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那次得獎, 有些爭論.....獎項目的是新進的作家, "the best and most imaginative prose work of the year", Proust雖新進卻太老, 已經48, 因有氣喘未參戰, 不符合戰後鼓勵青年作家(對手 Roland Dorgeles 既年輕又有參戰)的精神, 還有, 書太厚......印象裡讀過, Proust去大力運作了一下關係, 如把該書獻給他的恩師, 諾貝爾獎得主, 法蘭西學院 (Academie francaise) 院士Anatole France....才撫平眾議
Some decisions for awarding the prize have been controversial, the most famous case being the decision to award the prize in 1919 to Marcel Proust; this was met with indignation, since many in the public felt that the prize should have gone to Roland Dorgeles for Les Croix de bois, a novel about the First World War. The prize was supposed to be awarded to promising young authors, whereas Proust was 48 (Proust was a beginning author, though, which is the only eligibility requirement for the prize, age being unimportant); and, this was immediately after the end of the war, where Dorgeles had fought, whereas Proust had been deemed unfit for service for medical reasons (he had asthma).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcel_Proust The book included a foreword by Anatole France, drawings by Mme. Lemaire, and was so sumptuously produced that it cost twice the normal price of a book its size.
2010 的《龔古爾文學獎》得主是 Michel Houellebecq 的La Carte et le territoire
龔古爾兄弟，即19世紀法國作家龔古爾·德·愛德蒙（Edmond de Goncourt，1822年—1896年）和他弟弟龔古爾·德·儒勒（Jules de Goncourt，1830年—1870年）。
1913年第一部小說《在斯萬家那邊》（Du cote de chez Swann）出版，《新法蘭西評論》的主編兼詩人里維埃爾（Jacques Riviere）大力推薦，引起熱烈的討論，紀德很有風度的承認錯誤，並寫信向普魯斯特致歉。
1919年第二部小說《在少女身旁》（A l'ombre des jeunes filles en Fleurs）出版，一開始反應平平，但隨後榮獲「龔古爾文學獎」（Prix Goncourt），普魯斯特開始聲名大噪。
法國龔固爾獎是十九世紀末文壇名士愛德蒙．得．龔固爾（Ed-mond de Goncourt）為紀念其亡弟而於一九○三年設立的，以獎勵深具創意之作品為宗旨。
法國文豪普魯斯特（Marcel Proust）、圖尼埃（Michel Tournier）與莒哈斯（Marguerite Duras）都得過此獎。
p.s. 莒哈斯（Marguerite Duras）就是"情人"的作者.....根據"長眠在巴黎"一書作者謬詠華小姐考據, 當年莒哈斯的中國情人的真實名字, 是"黃水梨" Huynh Thuy-le (p.111)
Archive for the ‘The Goncourt Journals’ Category
The Goncourt brothers may have been Proust’s favorite authors to parody, but that may be because they are such fun to read. Take these two journal entries, on the death of their beloved servant Rose.
It was this woman, this admirable nurse, whose hands our dying mother put into ours. She had the keys to everything she decided and did everything for us. For as long as we could remember we had made the same old jokes about her ugliness and her ungainly body, and for twenty-five years she had given us a kiss every night. She shared everything with us, our sorrows and our joys. Hers was one of those devotions which one hopes will be there to close one’s eyes when death comes…
Thursday, 21 August
Yesterday I learnt things about poor Rose, only lately dead and practically still warm, which astonished me more than anything else in the whole of my life; things which completely took away my appetite, filling me with a stupefaction from which I have not yet recovered and which has left me positively dazed. All of a sudden, within a matter of minutes, I was brought face to face with an unknown, dreadful, horrible side of the poor woman’s life.
Those bills she signed, those debts she left with all the tradesmen, all had an unbelievable, horrifying explanation.. She had lovers whom she paid. One of them was the son of our dairywoman, who fleeced her and for whom she furnished a room. Another was given our wine and chickens. A secret life of dreadful orgies, nights out, sensual frenzies that prompted one of her lovers to say: ‘It’s going to kill one of us, me or her!’ A passion, a sum of passions, of head, heart, and senses, in which all the unfortunate woman’s ailments played their part: consumption, making her desperate for satisfaction, hysteria, and madness. She had two children by the dairywoman’s son, one of which lived six months. When, a few years ago, she told us she was going into hospital, it was to have a child. And her love for all these men was so sickly, excessive, and overwhelming that she, who was the very soul of honesty, robbed us, yes, robbed us of a twenty-franc piece out of every hundred francs, and all in order to keep her lovers and pay for their sprees.
Then, after these involuntary offences, committed in violent contradiction to her upright nature, she would sink into such despondency, such remorse, such self-reproach, that in this inferno in which she went from one lapse to another without ever finding satisfaction, she started drinking in order to escape from herself, to postpone the future, to flee the present, to sink and drown for a few hours in one of those slumbers, those torpors which used to lay her out for a whole day on a bed on to which she had collapsed while making it.
And what did the unfortunate woman die of? Of having gone to Montmartre one night eight months ago, during the winter, unable to repress her curiosity, in order to spy on the dairywoman’s son, who had thrown her out; a night spent standing at a ground-floor window, trying to see who the woman was who had replaced her; a night from which she had returned soaked to the skin and mortally sick with pleurisy.
Poor woman! We forgive her. Indeed, seeing something of what she must have suffered at the hands of those working-class pimps, we pity her. We are filled with a deep commiseration for her, but also with a great bitterness at this astounding revelation. Remembering our mother, who was so pure and to whom we were everything, and then thinking of Rose’s heart, which we believe belonged to us, we feel something of a disappointment at the discovery that there was great part of it which we did not occupy. Suspicion of the entire female sex has entered into our minds for the rest of our lives: a horror of the duplicity of woman’s soul, of her prodigious gift, her consummate genius for mendacity. (75-76)
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