For this week’s edition of In This Together, we present a text from the French writer, journalist, and musician Tania de Montaigne. Sarah Moore, translator and Assistant Blog Editor at Asymptote, introduces the piece:
This week, France ended its national lockdown that had been in place for almost two months. Yet, of course, life has not returned to normal and people have been adapting to the déconfinement, along with the many changes it has brought. During the lockdown, French daily newspaper Libération (popularly known as Libé) continued to publish its weekly column “Écritures” in its weekend edition, written alternately by four French writers including Tania de Montaigne. This particular article, “Pour mémoire” (“For the record”) looks back on everyday life before the COVID-19 pandemic, recalling past normality. Saying something ‘for the record’ is to let a voice ring out, to publicly declare that these words have value and should be remembered. The text’s power lies in its simplicity and honesty—evoking nostalgia for a pleasurable but naïve innocence that has been lost.
De Montaigne alludes to the many small cultural references that can stir and unite a collective memory—song lyrics, TV shows, books, exhibitions—as well as our old habits and the importance of touch, which we perhaps took for granted. She also draws a link with the AIDS crisis and our various responses to something that is frightening, new, and unknown—that will inevitably be used politically. Most importantly, referencing other times of hardship, including the terrorist attacks in Paris and Nelson Mandela’s apartheid resistance, de Montaigne upholds the continual value of powerful words, voice, and support during times of crisis.
For the record
by Tania de Montaigne
I remember the day when the word ‘AIDS’ entered our lives.
I remember Barbara’s song, “Maladie d’amour / Où l’on meurt d’aimer / Seul et sans amour, / Sid’abandonné”. (“Love sickness / Where you die from loving / Alone and loveless, / Aidsabandoned”.)
I remember fear.
I remember people who had first-hand info through “my mother’s aunt’s cousin who works at the hospital” or “my brother-in-law’s cousin’s best friend who works for the government”.
I remember the National Front saying: “People with AIDS are like lepers, they should be locked up in an Aidsatorium.” And how they also said: “It’s a lie, condoms don’t protect you from the disease.”
I remember how some people claimed that there were miracle cures.
I remember Hervé Guibert’s book, To the Friend Who Did Not Save My Life.
I remember a philosophy exam and this quote from Aristotle: “The ignorant man affirms, the learned man doubts, the wise man reflects.”
I remember when Corona was a Mexican beer that you drank with a slice of lemon.
I remember the quiz you always found at the end of summer magazine editions: “What about you, what would you take with you to a desert island?” I went crazy trying to decide.
I remember how we used to go to the theatre, to concerts, how everyone was packed tight, focused, emotional, vibrating in unison and how that’s what was beautiful.
I remember couples full-on snogging in cinemas, who had completely red faces when they left, and absolutely no idea what the film had been about.
I remember popcorn being passed from hand to hand.
I remember when we used to say: “It’s ok, you won’t catch anything from me!”
I remember when there were tables outside, everyone so close together that, sometimes, someone from a nearby table would muscle in on your conversation.
I remember when the expression ‘Take care of yourself’ had little or no meaning.
It was something you said to the elderly, or to someone you were breaking up with.
I remember a Sophie Calle exhibition with that name, ‘Take care of yourself,’ because a man had written that phrase to her at the end of a breakup letter. It sounded like the polite equivalent of: “I’m out of here, deal with it!”
I remember Louis de Funès’ films on the telly on Sunday evenings. “It’s gold—Monsignor!”
I remember how Bill Withers’s voice made you feel it was always summer: “Just one look at you, and I know it’s gonna be a lovely day.”
I remember when we used to ask how many kisses we should give: “Ah, do you give two? For us, it’s three.”
I remember when the words ‘FFP2,’ ‘hydroxychloroquine,’ ‘respiratory distress,’ ‘Covid,’ ‘pangolin,’ ‘protective measures,’ and ‘social distancing’ didn’t keep any conversation going.
I remember when nobody had an opinion on the adequacy of double blind clinical trials. An infinitesimal number of people were virologists in those days.
I remember when the word ‘mask’ made you think of fancy dress parties or themed birthdays, and how you’d have to go to party shops to get your outfit.
I remember how, coming home from these parties, it was difficult to find a taxi, and how you’d often have to walk, dressed up as a sausage or a rabbit.
I remember when we said to each other: “See you next week, promise!” That week never came. There are some promises that can’t be kept because the people who made them are no longer here.
I remember laughter and tears.
I remember big words and small gestures.
I remember Robert Badinter on the night of the terrorist attacks, his voice clear and his thoughts lucid.
I remember that when everything starts to crumble, there are always people you can rely on, people who heal, who nurture, who think, who make everyday life more bearable.
I remember that Nelson Mandela wrote: “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it” and that, when it comes to lockdowns, he knew a thing or two.
Translated from the French by Sarah Moore
Published by arrangement with Libération. This text was originally published in the edition of April 18 and 19, 2020.
Interested in submitting work to this Feature? We’re looking for literature in translation—specifically fiction, nonfiction, and poetry—that addresses the current pandemic. Send work under 2,500 words directly to blog@asymptotejournal.com. General submission guidelines apply.
Tania de Montaigne is a French novelist, essayist, playwright, and musician. She has written seven novels, including Noire, la vie méconnue de Claudette Colvin (Black Woman, the unsung life of Claudette Colvin, Éditions Grasset, 2017), winner of the Simone Veil Prize, and L’Assignation, Les Noirs n’existent pas (Attribution: Black People Don’t Exist, Éditions Grasset, 2018), winner of the Botul Prize. Her first play, Le Plus Beau Jour (The Best Day), was created for the Avignon Festival in 2013. Her work Noire, la vie méconnue de Claudette Colvin has been adapted for the stage and was presented at the Théâtre du Rond Point in Paris in June 2019. She contributes to a weekly column for Libération, in which “Pour mémoire” originally appeared.
Sarah Moore is a British editor and translator based in Paris. She is an Assistant Blog Editor at Asymptote journal and runs the monthly poetry events, “Poetry in the Library” at Shakespeare & Company. She is currently studying for a Masters in Comparative Literature at the Sorbonne University.
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