Penguin European Writers: The Lady and the Little Fox Fur by Violette Leduc

Penguin European Writers is a new series of forgotten classics by European writers, with introductions by acclaimed contemporary authors.

As a former student of French and Italian, I felt compelled by the current political climate to begin a new initiative to promote European literature to British readers. Translated fiction offers a unique insight into another culture; it promotes the exchange of ideas between writers, and empathy between readers.

Only around 3% of books published in English are in translation and less than a third of all literary translations published in the UK are written by women, meaning there are so many wonderful writers and translators still waiting to be discovered.

The series launched with Death in Spring by Mercè Rodoreda (with an introduction by Colm Tóibín) on 5th April, followed by The Beautiful Summer by Cesare Pavese (with an introduction by Elizabeth Strout) on 7th June and The Lady and the Little Fox Fur by Violette Leduc (with an introduction by Deborah Levy) on 6th September 2018.

The Lady and the Little Fox Fur by Violette Leduc with an introduction by Deborah Levy

6th September 2018 | Penguin | £7.99 | 9780241357453 | Paperback

The Lady and the Little Fox Fur is an existential feminist classic about an old woman who lives alone in a tiny attic flat in Paris. One morning she awakes with an urgent need to taste an orange; but when she rummages in the bins she finds instead a discarded fox fur scarf. The little fox fur becomes the key to her salvation, the friend who changes her lonely existence into a playful world of her own invention. The Lady and the Little Fox Fur is a stunning portrait of Paris, of the invisibility we all feel in a big city, and ultimately of the hope and triumph of a woman who reclaims her place in the world.

VIOLETTE LEDUC was born in Arras in 1907, the illegitimate child of a serv- ant girl. During the Second World War she published her memoir, The Bastard, which scandalized the literary world with its explicit account of lesbian love, sold 150,000 copies in its first year, and earned her the acclaim of Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre and Camus. She died in 1972. ‘Violette Leduc’s novels are works of genius and also a bit peculiar’ Deborah Levy, from the introduction Penguin European Writers

Excerpt

Twenty-four,twenty-five,twenty-six,twenty-seven,twenty-eight,twenty-nine,thirty, thirty-one,thirty-two,thirty-three,thirty-four,thirty-five,thirty-six. . . then the roar. The table shook, the coffee beans fell into her lap. The overhead Métro was an invader she had never grown used to, though it shook her like that every five minutes during off-hours, every two minutes during rush hours. She had to see the cataclysm again, wait for it, follow it, learn it by heart, remember it, accustom herself to its every detail. She had to hurry out to reach the station at exactly the same moment as the train itself. As soon as she had left her room habit took over and told her exactly what she must do: first get to the kiosk where the old woman sells the lottery tickets, sniff the scent of bad luck through one of its chinks, stand beside the news vendor’s shelter, and then at three o’clock reach the steps of the Jaurès Métro station, after crossing boulevard de la Villette between the lines of silver studs. Once she was standing in front of Les Palmiers, the café on the corner of quai de la Loire and avenue Jean-Jaurès, habit left her to her own devices again. There were some young girls going into the café, and she lowered her eyes – the pavement was as old as she was.

February was a sullen captive in the afternoon mist, and the grey streets were melting indistinguishably into the grey street corners. She wandered around the still empty, still silent Paris– Sevran bus. On tiptoe, avidly, she gazed through the windows at the backs of the seats, at the luggage rack, and thought of the passengers who were not there, whom she had ever known. A hundred yards farther on, the mail vans were setting out to make their rounds through the Île‑de‑France. The pale tinkle of a bell. Who was watching her?

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing