— Catherine Taylor, Financial Times

‘Ernaux’s work is important. Not just because of her subject matter, but because of the way she hands it over: the subtle contradictions; her dispassionate stoicism, mixed with savagery; her detailed telling, mixed with spare, fragmented text.’

— Niamh Donnelly, Irish Times

‘One of the most powerful memoirs I have ever read.’

— Nicholas Lezard, Dhaka Tribune

‘Administers a punch beyond its slim size … An essential document of trauma which deserves to be widely read.’

— Xenobe Purvis, Review 31

‘Happening is gripping and painfully inevitable to read – like a thriller. I felt close to Annie Duchesne, in her aloneness, in a way I’ve rarely felt close to a character in a book. Women will be grateful to Ernaux for her wisdom, concision, and commitment to writing about death and life.’

— Daisy Hildyard, author of The Second Body6

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A MAN’S PLACE

ANNIE ERNAUX

Translated by
TANYA LESLIE

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‘May I venture an explanation: writing is the ultimate recourse for those who have betrayed.’

—Yūko Tsushima

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Contents

1. Title Page
2. Epigraph
3. A Man’s Place
4. About the Author
5. Copyright

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A Man’s Place

The practical test for my CAPES1 examination took place at a lycée in Lyon, in the Croix-Rousse area. A new lycée, with potted plants in the buildings for the teaching and administrative staff, and a library fitted with a sand-coloured carpet. I waited there until they came to fetch me for my practical, which involved giving a lesson in front of an inspector and two assessors, both distinguished lecturers in French. A woman was marking papers haughtily, without a flicker of hesitation. All I had to do was sail through the following hour and I would be allowed to do the same as she did for the rest of my life. I explained twenty-five lines – referenced by number – taken from Balzac’s novel Le Père Goriot to a class of sixth-formers from the maths stream. Afterwards, in the headmaster’s office, the inspector said to me disapprovingly: ‘You really dragged your pupils along, didn’t you.’ He was sitting between the two assessors, a man and a short-sighted woman with pink shoes. And me, opposite. For fifteen minutes he showered me with criticism, praise and advice, and I barely listened, wondering if all this meant I had passed. Suddenly, in unison, the three of them stood up, looking solemn. I too rose to my feet hurriedly. The inspector held out his hand to me. Then, looking straight at me, he said: ‘Congratulations, Madame.’ The others repeated ‘Congratulations’ and shook hands with me, but the woman did it with a smile.

I kept thinking about this scene while I was walking to the bus stop, with anger and something resembling 12shame. The same evening, I wrote to my parents telling them I was now a qualified teacher. My mother wrote back saying they were very happy for me.

My father died exactly two months later, to the day. He was sixty-seven years old and he and my mother had been running a grocery store and café in a quiet area of Y— (Seine-Maritime), not far from the train station. He had intended to retire the following year. Quite often, and just for a moment, I can’t recollect which came first: that windy April in Lyon when I stood waiting at the Croix-Rousse bus stop, or that stifling month of June, the month of his death.