L’Ile et Une Nuit

I have not given up on my pursuit of Caribbean litterature. Rather, I settled on a stylistically difficult book, and I got stuck. I allowed it to collect dust on my nightstand, while I philandered with economic magazines and books in English. Months after having begun, I've finally finished Daniel Maximin's L’Ile et Une Nuit (1). Though, when I write finished, I don’t mean it in the literal and usual sense of having read the entire book cover to cover, but instead I mean having read all the parts that I was able to read. I’ll explain.

The book details one night in the life of Marie-Gabriel. Not any ordinary night, but the night during which Hurricane Hugo, one of Guadeloupe's most devastating hurricanes, cuts across the entire width of both wings, unleashing its fury of wind and water. Each chapter describes each hour Marie-Gabriel is boarded up in her house, Les Flamboyants, where she is hostage to the hurricane, her memories, her past, her solitude, her hopes, her dreams.

The special relationship that Guadeloupeans have with disaster is fascinating. People live with the specter of the earthquake, the eruption and the hurricane. But earthquakes pass before the fear has the time to take hold, and there is simply no choice but to flee an eruption. Guadeloupeans meet the hurricane, each barricaded in his own home, individual defiance forming a collective resistance.

The only way I have experienced hurricanes has been through television. The image on the cover of the book is similar to what I've seen: palm trees blown sideways, fronds waving wildly, facing a threatening sky. I admit that I had devoured the first chapter of its details in provisions and preparation, reading it almost like some survival guide. This is what I would need to do should a hurricane arrive. Otherwise, I was surprised by the wondrous descriptions of quiet beauty in the midst of a hurricane. An entire garden of roses and anthuriums, cut and brought inside to wither and die gracefully. The sweet smell of cantaloupes permeating a bedroom, the entire crop kept safe underneath the master bed.

The writing is straight forward in the beginning, but quickly morphs into poetic prose, rhythmic and abstract. Moreover, the narration and point of view changes from chapter to chapter. I had great difficulty and I believe I failed to grasp the meaning for much of the book. The words passed through my eyes, my head and dissipated into a gray fog. Maximin first published as a poet, and his prose style makes clear his preference for language over narration. I do not think I will attempt another of his novels, but I may look into his poems.


(1)
Maximin, Daniel. L’Ile et une nuit. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1995.