3.5
I feel as though the objective manner in which Annie recounts her mothers life kept me somewhat emotionally removed from the story.
That aside, there were moments of depth and as a daughter and mother, many I could relate to.
The line of “I have lost the last bridge to the world from which I came” really pulled on my heart. ( )

The words chosen for this book are so exact I felt I knew both the author and her mother. She does not stick to explicit chronological order, and I was frequently waiting to see what would happen next. I have had some experiences similar to hers and felt her descriptions were both interesting and on target. I also felt her style somewhat distanced me from the characters. Even though she claimed this was not an autobiography, I found her awareness of her perceptions and motives from years past both interesting and only somewhat credible. It made me wonder how well she really knew the inner thoughts of her parents. They certainly were interesting. I look forward to reading more of Ernaux. ( )

Reading Ernaux was like listening to the rain when you are in the mood to think about vanished things. In this memoir of her mother, the writing flows so matter-of-factly that you don’t at first notice how it breaks your heart. It’s been a while since lives that are otherwise invisible to the world, with their mundane things, stung me so much.

What can you do for a loved one after they are gone? There is a Swedish word that describes the process of grieving painfully well, “sorgearbete” = grief work, or working through grief. This is what this book is.

“Je roulais, et brutalement; “Elle ne sera plus jamais nulle part dans le monde.”

Every child-parent relationship is full of contradictions. This book is brutal in its honesty. There is no mercy. The violence, the repression, the reproaches darken the pages. And then, there is tenderness, generosity, strong will. This book is full of love and kindness.

How I loved this:

“Elle écoutait avec attention tous les gens qui parlaient de ce qu'elle ignorait, par curiosité, par envie de montrer qu'elle était ouverte aux connaissances. S'élever, pour elle, c'était d'abord apprendre (elle disait, "il faut meubler son esprit") et rien n'était plus beau que le savoir. Les livres étaient les seuls objets qu'elle manipulait avec précaution. Elle se lavait les mains avant de les toucher.”

The prose slowly becomes a kind of poetry.

The last pages are harrowing. ( )

After her mother dies of Alzheimer's, Annie Ernaux writes and reflects on her mother's life, their relationship, and how she herself feels after her mother's death.

"Naturally, this isn't a biography, neither is it a novel, maybe a cross between literature, sociology, and history" the author tells us. As Ernaux wrote about her father in A Man's Place, she now turns her attention to her mother. It's framed very similarly, beginning with her mother's death, and then going back to share biographical details and memories, interspersed with Ernaux's thoughts on her grief or comments on her writing process. Her mother was sometimes a difficult person, but Ernaux manages to make her very sympathetic at the same time. She'll sometimes describe or explain an aspect of her mother's personality objectively, and then step in and tell you more about the emotions she attaches to a memory or why she's trying to write about her mother in a certain way. Ernaux has a spare style but one that draws you in and tells a surprisingly complex, yet easy to read, story. ( )

Ernaux's essays always bring perfectly curated details of a life that while very detailed somehow are also very spare and while always quite unique to Ernaux are also spectacularly universal. Every story a paradox within a paradox. But rather than leaving the reader baffled, these paradoxes are really satisfying. This story, the tale of her mother's becoming as an adult, and undoing as a widow with Alzheimer's whose dignity is diminished daily. is a beautiful tribute. (I listened to this one rather than reading it, and it was the work of one commute to work and home, and the time it took to prepare a simple supper. What a wonderful use of time.) ( )