Camille and the Raising of Eros - Softcover

Rose, William

Softcover

ISBN 10: 191257313X ISBN 13: 9781912573134

Verlag: Sphinx Books, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

A gripping novel exploring the lives of three Carmaelite nuns seen through the eyes of an eccentric psychoanalyst in the early 1900's set across Paris, Africa and Spain.

Spain, 1920s. The lives of three Carmelite nuns intersect and develop through a period of intense experience. In their personal histories there is great contrast, from the artistic exuberance of Paris in 'La Belle Epoque' to slavery in Africa, but a past element is shared that has deeply affected each one.

William Rose adeptly guides the narrative through Africa, Spain and France in the early decades of the 20th century, as the characters reveal their histories and discover the destinies that await them.

This novel is a striking exploration of personal history aided by the spirited observations of an eccentric French psychoanalyst. It is also an emotive reflection upon the agony of maternal loss and betrayal, and upon love.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

William Rose was born and continues to live in London. He has had, for many years, a special interest in both the art of the Symbolist movement and the early development of psychoanalysis, two areas of cultural purpose that in their own very different ways, aimed to free the human psyche from the limitations of repression.

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Camille And The Raising Of Eros

By William Rose

Aeon Books Ltd

Copyright © 2019 William Rose
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-912573-13-4

Contents

PART ONE: CAMILLE, 
CHAPTER ONE A dream of feathers, 
CHAPTER TWO From an essay on J and his work, 
CHAPTER THREE Camille and Sister Africa, 
CHAPTER FOUR Camille in her cell, 
CHAPTER FIVE From an essay on J and his work. Eros and Psyche, 
CHAPTER SIX Camille with her Sisters, 
CHAPTER SEVEN The Great Silence, 
PART TWO: SISTER AFRICA, 
CHAPTER EIGHT Sister Africa's story, 
CHAPTER NINE The spirit of the cheetah, 
PART THREE: ISSOIRE, 
CHAPTER TEN From an essay on J and his work. A letter from the Prioress of Cordoba, 
CHAPTER ELEVEN The journey to Issoire, 
CHAPTER TWELVE From an essay on J and his work. J continues: Saint Teresa, 
PART FOUR: GENEVIÈVE, 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Mother Geneviève's story, 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN The young heiress, 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN La Belle Époque, 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN The ball, 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Marriage, 
PART FIVE: PRINCESS MARIE BONAPARTE, 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN From an essay on J and his work. An evening with Marie Bonaparte, 
CHAPTER NINETEEN From an essay on J and his work. Continuing the evening with Marie Bonaparte, 
CHAPTER TWENTY The sacrament of marriage, 
PART SIX: CAMILLE AT ISSOIRE, 
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE A dreamless sleep, 
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO From an essay on J and his work. The sleep of Psyche, 
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE Camille and Geneviève, 
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR A letter from the Prioress of the Carmel, Cordoba, to the Prioress of Issoire, 
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE Awakening, 
PART SEVEN: THE THREE, 
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX Sister Julia, 
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN From an essay on J and his work. J is missing, 
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT The gardener, 
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE From an essay on J and his work. A letter from Issoire, 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS, 

CHAPTER 1

A dream of feathers

She stirred; a heavy veil of sleep rose, fell back, then rose again. Waking caused her to tremble. Had it been just a dream? She wanted it back, but then, in the light of dawn and the rising reality of a new day, she recoiled from herself and her wish. For a moment she had felt a strange pleasure, something uncanny, a vision only answerable to itself. But then, turning her head upon the thin hard pillow, she whispered, "It's just a dream," and this, she thought, it must only be, and the thrill she had felt turned to an ache of self-reproach.

She pictured a stone in her stomach. It was smooth and white and round, and there it lodged, an impassive, unforgiving presence, scrutinising her thoughts.

Restless, she turned again and knew she must rise. The timings of the monastery, signalled by bells and so crucial for their lives, were now part of her being. But her body disobeyed. Her mind too, so well-groomed in the selection of thoughts, failed to comply. One renegade part, like an invader, had staked its claim and was not deterred by the advent of dawn which now with pale light configured the small, square shape of the window high up on the wall.

"Perhaps I am unwell," she thought, and she found comfort in that, but her wishes again defied her and the sensual presence of the dream, like a creature in its own right, cunningly called her back.

She allowed the lapse and reached out to touch the edge of her dream, a misty veil, drawn across, but as yet unsealed.

She drew it back.

She thought, "A dream is like a scene within a play. Was I the writer? Or was it written for me?"

With a warm feeling, she imagined being placed within a scene; to be there through the wishes of another. Yet as she eased herself and gathered the memory, grasping the light silken strands and drawing them to her, she knew that no other could have made this, but also how could she have done so herself? And how something could be so strange, yet feel so real? The atmosphere had made it thus. She remembered that as a child she had been enthralled by a magic show; conjuring tricks that had amazed her, yet it was the setting she now thought of. It had been an old theatre, tucked away in a Parisian street that hosted other small theatres and strange little curio shops. Inside, the curtains were musty and of heavy red velvet and the ornate plaster, peeling in places, was painted with gold and russet. The lighting by gas lamps eerily threw shadows across the few rows of seats, and on the seats the audience with intent faces which seemed to her so flushed now in the flickering light.

"It was the atmosphere," she thought, "and I now linger in the atmosphere of my dream, and I will not let it go, lest I lose it forever."

And so again, she allowed it to come.

There had been the sound, even the sensation of something fluttering. It brought a memory of the garden of her childhood home. The garden had sloped down to the rear of the house, and right at the back, at the top, there was a little flat area of grass from which she could look down, through the shrubs and along the whole length of the garden, and there below was the roof of the house. And this little platform of grass was boarded on all sides by buddleia trees and honeysuckle that threaded through the shrubs, so that at the rear and sides there was a dense curtain of foliage. "Like the wings and curtains of a theatre stage," she thought, and again she recalled the magic show.

Sometimes, when she would sit in that very secluded place at the top of the garden, all would be quiet and still and then she would hear a flutter, and it would be the beating of the wings of a bird, striking against the twigs and the leaves, deep within the foliage. But no bird would be seen, and she could only know it was there by the sound. She thought how quickly the tiny heart of a bird must beat and how keenly its eye would be focused on her as it perched safely and unseen in its hiding place.

In her dream, she had also sensed the flutter of wings, though stronger, and it was in a place quite like that most private area of her garden. As a girl, her delight had been to contemplate nature — God's wonderful creation, but now all around her, in the dream, there was a difference, a sense of something new and strange. Nature was changing into a human form. She heard the wings and felt the turbulence they made in the air and then she sensed the presence. A figure stood next to her, and she dared not turn to look, though she knew it was so close. Then there was breath upon her cheek, and he whispered in her ear.

She gasped, shocked by the vision, and jolted out of her reverie. But now she was cornered by her dream and unable to escape its memory; through her very submission came a liberty, a surge of energy that brought warmth to her skin, spreading its heat through her body and up to the flushed cheek upon which he had breathed.

In defiance of her training and its insistence upon humility, she allowed a feeling that came to her like a visitor from the distant past, one that had become a stranger to her. She let it come, and so remembered the ruthless nature of the wish to possess, and she welcomed this and spoke aloud her conviction.

"It is my dream; I will not share it!"

And then with even greater courage, for her eyes were upon the plain, drab, walls of the cell that surrounded her,

"Nor will I confess it!"

Her struggle was no longer with the doctrines of her holy order. It was now her memory that she feared. Would its gift to her of the dream be...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Sphinx Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2019
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 191257313X
• ISBN 13: 9781912573134
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 278
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Naxos Deutschland Musik & Video Vertriebs-GmbH; https://naxosusa.com/; ; Gruber Str. 46b; Poing; 85586; Deutschland