A Language That Shows Pictures and Shapes Ideas
The Notebook by Agota Kristof (translated by Alan Sheridan) is a compelling read, and one I wouldn't recommend to the fainthearted. Every now and again, I dip back into it to admire the beauty and rhythm of its deceptively simple language. Kristof is one of those authors who doesn't describe through the use of adjectives and adverbs. We shape our idea of her characters by what they do. By what we see them doing. This is extremely powerful as it allows our imagination to feed on concrete words like nouns and verbs, allowing us to join the dots as we go along.
In this chapter entitled Dirt, Kristof has the narrators, the twins, describe their hygene since moving into their grandmother's house. It's raw and to the point, illustrating the combination of privations which conspire to transform them. And it ends with the brutal realisation of what they have ultimately become:
"We smell of a mixture of manure, fish, grass, mushrooms, smoke, milk, cheese, mud, clay,
earth, sweat, urine, and mold.
We smell bad, like Grandmother."
Agota Kristof died in 2011 but this book alone is enough to make her immortal. May she rest in peace.
Alberico Collina
"Dirt
At home, in the Big Town, Mother used to wash us often. In the shower or in the bath. She
put clean clothes on us and cut our nails. She went with us to the barber to have our hair cut.
We used to brush our teeth after every meal.
At Grandmother's it is impossible to wash. There's no bathroom, there isn't even any running
water. We have to go pump water from the well in the yard and carry it back in a bucket.
There's no soap in the house, no toothpaste, no washing powder.
Everything in the kitchen is dirty. The red, irregular tiles stick to our feet, the big table sticks
to our hands and elbows. The stove is completely black with grease, and the walls all around
are black with soot. Although Grandmother washes the dishes, the plates, spoons, and knives
are never quite clean and the saucepans are covered with a thick layer of grime. The
dishcloths are grayish and have a nasty smell.
At first we didn't even want to eat, especially when we saw how Grandmother cooked the
meals, wiping her nose on her sleeve and never washing her hands. Now we take no notice.
When it's warm, we go and bathe in the stream, we wash our faces and clean our teeth in the
well. When it's cold, it's impossible to wash properly. There is no receptacle big enough in
the house. Our sheets, our blankets, and our towels have disappeared. We have never seen the
big cardboard box Mother brought them in again.
Grandmother has sold everything.
We're getting dirtier and dirtier, our clothes too. We take clean clothes out of our suitcases
under the seat, but soon there are no clean clothes left. The ones we wear keep getting torn,
and our shoes have holes in them. When possible, we go barefoot and wear only underpants
or trousers. The soles of our feet are getting hard, we no longer feel thorns or stones. Our skin
is getting brown, our legs and arms are covered with scratches, cuts, scabs, and insect bites.
Our nails, which are never cut, break, and our hair, which is almost white from the sun,
reaches down to our shoulders.
The privy is at the bottom of the garden. There's never any paper. We wipe ourselves with the
biggest leaves from certain plants.
We smell of a mixture of manure, fish, grass, mushrooms, smoke, milk, cheese, mud, clay,
earth, sweat, urine, and mold.
We smell bad, like Grandmother."
The Notebook by Agota Kristof (translated by Alan Sheridan) is a compelling read, and one I wouldn't recommend to the fainthearted. Every now and again, I dip back into it to admire the beauty and rhythm of its deceptively simple language. Kristof is one of those authors who doesn't describe through the use of adjectives and adverbs. We shape our idea of her characters by what they do. By what we see them doing. This is extremely powerful as it allows our imagination to feed on concrete words like nouns and verbs, allowing us to join the dots as we go along.
In this chapter entitled Dirt, Kristof has the narrators, the twins, describe their hygene since moving into their grandmother's house. It's raw and to the point, illustrating the combination of privations which conspire to transform them. And it ends with the brutal realisation of what they have ultimately become:
"We smell of a mixture of manure, fish, grass, mushrooms, smoke, milk, cheese, mud, clay,
earth, sweat, urine, and mold.
We smell bad, like Grandmother."
Agota Kristof died in 2011 but this book alone is enough to make her immortal. May she rest in peace.
Alberico Collina
"Dirt
At home, in the Big Town, Mother used to wash us often. In the shower or in the bath. She
put clean clothes on us and cut our nails. She went with us to the barber to have our hair cut.
We used to brush our teeth after every meal.
At Grandmother's it is impossible to wash. There's no bathroom, there isn't even any running
water. We have to go pump water from the well in the yard and carry it back in a bucket.
There's no soap in the house, no toothpaste, no washing powder.
Everything in the kitchen is dirty. The red, irregular tiles stick to our feet, the big table sticks
to our hands and elbows. The stove is completely black with grease, and the walls all around
are black with soot. Although Grandmother washes the dishes, the plates, spoons, and knives
are never quite clean and the saucepans are covered with a thick layer of grime. The
dishcloths are grayish and have a nasty smell.
At first we didn't even want to eat, especially when we saw how Grandmother cooked the
meals, wiping her nose on her sleeve and never washing her hands. Now we take no notice.
When it's warm, we go and bathe in the stream, we wash our faces and clean our teeth in the
well. When it's cold, it's impossible to wash properly. There is no receptacle big enough in
the house. Our sheets, our blankets, and our towels have disappeared. We have never seen the
big cardboard box Mother brought them in again.
Grandmother has sold everything.
We're getting dirtier and dirtier, our clothes too. We take clean clothes out of our suitcases
under the seat, but soon there are no clean clothes left. The ones we wear keep getting torn,
and our shoes have holes in them. When possible, we go barefoot and wear only underpants
or trousers. The soles of our feet are getting hard, we no longer feel thorns or stones. Our skin
is getting brown, our legs and arms are covered with scratches, cuts, scabs, and insect bites.
Our nails, which are never cut, break, and our hair, which is almost white from the sun,
reaches down to our shoulders.
The privy is at the bottom of the garden. There's never any paper. We wipe ourselves with the
biggest leaves from certain plants.
We smell of a mixture of manure, fish, grass, mushrooms, smoke, milk, cheese, mud, clay,
earth, sweat, urine, and mold.
We smell bad, like Grandmother."
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