“From today and for centuries to come, Yourcenar will remain this sphinx. A mixture of Flemish peasant woman and precious Grand Siècle. Roman emperor and Hindu goddess. Tibetan monk and medieval witch” writes Bigot with his colorful and refined pen before gently mocking the “Immortals”, their whims, their rheumatism and the scent of Shalimar which perfumes the hemicycle.
Considering the academic sword too phallic, the author of The Work to black (Gallimard, 1968) was offered a gold denarius with the effigy of Hadrian, mounted as a ring. We relive his arrival under the Dome as if we were there. The details, known but sometimes forgotten, are worth remembering. They are worthless, however, compared to what follows.
Brandissons The black work of Yourcenar in the face of the barbarity of the ayatollahs
As soon as the ceremony is over, the new Academician turns away from the feast to go celebrate her triumph elsewhere and above all with someone else, her last love, the one whose slender silhouette, smoking a cigarette in the woods of her property in Maine suddenly moved her more than was reasonable.
Like the other Marguerite (Duras), and almost at the same time – we are in 78 -, she will therefore experience a new spring at the end of her life in the guise of an Adonis, a young homosexual photographer of forty-six years her junior, Jerry Wilson, for whom, at the age of 76, she will lose her head and even her dignity, sometimes at the risk of her own life. But what to do? Upon contact with him, and especially at their beginnings, she rediscovers a forgotten vitality, her confidence in her power of seduction and becomes fifty years younger.
Inspired by real events
Bigot, professor of literature and author of The Archangel and the Prosecutor (Gallimard, 2008, Mottard Prize of the French Academy) which was inspired by real events and the sprawling biography of Yourcenar in this true novel of the passion between the writer and the photographer demonstrates to what extent love can destroy everything and sharpen our vulnerability.
Despite the honors, the talent, this entire life dedicated to building a most recognized work, despite her fierce intelligence and her prestigious entourage – not everyone has lunch with Antoine Gallimard or with the President of the Republic – the hieratic woman of letters and fripée will follow this man to the ends of the earth, live to the rhythm of their travels, see their relationship deteriorate, accept even the blows, the insults, and even Jerry's new lover, a violent drug addict who leads the photographer on his descent into hell.
Subversive and passionate, this romance is written over several years and seasons, like a love that begins in the joy of spring renewal and ends in the cold solitude of winter. It is experienced across the world, from the Caribbean to Japan, via England, but also on both sides of the Atlantic since when they met, Jerry Wilson was living in Paris and Yourcenar, on his island, in Mont Désert, in Petite Plaisance, with Grace Frick, his translator and companion for forty years, who took a very dim view of the arrival of Jerry Wilson in their house and who died of cancer a few months later.
At the beginning, Jerry admires the one who is crowned with natural prestige, considers her a legend, fears not to be a match for her. Then, little by little, time does its work. During their relationship, writing is often put on hold and What ? Eternity will be written in dotted lines. Together the lovers will sign two works, Blues et gospels (Gallimard, 1984) and The Voice of Things (Gallimard, 1987). Eroticism returns by miracle and especially in bits and pieces. Christophe Bigot suggests more than he tells about possible sexual relations.
Lives and passions of Yourcenar
Blindly
Blinded to the end, the perpetual secretary – the masculine remains appropriate at the Academy – will convince himself, and will try to convince those around him, that Grace has entrusted her to Jerry, like a passing of the torch which justifies that the lover goes to the point of occupying the room of the one who has just died.
Incredulous and yet moved, the reader will follow the thread of this story, nuanced and tinged with accents of truth, without ever judging this great lady of literature who succumbed to the desire for a last burst, to the freshness of youth, to the attraction of novelty, to the charm of a big, carefree and fragile child, admiring and attentive at times, manipulative, no doubt. But there are some who prefer intensity to emptiness, vibrations to the slow renunciation of feelings, the illusion of love to the too harsh reality of old age. Who will blame them?
⇒ Another one is waiting for me elsewhere | Novel | Christophe Bigot, Éditions de La Martinière, 221 pp., €20
EXTRACT
“The world has raised its whip: on whom will it fall?
Is there not excess in these incessant movements? She fears more and more of offending the gods. Like Ulysses nostalgic for Ithaca, she constantly dreams of Petite Plaisance. Because she learned it the hard way: the pain of living takes you everywhere with you. “
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