. It would be better if she stood still. She would perspire less. She has gaps in her memory. The workmen don't notice. She is rehearsing in her room more than ever. I hear her while I am working at unblocking the lavatories. Ada is doing worse. She is taking a new kind of medicine. We have to wait. She has abscesses. Her fever will not break. It must be an infection caused by the abscesses. With this heat, the mosquitoes are vicious. Ada complains about them. The mosquito net doesn't protect her completely. But her abscesses do not come from the mosquitoes, no matter what she says. I almost never leave her anymore. I sleep in the bed next to hers. It was Adel's bed when she was little. I sleep, in a manner of speaking. Ada keeps me up, even when she is asleep. I am too afraid she will take a turn for the worse. Now Adel is the one who serves drinks to the workmen. But the men have fevers. There is an epidemic. A lot of the men can no longer work because of their fever. The work isn't going anywhere. There are unforeseen complications. That is the way it always is with construction. The company is worried. There was a leak in one of the rooms on the second floor, a hole in a pipe. The entire room was flooded. I tried to fix it myself, but it would not hold. I called the plumber. He complained about the state of the pipes. He is afraid his repair will not hold and that soon there will be leaks all over the hotel. As if it weren't enough that the lavatories are blocked. The wood of the balconies is beginning to rot. It will not be long before it becomes dangerous to walk on them. I wrote up a little notice for the guests. I put it up in the foyer, on the board where grandmother put up the house rules of the Hôtel Splendid. In my notice, I ask the guests not to go out on the balconies anymore. It is a question of safety. I also ask them not to throw anything into the lavatories, or else I cannot guarantee proper drainage. The guests didn't look happy when they read the notice. But they have got to do their part, instead of making everything dirty like they do. I have to boil the linens longer and longer to get them white. This epidemic comes at a bad time. The men don't stay out in the garden at night anymore. They go up to their rooms and try to sleep, to break their fever. Adel has a fever too. I am the only one who comes and goes. I am acclimated to the swamp. The germs could not make me sick. Everything will be better when the hot weather is over. We will have to wait. Every year it is the same. What bothers me isn't the epidemic, but the Hôtel Splendid. No matter how hard I work to take care of it, I can see it is falling apart. The materials grandmother chose are not resistant enough. All she thought about was comfort and lavatories, and she did not even notice they were badly installed. Now the Splendid is showing the flaws in its construction, now that it is too late and the harm has been done. I don't know anymore how to maintain the hygiene necessary for the functioning of the hotel. Adel has cramps. She has stopped rehearsing. She says she will never go back on the stage, she is finished, she never should have come to the Splendid, it was fatal to her. She skulks in the hallway. I scarcely recognize her. She went up to see Ada and accused her of contaminating the whole hotel with her sickness. Ada is sad, but she is not angry at Adel. She says Adel is to be pitied. The guests are beginning to leave the hotel. There are unoccupied rooms. They have stopped the construction. I put the vacancy sign back on the front door. It rains at night. That cools off the rooms. The heat is subsiding. Ada always has the same dream. She dreams she is not Ada but Adel. The guests are asking for their bills. The Splendid is quiet all of a sudden. I take advantage of the calm to clean the rooms from top to bottom. They need it. The workmen did a lot of damage. I will not miss them. It is best that they leave the Hôtel Splendid.
The railway line is not close to being finished. The worksite is deserted. All the men are gone. Apparently the project was badly designed and they have to start over. The heat broke all of a sudden. Adel has started working on her lines again. Ada gets up sometimes. She walks through the hallway and goes into the empty rooms. She eats a lot, at any time of day. She has a sly look, it seems to me. She has stopped taking her medicine. She wastes her make up. She likes to cause difficulties. I have caught her several times throwing cotton balls into the lavatories. It is the offseason. There are not many guests. Ariel is always peering at them, but they pay no attention to her. I have a little time to myself. I use it to go to the swamp. The swamp does not change. It is larger than it looks. You really have to know the swamp to keep from getting lost. My sisters do not trouble themselves about the Hôtel Splendid. They don't care that it is falling apart. As long as they are waited on and never have to do anything. It is as if they were on vacation here, an endless vacation. I make their lives too easy. I even wonder if Adel is working seriously on her acting. It looks to me like she is only pretending. She is always going and prowling around by the work site. Maybe the future of the railway interests her more than the theater. She must not be very sure anymore of having a future in the theater. The construction of the railway has become her favorite topic of conversation. She thinks I should change the name of the hotel, and call it the Railway Hotel. But there is no talk of starting up the work again. The swamp deserves more attention. It is a real nature preserve. There is always more of it to explore. Ada seems to be convalescing. The empty hotel is good for her. Even though she has always hated the swamp, she asked me to take her there for a walk. I was sure the swamp would do her good. That is the first time Ada has asked to go out. But she was disappointed by her walk. She couldn't bear the odor of the swamp. She thought it was always the same, no matter which way you turned. She couldn't stop shivering, in spite of the blanket she was wrapped in. When we got back, she went straight to bed. She had a high fever. I had to give her a hot-water bottle. It did not warm her at all. She says her limbs are like lead. She blames the swamp for her relapse. She will never go back there again. The walk was not a success. She is staying in her room again. She calls me for no reason, because her hot-water bottle isn't hot enough. She complains that the fire will not stay lit. And yet the amount of wood she burns in her fireplace is incredible. Her blood doesn't circulate properly. Her limbs are like ice. It is cold outside all of a sudden. It's almost always like that after the really hot weather, the cold blows in violently. Ada did not take the temperature change well. Her cough is back. Adel complains about Adds cough. She says it's unbearable, and that Ada is doing it on purpose to disturb everyone in the hotel and to drive the guests away.
*
p.s. Hey. ** Styrofoamcastle, Hey, C! Okay, early April, I doubt I'll be able to make it home then, but if there's a window I'll seek a way. Well, first I go to Halle, Germany next Tuesday for 4 days (to work on the new Gisele theater piece) and then I go from there to Berlin on the 21st, and I don't know how long I'll be there yet, but at least a week and probably longer. Love, me. ** Jonathan, Hi, J! I happened to walk by your Parisian home yesterday, and I watched the passing crowds for you, but you must have been deeply in or deeply out. Oh, wow, that sounds intense. Not only next door musicians, but wind instrument next door musicians? The worst, in my humble estimation. Moaning is cool. It's one of the more experimental things a voice can do maybe. Oh, man, thanks for those links! That'll be awesome! We're here until next Tuesday afternoon. Will you be free for a meet up between now and then? Awesomeness. ** Keaton, I love that Darkness song. It tickles my enthusiasm. I didn't know that about Crowley, but, if I've ever actually read him, I would be surprised. I have a thing about not wanting to cremated. It's an irrational fear or something. I need to remember to put that in writing in case I have a stroke or something. 'On the Road of Life' is wild. I've never seen that one in the 'flesh'. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. If something can be turned into a theme park, trust me, I'll find the way. ** INVERT ME, Hi, welcome. Um, wow, that's intense. I'm seriously in favor of you becoming a girl over you killing yourself, that's for absolutely sure. Suicide talk gives me the willies. Don't do it, right? ** Etc etc etc, Hi. Funeral technology in LA seems like a ripe idea for a piece. What stopped you? Yeah, I read about that thing about how you can be turned into a gem or diamond when you die. It's cool, and it's also kind of cheesy and 'Vegas' or something. Maybe more cool than cheesy. The two times I've seen Sartre's grave it was covered with subway tickets, and I have no idea why. But people leave their subway tickets as a sign of respect. Hooray for energy. Energy = health, no? I think so. Thanks for calling the posts hits. I do try. Fine day to you, sir. ** Steevee, Well, that sucks. About that outlet's Oscars fetish or whatever it is. I haven't seen 'Maps to the Stars', but everyone I know who's seen it really seemed to like it a lot. ** _Black_Acrylic, And there you go. One more pro-'MttS' person. I should catch up with it. 'Knotty mess' is an evocative and strangely gruesome combination of words. The 'knotty' turns the 'mess' into a liquid. It's interesting. ** Kier, Ha, dendelion, I like that one. You're a kierper! I think that's right about the clasped hands graves across the wall being in gender-segregated cemeteries, if my memory is working. Ooh, exciting, your art school app! They had better fucking grab you, that's all I have to say. Well, grab you respectfully. Oh, yes, I remember the regenerators, yikes. And the searching for rifle ammo. Scary. My day was another so-so one, I fear. Hm. Worked on stuff. Figured out stuff, or tried to, re: the upcoming trip. I always give Zac treats when he goes away or comes back from somewhere, so I went out in the late afternoon and gathered those from here and there and dropped them off on his doormat. That was kind of the big event, I guess. I haven't heard back from the respected person about our film, but I'm hoping Zac did because said person is flying to Tasmania today, so it seems like it has to be now or never. After managing to avoid the little guy for a few days, he found me last night. I was out smoking my last pre-sleep cigarette, and he came back from wherever he was, and he saw me and froze. Then he lit a cigarette and came over to within a few feet of me. I walked as far away as I could. He followed me to within a few feet of me again. Wtf?! So I abandoned my cigarette halfway through and went quickly back inside the building and managed to leap into the elevator before he could follow me. I don't know what his trip is, but I'm getting very irritated with it. Um, yeah, really, it was a kind of blurry day, just working mostly and stuff. Today is my next chance to become interesting again, and I'll do my best. How was your Wednesday, my always interesting friend? ** Misanthrope, Uh, Milli Vanilli, uh, lucky you? Or ... why? I think that 'anger' consuming fear thing must be related to the widespread outrage addiction on social media. I really don't get it at all. I really almost never get angry. It takes really, really a lot to make me mad. Which is probably weird. ** Thomas Moronic, Thanks, bud! ** Okay. I did a post about Marie Redonnet a long time ago, but, at that time, there was almost nothing online in English about her, and now there's a fair amount more English language stuff re: her, so I thought I would do her again, and I have. See you tomorrow.