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Ariana Harwicz

Die, My Love

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In a forgotten patch of French countryside, a woman is battling her demons — embracing exclusion yet wanting to belong, craving freedom whilst feeling trapped, yearning for family life but at the same time wanting to burn the entire house down. Given surprising leeway by her family for her increasingly erratic behaviour, she nevertheless feels ever more stifled and repressed. Motherhood, womanhood, the banality of love, the terrors of desire, the inexplicable brutality of ‘another person carrying your heart forever’ — Die, My Love faces all this with a raw intensity. It’s not a question of if a breaking point will be reached, but rather when and how violent a form will it take?
This is a brutal, wild book — it’s impossible to come out from reading Ariana Harwicz unscathed. The language of Die, My Love cuts like a scalpel even as it attains a kind of cinematic splendour, evoking the likes of John Cassavetes, David Lynch, Lars von Trier and John Ford. In a text that explores the destabilising effects of passion and its absence, immersed in the psyche of a female protagonist always on the verge of madness, in the tradition of Sylvia Plath and Clarice Lispector, Harwicz moulds language, submitting it to her will in irreverent prose. Bruising and confrontational, yet anchored in an unapologetic beauty and lyricism, Die, My Love is a unique reading experience that quickly becomes addictive.
Longlisted for Man Booker International Prize 2018
Shortlisted for the Republic of Consciousness Prize 2018
Shortlisted for the Internationaler Literaturpreis (Germany) 2019
Este libro no está disponible por el momento.
125 páginas impresas
Publicación original
2017
Año de publicación
2017
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Citas

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    And it wasn’t so much my father-in-law’s death that affected me, but rather the loss of his words, In all my born days, his turns of phrase, Well, I happen to be rather good at that, and his thick, spit-filled tone.
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    She didn’t check the expiry date on the medication she started taking the day of the funeral.
  • Ranti Fadilahcompartió una citael año pasado
    She lived in her body as though it were an infested house, as if she had to tiptoe through it trying not to touch the floor.

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