In language and tone, I find Andre Gide’s The Immoralist reminding me much of the work of J.M. Coetzee, specifically Disgrace. Both authors use a very pared. There is an oft-cited sentence in André Gide’s journal entry for March 28, , in which Rereading Gide’s The Immoralist () recently that is indeed how I. Gide, Andre: The Immoralist (new tr by Richard Howard).

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While traveling between, Tunis, Maltaand Syracuse, Immoralisg realizes that he has changed. Africa with a “special friend. Knopf English, Vintage Books Howard translation, OUR stay at Biskra was not to last much longer.

In winter it would be cold, for there is no glass in the windows — or rather, there are no windows, but huge holes in the walls. I’ve never felt that it is in any way important to like or andge the main character in a novel.

In the rainy weather, only the most familiar gode in; their clothes were drenched; they sat round the fire in a circle. He is recently married to a woman he admits he does not love; but when he falls ill to tuberculosis her loving comfort wins him over. If you are a bisexual, will you marry? When it was night Michel said: Published September 1st by Penguin Classics first published I returned on my steps, bent down, found the clot, and with a piece of straw picked it up and immoralits it on my handkerchief.

Michel seems to be glorying in his account of how he freed himself from bourgeois restraint.

Reading group: A slap in the face from André Gide’s The Immoralist | Books | The Guardian

At first, andrs, this necessity for falsehood cost me a little effort; but I soon came to understand that the things that are reputed worst lying, to mention only one are only difficult to do as long as immkralist has never done them; but that they become—and very quickly too—easy, pleasant and agreeable to do over again, and soon even natural.


The next day was a dismal one. Unfortunately, she suffers a miscarriage and her health rapidly deteriorates. I do not pretend to have invented this ‘problem’; it existed before my book; whether Mi- chel triumph or succumb, the ‘problem’ will continue to exist, and the author has avoided taking either triumph or defeat for granted. And yet three years have gone by without your seeing me. Marceline had seen nothing. The water looked as bright and as clear as ever, and with- out pausing to think, I plunged straight in.

Bachir went up and spoke to her; she turned round, gave me a smile and answered Bachir in Arabic. To do so, he sacrifices wife, career, and wealth. At the moment I felt I could have given my life for her. For that matter, since I have been in their company, I have ceased to be alive myself.

Reading group: A slap in the face from André Gide’s The Immoralist

I pushed aside the marbles and dropped into an armchair. But no one could succeed in catching them; they slipped between the men’s fingers. At the end of the third day, I arrived at Biskra more dead than alive. The train started next morning at daybreak.

I could neither read nor work; the slightest effort brought on the most troublesome perspiration; fixing my thoughts exhausted me; di- rectly I stopped paying attention to my breathing, I suffocated. Nadre was rather, for the first time, the consciousness of my own worth. A disturbing but important experience and ummoralist chance to reflect on the self and where one fits on the continuum. I walked on in a sort of ecstasy, of silent joy, of elation of the senses and the flesh.


I was listless, restless.

The Immoralist by Andre Gide

They on the other hand, equally strong in the conviction that tenants are hard to replace, began by asking for their rents to be lowered. Important points of Michel’s story are his recovery from tuberculosis; his attraction to a In the first days of November, we moved to Paris.

At present, however, these same signs, and in- deed philology as a whole, were nothing more to me than a means of penetrating farther into things whose savage grandeur and nobility had begun to dawn on me. Certain portions of my body would turn as cold as ice and, in spite of perspiration, felt like marble to the touch; nothing would warm them. I reproached myself for not having noticed it sooner.

The idea that I might have lived a different existence or that anyone could possibly live differently never for a moment crossed my mind. I loved my father dearly; engrossed by his last illness, I had thought of nothing else all through that melancholy time but how to make his end easier; and so I pledged my life before I knew what the possibilities of life were.