The Years

by Annie Ernaux

Reviewed by Michael Attard

pulse called life into the broader realm of personal meaning. But I do not think that she ever does, rendering me curious as to the appeal of her work.

While others may claim that she is acutely perceptive, I found her focus on all that was wrong in the world to be a denial of the happiness that people legitimately experience. The telling of a thalidomide joke on page one – which is really an oxymoron – sets the tone for her depressing selection of details, which are pieced together in her collage of life.

In an interview, the author stated that her work is neither a novel nor a memoir, but she is recognizable. Characters are invisible or cloudy at best, never revealed in a manner which introduces us to them. No names are given, and there is no dialogue. In the same interview, the author stated that she “was writing from her being, from her experience, but approaching it from the exterior of herself.” In the book, she speaks of “the story of her existence.” In memoir style, she says “an existence that is singular,” but on the other hand, a story “also merged with the movements of a generation.”

Specifically, the generation in question is French, born in the early years of World War Two. She has assiduously followed French politics and society, but the recounted details and machinations of each will certainly not appeal to most readers. There is nothing wrong with this, but it does limit the reading audience. Her use of “we” as opposed to “I” illustrates her feeling of belonging to her generation, but also reflects a sentiment that she is speaking for that generation. My question would be, why does she feel that she has the right to speak for the entire generation? Perhaps sticking with a memoir would be more honest and less judgemental.

“All the images will disappear.”

These words comprise the only sentence in the opening paragraph of Annie Ernaux’s book, The Years. Set as they are on the page, it made me think that the author wants the reader to stop and to carefully consider what she is saying. So, I did. With the literal clarity of the sentence, I was expecting that as I read the book, I would see how the author incorporates the ephemeral

Her exasperation with the lack of social change – or at least the slowness – is pervasive in her writing. For her, it seems that life is blanketed in a fatalism or a determinism. She bemoans the fact that contraceptive pills, sold in Germany, were not available to her. “On Saturdays, girls in white veils lined up to be married, giving birth six months later to robust, ‘premature’ babies.” With “the taunting of boys who claimed that virginity was bad for the health, and the dictates of Church and parents, we were left with no choices at all.” She is very clear on the wrongs she sees, but this does not belie an apparent defeatism. She concludes the above partially quoted paragraph with, “So that’s how it is—nothing will ever change.”

The book is not divided into chapters. There are thoughts or memories expressed in a paragraph or two, separated from the next by a couple of blank lines. In one such paragraph, she speaks of how “selfknowledge may be fostered … by a person’s ability to discern how they view the past, at every time of life.” But there was no further explanation, and in the next paragraph, she says that “reserve soldiers continued to leave for Algeria.” I was hoping that she would return to the subject of self-knowledge, but instead, a few pages later, I read, “The life behind her is made up of disjointed images. She feels she is nowhere, ‘inside’ nothing except knowledge and literature.”

At times, she will pause to examine an old photo. On these occasions, my interest was piqued. But invariably, no fond memory is triggered by the framed image. “The raked-back hair, drooping shoulders, and shapeless dress, in spite of her smile, indicate fatigue and the absence of a desire to please.” The portrayal of herself is mystifying. She begins another paragraph with “Among her memories of the years that have just gone by, she finds none she considers to be an image of happiness.”

Somewhere in her forties, she has “picked up the thread of her adolescence… To the same desires … not ashamed to satisfy them.” But now, “She’s afraid of getting older.” No calamity has escaped her perception. With respect to the car, she says that it has allowed urban sprawl. And even though cars are quiet and have big windows, “All it would take … was for a tire to explode … for consciousness to vanish forever.” Perhaps she places too much emphasis upon her own consciousness to accept the fact that the world does not need her self-awareness.

From my perspective, I am glad that the book only had 232 pages. Perhaps I have failed to grasp her message, so, in her own words: “I hope that my work can shatter the loneliness of experiences endured and repressed, and enable beings to reimagine themselves.” Her work reminds me of

Friedrich Nietzsche and nihilism, a philosophy that rejects moral principles and sees no meaning in life. Certainly, the world can be a dark place, but I would rather see life as a glass half full rather than half empty.

Annie Ernaux is the author of twenty works of fiction and memoir. The Years has won an international award and was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize. In 2022, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

The Reviewer

Michael Attard is a Canadian who has lived in Gwangju since 2004. Though officially retired, he still teaches a few private English classes. He enjoys reading all kinds of books and writes for fun. When the weather is nice, you may find him on a hiking trail.