Review: Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux, Translated by Tanya Leslie

When I went to the kitchen to get some ice, I would look up at the clock hanging above the door: 'only two more hours,' 'only one more hour,' or 'in one hour I'll be here and he'll be gone.' Astonished, I asked myself: 'Where is the present?'

At only 67 pages, I'm astounded at how much impact this memoir (?) had on me.

If you appreciate the candid nature of Sally Rooney (particularly her short story, "Mr Salary"), you're gonna love Annie Ernaux. Written as an account of her everyday thoughts, actions, and desires while unhealthily enamored with an illicit lover, Simple Passion floats in a liminal space between pain and pleasure.

As the reader, it is evident that Ernaux's mental state in this period is not as it should be. And, by the end of the piece, once she's escaped the clutches of her "passion," she herself is able to see that. But the way she describes what possesses her, what compels her—and what doesn't—is relatable, no matter how desperately you wish it not to be. She's an unbelievably honest narrator and states plainly that she suffers from obsession (though, notably does not classify this bout of obsession, or "passion," as a mental illness such as OCD. As someone who experiences OCD, especially the "pure O" variation of it myself, I would say she has a textbook case. But also I often wonder how much mental illness isn't a concrete thing in the first place. Why do we need to box these things into names and categories—other than for insurance codes and billing? Who's the mystery man that represents perfect mental serenity? Friends and I pondered this the other day around a fire. Answers yet to come...).

Ernaux's conclusion on the matter is somewhat surprising. She's grateful to have experienced such a "passion" at all. It was, in her words, a "luxury." Reading that last line, essentially her thesis, was jarring, yet so interesting. I can't decide if I agree. Yes, it's better to love and have lost than to have never loved at all, but this wasn't love. This was a complete and utter sacrifice of her personal identity. And yet it felt good. That's the kicker with this kind of OCD. You don't recognize these types of intrusive thoughts because they don't seem bad on their surface. But, thinking about them repeatedly, that's a compulsion, even if not physical.

I longed for total idleness... On railway platforms, in the Metro, in waiting rooms, places where you are allowed to do nothing at all, as soon as I sat down, I would start daydreaming about A. A shudder of happiness would course through me the very second I entered that state. I felt I was giving in to a physical pleasure, as if the brain, exposed to a repeated flow of the same images and memories, could achieve an orgasm, becoming a sexual organ like the others.

I have expressed this exact sentiment to people before, but have never heard someone share it. It feels almost shameful to admit, like it's some sort of addiction (which, I guess, in a way, it is), but in this memoir, Ernaux also points out that writing is not inherently an act of admission. It is not shameful because at the time of writing, we authors are separated from our audience. We have no conception of who might be reading this or when, of what will have changed in the world, if we will even be remembered or alive. So there's no shame in writing it.

The ending of the piece is also striking because while Ernaux is now free from the throes of that period, that doesn't mean that she (or those of us who have had the same spells), are completely free of falling back into old habits. She writes:

He had said, 'You won't write a book about me.' But I haven't written a book about him, neither have I written a book about myself. All I have done is translate into words—words he will probably never read; they are not intended for him—the way in which his existence has affected my life. An offering of a sort, bequeathed to others.

Those are the words she's written. You can read them as many times as you'd like. But do you see it? Do you feel it? Maybe only those of us with this affliction (I feel as though I must also now clarify, these bouts do not exclusively apply to romantic obsessions) can feel the fear in it. Simple Passion is one of the most candid memoirs I've ever read, but this lone paragraph glimmers with one lie, only because if she were to write the truth, she'd be scared of it.

They are not intended for him.

Are you sure of it?